The Desert is Cold in the Dark [Dark Data]

[Jim Raynor]

The leader of the bandits swung his meathook above his head, smoke issuing from his mouth hole of his mask. The remaining minion spouted jibberish and shook his hands at the sky. Jim had seen some wackos in his time, but these guys took the cake.
 
Jim primed another grenade and took aim. "Hey, ugly!" They both looked, though he was referring to either of them. "Heh. Made you look."
 
A compact metal container popped from the Impaler and landed right at the feet of their enemies. Jim's smile dropped when the expected explosion failed to arrive.
 
"Uh ... what happened to your fireball?" Sun Ogong asked.
 
"Must'a been defective." Jim struck the rifle with a metal hand. Hitting his old vulture used to make it start again, why not this thing? "S'all good, I gotta 'nother one in the-"
 
The bandit minion screeched and leaped through the air, latching onto Jim.
 
"You got him, Jim!" Ogong called out. "We'll distract the big one!"
 
"Hey! You gotta deathwish or somethin'?" Jim yelled, but the minion didn't pay any attention. Wielding a giant wrench with various sharp spikes and knives welded to its frame, he thrashed Jim's armour with it. Every collision boomed inside his armour, scratching or denting his black paint job. Jim tried swatting the annoyance from his chest with his rifle, but he overestimated his strength and his robotic fingers slipped from the weapon's grip, hurling into the sands. The madman belting his body blocked view of all else save patches of sky behind his painted mask, so searching for it wasn't an option.
 
The crude wrench-club smacked against his visor, the reinforced glass shuddering. A few more unbridled hits and its strength would give way, showering Raynor with glass and providing easy access for the next strike to burrow into his brain matter.
 
Jim seized the bandit minion's flailing arms with his own metal ones and held him off his chest. Even through his servos and steel plating, the tremors of the enemy's struggles made themselves felt. "You're a crazy sum'bitch, you know that?"
 
The bandit minion screamed frantically, his legs pumping up and down in a vain attempt to free himself.
 
"Don't see someone like you wantin' a second chance, let alone usin' it."
 
"Hey!" Somerfeld's voice reached him. Jim looked past his captured foe, through the scrapes and scratches that muddled the visor, to his two companions battling the head honcho. Flames belched from his spiked infested mask. "When you're done with your little chat with your friend there, we could really use some help!"
 
"Oh! Right. Well, your time's up, fella. Least I can do is make sure it's quick and painless."
 
"Jim!"
 
A gush of fire burst from behind the bandit minion, engulfing the small gaps of sky. Jim threw the maniac away and stumbled backwards, almost losing his balance as the rolling heat washed over his armour. The bandit screamed in a register that put goosebumps to the terran commander's flesh as he writhed beneath the harsh and brutal judgement of the flames.
 
The bandit leader approached, the last vestiges of smoke thinning from around his deranged mask.
 
Jim kept his steely gaze on the new threat while darting his eyes around the sandy surrounds, hoping to catch a glimmer of light bouncing off his Impaler rifle nearby. Nothing. Somerfeld and Ogong, hunched as if expecting a sudden attack, crept slowly behind the leader.
 
"He's tougher than he looks," Somerfeld said, whip dragging in the sands. "Don't let his appearance fool you."
 
"Son, that appearance might say a lotta things to me, but 'weak' ain't one of 'em."
 
Sun Ogong snarled. "I can do this!" He sprung into the air, hauling his staff over his shoulder.
 
The bandit leader turned his head, flames flickering from his mouth hole. He reared his head back, but as he jerked forward, a whip lashed out and coiled around his throat. Somerfeld gave the line a good yank and the bandit expelled a cloud of flame into the air, but straight up. With the way free, Ogong smiled again and took his swing.
 
Growling like a wild dog, the bandit grabbed the swinging pole with one hand. The slap of the staff onto his palm was enough to make a man wince but the crazy desert dweller barely budged. With his other hand, he tore the hooked machete through the whip, leaving a limp spiral of frayed leather that sagged over his chest. Somerfeld fumbled but kept his footing.
 
The bandit leader kneed Ogong in the gut with enough force to separate him from his staff. The monkey boy plopped into the sand, doubled over, the staff landing nearby. Somerfeld rushed from behind, but a savage haymaker crashed into his temple, knocking him to the ground. Those insane eyes focused on Raynor, and he still wasn't close enough to initiate.
 
Flames billowed towards him. Jim activated his arm mounted shield just in time to catch the first gust of fire.
 
"What I'd do to have my rifle right 'bout ..."
 
A glint of light at his feet caught his attention. He scooped out a handful of sand that rushed between fingers, revealing his faulty grenade. Not exactly what he wanted.
 
The heat abated. Jim peeked around the sizzling edge of his defence. Ogong clambered up the bandit's back and bashed his skull with his small fists. The machete swept dangerously close to the monkey boy as he jumped clear.
 
The bandit leader took in another breath.
 
"Jim!" Somerfeld shouted, blood trickling from his temple. "Throw the grenade!"
 
"Get clear!" Raynor collapsed his shield and tossed the grenade on a perfect arc. The bandit leader spewed flame as the projectile fell before his face. A second later, an explosion rung through the dunes, along with a fine red mist. The bandit's headless body tumbled into the sand.
 
"Well, that ain't the way to get a-head in life," Jim said, and Somerfeld shot him the strangest of glares.