The Desert is Cold in the Dark [Dark Data]

[Jim Raynor]

Jim wondered if suffocating heat wasn't the default atmosphere of anything that existed in the Endless Dunes, regardless of how much sun it baked in. This temple could be anywhere, since they managed to arrive in it through a rip in space and time, but surely it was somewhere in the sizzling desert. Jim dropped his visor and his marine armour started pumping refrigerated air through the cockpit, though it would take some time to stop his sweat glands from working overtime.

The fog on the inside of his visor cleared away, and Raynor found himself in a square, featureless room.

"Uh guys, this room looks exactly like the others. We ain't stumblin' into no exit by pure luck. What's the plan in gettin' outta -"

Jim turned to finish his question, and faced an empty hallway.

He clasped his rifle with cold, steel fingers, his eyes darting around the room. No one was nearby. Jim lifted his weapon, preparing to fire.

"OK guys, very funny. You can come out now."

Jim knew he was alone. How he had ended up flying solo so quickly and surreptitiously was beyond him, though. Surely he would have noticed if the floor opened up, or they were walking on the ceiling. That walking corpse must have had something to do with it, but Jim hadn't seen that bony prick either.

As the sweat simply beaded on his skin instead of streaming down it in rivulets, he noticed movement on the other side of the room. His barrel gravitated to it, and he stood staring down the end of another rifle. Its owner, bulky and covered in black steel plates, similarly trained his weapon on Raynor, immobile except for the almost imperceptible movements of an organic creature holding something steady.

"This ain't a game, Chuckles," Jim said, assuming he was addressing the skeleton gunslinger clad in thick armour, but his voice came back at him twofold, as if there was strong echo in the room. "Now cut that shit out!"

He took a step forward. His adversary copied the motion exactly.

Jim loaded the chamber with a quick yank, as did his enemy. "One more bullshit move and I put a bullet in that bony head of yours. Understand?"

Again his own words rang from the imposter.

Jim moved quickly, gun never leaving its target, charging for his enemy. The doppelganger copied him identically, as if Raynor was running at a mirror. The terran commander pulled up short of colliding with his foe and furrowed his brow. Was he running at a mirror?

He lowered his rifle, and his twin followed. Jim bent down, trying to see around, but his copy imitated him. This was getting frustrating. Maybe it was just another mirage to infuriate or intimidate him, like the sextuplet that fired empty six-shooters at them earlier?

Jim cocked a fist and punched. His friend used the same arm and threw the exact same attack, though since two right fists had been unleashed, neither side had time to block. Both Jims absorbed the hit and stumbled backwards, managing to keep their footing.

"Well, you ain't no illusion," Jim said as his clone repeated his words. "Or hologram. They don't tend to hit hard like that."

Two hisses accompanied the dual raising of the orange visors. Jim expected to see a replica of his own face, but instead a weathered skull, its jaw hanging in mock laughter, stared back at him.

"Right, enough of your crap." Jim tightened his grip on the Impaler rifle and his index finger hugged the trigger. The weapon rattled a salvo of spikes in a flash of light. The undead trickster shed his armour as the bullets panged against it, embedding in the plates as they tumbled onto the sandstone floor. The discarded armour disintegrated into black ash and scattered in an unseen wind.

The skeleton illusionist plucked four revolvers from thin air and spun them on his finger, weaving his arms in and out without colliding any of the guns. Without stopping his initial party trick, he started tap dancing at the same time, his bony feet clacking on the temple floor, with other inadvertent clicks sourced from his tendon-less bones grinding against each other.

Jim clenched his teeth, a vengeful heat rising in his chest. This bastard was pissing him off, but he knew he had to keep a calm head to succeed here.

The Impaler rifle roared again. The skeleton cowboy had somehow predicted it, and gravity changed for both of them as the bullets screamed from the gun. 'Falling' towards the ceiling, Jim's aim abandoned him and the spikes found homes in anything but his target. He crashed against the roof, his new floor, while the skeleton alighted on chalk-white feet with ease.

Jim rose to his feet and hastily aimed his weapon. "Let's see how you go playin' with gravity without a head!"

Laughing, the bony apparition jumped and somersaulted, landing on the 'roof,' or the old floor. Jim felt the gravity shift again, his bulky armour rocketing 'up' like a punctured balloon. He slammed hard into the ground, the collision scaring the air from his lungs.

Raynor stood again, watching the skeleton dance away down the room and through the doorway. His derisive cackle followed him the whole way, leaving a trace of itself in his absence.

"I know this is a trap," Jim said to himself. "But there ain't no other way."

The terran commander took off after the western-themed undead, hoping that his comrades were doing better than he was.

Just keep a cool head.

934 words.