"It's not about winning in FFA, it's revenge."
-Mark4
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| Hybrid theory: a fan fic complete version | | | Author: | | | IP: | ool-4351XXXX | | Date: | 12/24/02 01:12 | | Game Type: | Other | | Labels: | none | | Report Rating: , # of Ratings: 0, Max: , Min:
Lifetime Rating for Versetti: 6.0000 | | The end of the United Earth Directory has come and gone, the time of the Terrans has ticked by, and a new generation has emerged...
Location: Solar Protectorate Scientific Research Facility
Planet: Zulu III
Time: 27 Feb 2047, 0745 hrs.
Surrounded by dozens of eager and able scientists, technicians, researchers, and aides, a frozen capsule, carried within a small test tube, was being brought in. Its escort of four Marines led by a Firebat Sergeant, suggested extreme secrecy, moreover, importance. A cool bluish-green fog spilled from the capsule as its first protective coating was removed. The soft, shadowed fog billowed over the examination table. Several technicians shivered slightly as the cold fog rolled over their slipper-covered feet. Slowly, almost dramatically, each of the four protective coverings and coatings were removed. The head scientist, identified as Dr. Malliard, the chief researcher and scientist in the facilities "reproductive biology" department, removed a pair of slender forceps from his pressed white lab coat. With careful, graceful, practiced movements, he moved a small canister, the size of a normal green pea, and placed it delicately in a peatry dish sitting ready beside him.
Dr. Malliard was an angular man, with high-placed cheekbones, an angular, pointed chin, and a rounded, balding head. His spectacled-eyes were an unusual shade of green, turquoise to be more precise. In a quick and delicate motion, he slid the thick, oversized glasses up his crooked nose. His gaze rose from the canister the to group of researchers, and began to speak, with a hoarse, raspy voice seen in men of much greater age than himself.
"Gentlemen, ladies, fellow co-workers, since you have made it this far into the facility, I am not at liberty to inform you of what work we are about to overtake." His shaded eyes danced around the numerous researchers. "The canister presented to us by these soldiers..." His abrasive voice pronounced the word with an unconcealed distrust. As his forceps took hold on the canister, visually inspecting it with his spectacled eyes, "...contains one, and I emphasize on one, Protoss sperm cell." He looked back to the scientists, to see numerous jaws drops, and eyes balloon to unusual proportions. The doctor could not help but chuckle slightly in amusement. "This cell was," he paused lightly, searching for an appropriate word. A smile spread across his face as he turned toward the Firebat Sergeant, "...procured... by the Directorate military before its collapse. Now no one knows what they planned to do with it, but the Solar Protectorate has made their decision on its use, which I plan to divulge to you today." He placed the canister into the peatry dish, and motioned for the collective entourage to follow him as he placed the peatry dish beneath a microscope. With a quick flick of the wrist, he activated a wall monitor, and a flash-frozen sperm cell, in most respects similar to a human cell, appeared on screen.
"Now Protoss sperm, for the most part, are VERY similar to humans, they only difference is in the genetic material contained inside. Included in this cell is the material for the development of specific temporal lobe structures that can be used for telekinesis, psychomotor transmission, and other functions humans are not capable of...." Dr. Malliard continued his lecture until the end of the morning, after which all of the scientific staff were dispatched into the sleeping quarters, to prepare for the next day's ensemble of research, development, and testing. After all the scientists and soldiers had left, the only person remaining was Dr. Malliard, who once more visually inspected the canister before placing it in a locked container. As he walked out of the laboratory, his head shaking slowly side to side, you can hear raspy, whispered words escape his lips: "What are we doing...why are we doing this...for what?" And he closes the door behind him, his footsteps echoing down the hall, barely audible, the cool blue fog now coming down from an overhead vent onto the canister atop the lab table.
18 YEARS LATER
An abrupt horn sounds off, and a rarely seen internal combustion propelled vehicle treads its way into the parking garage. An older man, although not visibly, steps out from its leather-furnished interior. A young man, no older than the age of 18, bursts out of the door, and embraces the man lovingly. A warm smile spreads on the man's face as his embrace on the young boy tightens. He releases his grip on the happy teenager, and looks down at him, albeit not down much, and pats him on the back lightly. In his hand is a ream of papers, and he hands them to the boy politely, shaking his other hand.
"Kyle Malliard, you my son, have been accepted into the Protectorate Armed Forces Academy!" He hugs the boy, now recognized as his son, once more, and flips through the ream of documents, pointing out encouraging notes of approval from recruitment officers in the Solar Protectorate Marine Corps. An eager grin spreads across the boy's face, and they rush in to begin packing for his shipping out.
Location: Das Himmelstor (The Gates of Heaven) Air Force Base (HSAFB)
Planet: Zulu III
Time: 27 Feb 2061, 1426 hrs.
As Dr. Malliard, the older scientist from the research station 18 years previous, brought the antiquated car to a stop, an automated tram brushed by the quickly, and the doctor and his son trudged quickly after it. Boarding it as a commuter might board the old San Francisco cable cars, they managed to make a quick entrance into the main terminal of the commercial airport within the base. Kyle looked around eagerly at the uniformed soldiers patrolling the corridors, eyeing zealously the power-suited Marines that guarded the entrances and exits to and from the concourse. His attention was brought back to the real world when an armed guard brought them to a careening halt, seeing the scientific badge binned on Malliard's left breast pocket. He ran a UPC scanner over the surface, and ran a fingerprint cross-check against a database of authorized personnel. Looking up quickly, Kyle saw a sign dangling above the concourse that said, in bold, blackened letters,
Military Personnel Boarding Tarmac
Authorized Personnel Only!
In the near distance, he could her the patterned beating of helicopter rotors, and the whining engines of Warrant Officer personnel transports. He waved idly as a pilot flew overhead quickly, and smiled as he saw the pilot return the wave. A sergeant greeted them in a crisp, yet over-rehearsed manor, and escorted them to registration and licensing. After signing numerous waivers, forms and surveys, his bags were loaded, and he was boarded onto an awaiting helicopter. The enormous troop transport hovered in the air, before jetting quickly into the distance, a tear forming lightly in Dr. Malliard's eye as his only "son" left him. He was once again alone and dark. Now all he could do was wait.
In the cool, post-dusk air of the frozen, barren planet of Dionide, Staff Sergeant Kyle Malliard, son of the renowned biologist Edward Malliard, sat in wait in his powered armor suit. Lying prone in the snow-dusted crop fields, his shifted slightly, redistributing his weight quietly, he lifted his Kashkinov C-10b Canister rifle to his side, pressing the stock of the weapon against his shoulder. Exhaling slightly, a gently rising fog of heated breath rising into the air, a series of shots rung out, followed by a quick, muffled explosion. Caught off guard, Malliard glanced over to an airfield hanger, seeing a shaft of flames and fire rise from its gutted windows. A quick and speedy hovercar burst through the flames, a rear- mounted machine rifle spurting quick, steady bursts of fire into the flames. Turning cautiously toward the skirmish, he settled his rifle back in his shoulder. He gasped quietly as his nerves jumped slightly. A pair of two combustion-powered jeeps burst through the flames, in hot pursuit of the hovercar. He made out a series of green, white, and blue insignias on the hood, and both doors of the hovercar, indicating he was targeting a Protectorate vehicle. He quickly turned his attention to the other vehicles, and took aim cautiously, his gun arm leading the flag position car as his grip tightened on the trigger. A plume of white smoke shot out from the barrel of is rifle, and falling in a curved arc, a C-10 concussion HE round impacted against the side of the lead vehicle, sending it onto two wheels before i detonated. The explosion gutted the inside of the jeep, shards of glass spraying out in 100 meters in every direction. The vehicle, now in the hands of Sir Isaac Newton and his laws of physics, careened toward a fueling post, slowing sliding to a stop. Withdrawing a side-arm pistol from his suit leg, he jetted quickly over toward the sliding vehicle, continuous blasts of pistol fire impacting on the windshield of the second jeep. Malliard smiled in satisfaction as the windshield was blown out; its blood stained surface crashing to the ground. He saw the still accelerating jeep swerve toward the overturned lead car. Their collision drove them into the nearby fuel post, and Malliard pulled a 360 and leapt away as the flames licked at the sky, dark black clouds of smoke and ash smearing the gray early morning sky. With a smile on his face, and not a scratch on his armor, he marched along in solo to the dispatch base 50 miles away from the airfield he had just terrorized.
Half way to the base, an abrupt and surly voice broke the silence of his comm unit.
"Sergeant Malliard, please signal your presence with three long tones on the comm." The unidentified voice commanded. Malliard glanced down at the comm unit with curious eyes, inspecting the frequency tuner, which was set to the private command frequency.
"Under who's authority? How did you get this command frequency? Show yourself on my radar!" Even with his booming, threatening voice echoing in the cockpit, he felt a pang of fear, and even respect in this man's voice. It showed a hint of self-control and discipline only shown by battle-hardened commanders.
The voice on the other line chuckled in mock amusement, and an audible click emanated from the speaker. "Well I suppose, since you have so blatantly exposed yourself to the people tailing you, I'll have to dispatch some assistance." He chuckled again, although not in nearly as much in sarcasm as the first.
Malliard's ears perk up when he hear the distant whine of helicopter engines, and saw three Wraith-hybrid fixed wing helicopters approach from nearly 30 miles east of the base. He released a sigh of relief as he saw the assortment of Protectorate insignias on their fuselages, and slowed to a stop in his armor suit. He knelt down as the flagship helicopter, with the words "Hellion" emblazoned in solid blue letters, begin its descent to the ground. Malliard had just opened the combat visor when a single burst of blue energy shot through the underbrush nearby, and punctured the hull of the Hellion. The pilot struggled to ease the now burning mass of steel and titanium to the ground, hearing the agonizing screams for assistance by unsuited soldiers within the cargo bay of the chopper. The pilot brought the collapsing helicopter to the ground in an earth-shaking thud. The two other vanguard helos quickly stopped in mid-flight when the pilots saw a new, heavy line of fire of the blue energy bolts erupt from the trees. As the pilots turned to hightail it back to base, leaving Malliard stranded, a radioman from the Hellion hailed Malliard and called for his assistance.
"Corporal Lewis of the Airborne Marines, sir. High casualties, only the co-pilot and myself survived--" The terrified airman began giving him a full summary on the situation as if he hadn't seen it himself.
"Corporal, I may be your superior in the field, but I do not have the clearance for a debriefing. Follow me back to base and my commander will debrief you."
"Okay sergeant, but do you propose I walk? I don't have a suit, let alone rations!"
Malliard made a wave of his hands toward the fleeing assault helicopters, which were steadily being tracked by the movement of the blue energy bolts, which had yet to reveal themselves from the underbrush. "Its either walk, or stay here for them." He shrugged nonchalantly and continued his march toward the base.
The radioman visibly shuddered at the thought, and began to fall in step with Malliard, when a rustle of the bushes attracted Malliard's attention. The brush erupted outward as a bright blue orb engulfed the tree, and a single Protoss zealot exposed himself. Instead of the traditional yellow armor casings, he bore strengthened, charcoal black armor plating over his body. His Psi blades were extended, and he charged head-on at the corporal. Over the comm. unit, he heard the abrupt screams of Lewis as the zealot overwhelmed him. Looking down towards the ground, he saw the hacked and sliced form of Lewis, laying in a bloody pile. Looking around quickly, he saw that the zealot had fled, and knelt down beside the mangled corpse of Corporal Lewis. He opened an emergency channel to the base dispensary, calling for a medivac to pick up the remains, pausing on the word, of Corporal Lewis, and began his trek back towards the base.
After completing another half of the distance to the base, making it almost visible to the eye, a great thundering shook the ground, confusing his gyros as he was brought to the ground. The tree line parted and a mass of 10 or 11 zealots and 3 or 4 dragoons came pouring out in an offensive circle around his fallen suit. He attempted a SOS call by Morse code to the base, knowing the Protoss never understood Morse, but was cut off halfway through by an energy blast by one of the zealots.
Malliard had never been in combat with Protoss, and had never made the connection that the Protoss had assaulted the helicopter group. Seeing that one energy bolt, in addition to a few battered Protoss bodies, his mind had finally made the connection that the Protoss was out for blood. His mind was racing, his head thudding against his ribs. Why were they after a lowly foot soldier like him? He cringed in fear quietly as the circle slowly, almost ceremoniously, tightened around him like a hangman's noose. He stood on his legs, turning about him, thinking; statistically he had no chance of survival. A distanced rifle and a half-drained pistol against several explosive plasma weapons and Psionic blade arrays is not a very even fight. Kneeling down on the ground, he places his weapons in the deepening snow, and glanced feverishly at the nearby encampment. He sighed and raised his hands in the air, surrendering to the Protoss patrol. As he closed his eyes, waiting to be carried off, he saw a zealot approach him from behind, and struck him in the back of the head, the world suddenly spinning into a drain of black, white, and gray.
Malliard awoke to the rhythmic tapping against his head. His vision blackened, he pushed his eyelids open with his fingers, and staring toward the sky, which was curiously blocked by roughly fifty feet of solid stone. He felt the bumping on the bottom of his head again as he realized something was pulling him by his feet, a terrifying looking dragoon soldier staring into his face. 'What a predicament ... Im in some kind of Protoss facility!' He glanced around quickly at his surroundings to see finely bore and smoothed walls of stone in an elaborate catacomb. He waved his hands furiously to grab the dragoon's attention. Failing to grab his idle eyes, he kicked the metal bucket of bolts sharply and pulled himself from its grasp. He stood defiantly, and the dragoon growled menacing, its tinny, metallic audio output added to the ambience of the terror in his mind. He grimaced lightly at its threatening gesture, and his hand slid to the side of suit, which was, miraculously, still intact. He grasped at the hilt of a bowie knife strapped to the small of his back, slowly, stealthily. He let out a breath of anxiety, and prepared to swing the metal blade in an arc at his turnkey, but just as he was about to make the fatal cut, a rhythmic droning of pounding feet stopped him. He turned in his tracks to see several zealots, in full battle gala armor, in a two- column ring around a cloaked figure. The masked figure stepped forward, and the circle dissolved around him as he approached the armored marine. The eyes set into the concealed face within the cloak glowed evilly, a strange aura of depravity and malfeasance emanating from the two piercing, hovering globes. A bony, shingled hand reached out from the clock and stroked his cheek. A low grumble could be heard from the figure, and a zealot approached him from behind, grasping his arms tightly, and lifting Malliard above his head. A second zealot came beside him, and they carried Malliard down the echoing corridors, the only sounds audible were the droning march of the zealot squad, and his own anxious heart.
He awoke from a slumber he could not recall, and he rubbed his eyes tenderly, and stretched tiredly. His pupils, dilated in the low light, he tried to make out the details of the darkened room he had been stowed. When he attempted to stand, he felt a stab of pain in his upper thigh, and fell back to the ground against the hard stone floor. Obviously his turnkey hadn't taken such gentle care with him. Rubbing the now sore spot on his leg, he inspected himself for other injuries, a soft moan or muffled groan as pressure was applied to stiff or inflamed joints. Finally managing the effort to stand, he walked toward the pinprick of light he could see in the darkness. Pressing his eager face against it, he could see a room, filled with mechanical instruments. Looking around at his room's bleak interior, he wondered if his cell was furnished to look like this, or they furnished the outside to look technological. A mildly obtrusive odor wafted into his nostrils, and memories of Terran hospital wings burned into his mind. A rhythmic, murmur could be heard through the door and he looked to the left quickly, his eyes darting across his field of vision. A new troupe of zealot guards marched toward his cell and he hurried over toward his bunk and feigned sleep. A key could be heard turning the tumblers and a harsh, fluorescent white light filled the interior of his cell. A Templar, in full honor regalia, stepped forward toward him. The baneful glow in the iris of his eyes reminded him of the cloaked figure who, apparently, had ordered his detainment originally. He waved a zealot over, who was, instead of the regular yellow battle armor, was garbed in a human-like white lab coat, and hauling in a quite lengthy surgical syringe. He had experienced many injections in his lifetime, but the sheer size of the needle frightened him. The 'doctor' zealot and 'glowing eyes' zealot exchanged a few words in a tongue he couldn't understand, and two armored zealots approached him and locked their arms around his chest and arms, suspending him in place. The doctor zealot stepped toward him cautiously, obviously fearful of having to be this close to a 'specimen.' Malliard cringed at the word. What was he doing in some sort of hospital facility? He wasn't mortally wounded, just a few minor bumps and bruises. The doctor zealot raised the needle and pressed it against his carotid. He felt the needle plunge under the skin, and the Protoss pulled against the plunger. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the thick syringe filling with his blood. He capped the needle and extracted a second needle from the folds of his lap coat. He moved behind him, out of Malliard's view, when all of the sudden, a sharp pain throbbed at the nape of his neck as the zealot plunged the needle into his spinal cord. He felt himself go woozy for a moment, but the zealot guards maintained their grip on him even as he lost consciousness. The doctor zealot did not seem frazzled by this, and with a nod of his head, the guards let Malliard drop to the floor, and the troupe of Protoss exited the cell. The doctor and chief zealot congregated at a nearby corridor, and the two leaned close to each other, practically ear to ear. The 'glowing eyed' zealot introduced himself as Ligos, and the technician identified himself as Aragonus.
"Reconnaissance tells us that this is the Terran they..." Ligos, the facilities security chief, pauses dramatically, as if searching for a word "...infused...with Tassadar's essence. But how can we be sure?"
"We can't really, at least until these tests have been completed. I took fluid from his spinal shaft and blood plasma his carotid artery, which should provide us with an extensive amount of genetic material to analyze." Ligos looked on, dazed and confused, as must foot soldiers were on the topic of the sciences. "Basically, the blood in his body can give us the information we need to decide whether or not this Terran is the product of a Protoss/Terran crossbreeding."
The security chief's eyes bulged in fear as he heard the words that Aragonus spoke. He took the technician by the lapels and pulls him face to face. "Do you understand the implications if the humans create a template of Tassadar inside this human? They will have the physical stamina of a Terran and the mental capacities of one of the most powerful Protoss that every lived! By Adun! We should just execute this monstrosity and cancel out any possibility that this Terran is the one! If he is the crossbreed, that’s one problem we've removed. If he isn't, its another soldier added to the climbing number of casualties in this forsaken war!" Ligos took a heavy, exhausted breath after completing his speech for the now embarrassed technician.
"Um, yes ... that is a very real possibility, but I have my orders not to let him be killed. My superior officers have spoken to the Restored Conclave and they have bought his story on commencing research for our own hybrid. The Zerg have already reached the finish line in this race, with the Terran's rounding the last curve in the lap, while we are still sitting at the starting pole. If something is not done, this new technology will be lost to us!" The technical stormed out before the chief could contemplate a response, and Ligos just stood there, stupefied. His mind was now in overdrive thinking of reasons why the Conclave would want such a forsaken and blasphemous technology. Merging the sacred bodies of Adun's Followers with the infidel and profane Terran race! He stormed out the back exit to the facility, curious onlookers now returning to their work and studies as the room quieted except for the occasional pounding of feet and tapping of keys on consoles.
Malliard could hear a rhythmic tapping echoing inside his head as he opened his eyes groggily, rubbing a few speckles of dirt and dust from his tired eyes. He looked to his left, and saw the same Protoss turnkey monitoring his cell. He moaned and rubbed a sore spot on his back, the skin tender as his finger raked across the touchy surface. He felt a slight vibration at his feet, followed by a few distant gunshots. Looking back and forth quickly, like a scared cat, he held his ear against the bulkhead of the cell. Looking through a pinprick hole in the wall. Malliard's face lit with joy as he saw in the distance, shrouded by a tornado of swirling dust, a column of Siege Tanks, and a few detachments of Marine Expeditionary platoons. As the dust swirled back to the ground, he smiled as he saw the Marines take defensive positions around the four Siege Tanks. The massive pillars extended from the side of the colossal superstructure. The drill bits chiseling the giant pillars dug quickly into the ground, bits of dirt and rock flying around. The Marine escorts took cover from the flying debris as the tank column was finally deployed.
Much closer to him Malliard heard a series of klaxon alarms activating, Protoss security forces assembling around the doors and access hatches as foot soldiers from the nearby barracks were being scrambled. With the alarum dispatched, the sounds of preparation for battle overwhelming anything else, he watched gleefully as the Marine's began to dig in new trenches, suppressive fire from the Siege Tanks firing in almost a continuous line. One blast after another as the gunnery tankers slowly began to calibrate the sights, their salvos inching closer and closer to the hospital prison facility. Finally, the rear tank's shot impacted with a nearby defensive bunker, and Malliard smiled with satisfaction as a few Protoss security troopers' bodies were ejected from the bunker firing slots. A few squads of Marines began to flank around the facility, crouched or prone on the ground, trudging through the icy tundra of the frozen desert of Dionide.
Malliard began to cackle with glee as he saw the units slowly approach the north wall of the facility, right where is cell was located. He cringed in a non-existent pain as the pole position squad leader fell to the ground in a bloody heap, blood spurting through his powered armor suit, a single hole in his armor, speckles of blue energy lining the puncture hole. The other Marines scrambled and dove for cover as a platoon of Dragoons ambushed the squad from the side. Quickly and efficiently digging into the side of a nearby embankment, the Marine's began to fire brief and quick suppressive fire, the Dragoon's plasma cannons steadily wearing down on the hill, the Marines becoming more and more packed into the embankment as their cover was slowly lost. Malliard fell to the floor as the Dragoons made a deadly charge against the remaining nine or ten Marines, who were overwhelmed by the twelve or so charging Dragoons. He cried out in agony as the last soldier, firing to the very end, fell to the ground, the Dragoons beginning to stack the bloody corpses in sloppy piles.
Malliard fell to his knees as he saw that a few Zealots had snuck around the firing line, and were mercilessly slashing at the armored hull of the now defenseless Siege Tanks. He collapsed to the ground, pounding at the packed earth of his cell floor with his dirty and weary hands. He sat and watched as the final Siege Tank detonated, the wounded, but not dead, gunner uselessly fighting off the attack of three Zealots. He saw the Zealots carrying the dismembered parts of the soldier in triumph, raising them up in the air as their comrads cheered them forward.
He saw that the assault had ended in defeat for the Terran taskforce, crying as his eyes darted from one smoking wreckage to the next. He heard a rhythmic thumping on the cold ground as a squad of prison guards came to fetch him. They lifted him to his feet, dragging him along as his eyes began to tear, pondering what the treacherous Protoss will do to him, and what they expect of him. All he could do was wait as his fate was slowly being read to him, but what he didn't know was that his fate was going to take a surprising turn as his stay at the facility continued.
As Malliard awakened from his forced submission, his nostrils were filled with the acrid, astringent odor of harsh acid compounds and disinfectant. Looking around quickly he could see the white plaster, reinforced walls of the hospital wing of the prison facility. Protoss were scurrying about in the cliched white laboratory coats. Looking at the table beside him, he saw several vials filled and capped in a contraption similar to a paint mixer. A digital readout spoke to him in giant letters "Blood Contents Count" and a sting of digits and words flowed out from underneath it. Looking at the test tube vials he could make out the packed white blood cells which had settled in the bottom of the tube. Another translucent fluid was being prepared in the centrifuge by a lone technician. The technician began to turn toward him, and Malliard feign unconsciousness as he was approached. The technician kneeled down under Malliard's field of view, and he felt a sharp pinprick at the base of his spine as the technician inserted some sample from underneath his operating table. He felt coldness run through his blood as the syringe spilled its contents into his blood stream. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the technician walk away from him and out a side door, locking it behind him, leaving him alone in the room.
Looking quickly from wall to wall, he spotted a small ventilation shaft on the far right corner. Looking down to his bindings, he make quick work of the simple Velcro-like restraints, looking cautiously at the main entrance as he jimmied the lock to the vent, replacing the cover quietly, and crawling stealthily through the shaft.
General DeMayas stood on the observation deck of his Battlecruiser, gazing across the star-scape as numerous reconnaissance photos were beamed to him on the window monitor, translucent images barring his view of the icy depths below him. He sighed and shook his head in disappointment as Ghost scouts took images of the burning wreckage of the Protoss complex assault team. Sitting down in his seat, he placed his head in his hands, fingers pressing against his temples in thought.
A full frontal assault was no good against the facility. Maybe an infiltration mission would be more appropriate. These operations would move a hell of a lot more smoothly if more data had been given on the subject of these military assaults, he thought to himself.
So far all he knew was that the prisoner was of important political and scientific importance. A few of his connections had told him he was a captive who had been used in a now abandoned Terran medical trial. He shrugged and called for his window monitor to activate as he read the morning news:
"A local from the nearby system of Zulu was found dead today in his home. 56 year old Dr. Eduard Malliard was found brutally murdered in his vehicle in rural Zulu III. Evidence points to armed burglars using stolen weapons from a nearby Protectorate armory. The Protectorate spokesperson, Major General William Franks, declined commentary, stating that commenting on an open government investigation was obstruction of justice, and declined our phone calls. Dr. Malliard's only son, Staff Sergeant Kyle Malliard, a Protectorate Marine POW on the planet of Dionide, survives Dr. Malliard. It is believed that Sergeant Malliard has yet to be informed of his father's untimely death."
General DeMayas stared wide-eyed at the console, his mind slowly taking in the commentary/obituary. He flashed back to the briefing the Military Oversight Committee formed when first constructing this rescue mission. He had been told of no other prisoner on the surface of Dionide, and wasn't sure if this was the man they sought. He had been given no background information on the reasoning behind the rescue, and very little data on the prisoner himself, not even his name. All he knew was that he was a foot soldier in the Marines and that he served as some political and scientific purpose that warranted a special retrieval mission. He turned in his seat, moving quickly on the hoverchair to a nearby computer terminal. DeMayas, with relatively high security clearance, was hoping to access the Soldier's Roster, a list of all active and reserve MIA's, POW's, and KIA's. His fingers diving over the keyboard in front of him, he pulled up a listing of all the recent POW's in his quadrant, and browsed around the search results for one Staff Sergeant Malliard. The computer sounded off with a quick "ping" as it flashed its results:
One Match to Search Query: Malliard, Kyle (SSgt)(EOD).
He clicked on the "display results" tab, and a visual printout of background statistics, age, height, and the like. One line in particular caught his attention: "Next of Kin: None." Looking back to the window monitor, he saw the murder report quickly scrolling across the bottom of the screen while they continued with the rest of the program. Apparently his body had been discovered and identified, barely, only four hours ago.
"Damn ... those guys are fast." He thought to himself, and he continued looking through the soldier background file before him, thinking nothing else of the odd coincidence. Browsing quickly through criminal records, which were nothing but minor traffic violations, campaign service, which included his sortie's in his Ghost-Sniper division, as well as mentioning his recent capture by the Protoss forces on Dionide. Hovering over the text labeling him as a POW, he clicked, and he was forwarded to a military server, labeled "Military POW Reports -- Classified." A popup asked him for his clearance password and he cautiously entered the text string that gave him access to almost the entire military network. In the few seconds it took for the query to be sent, processed by the server, and a response returned, DeMayas thought time had slowed down to almost unmoving speeds. He told himself he must know more about this. In order to fulfill his mission he had to know more about what he was doing. The server returned a message saying that he had received clearance, and was forwarded to the server that detailed Malliard's POW case:
Case Number: 32412598,
Subject Name: Malliard, Kyle,
Rank and Rate: Staff Sergeant (SSgt), Explosive Ordinance Disposal (EOD),
Currently Deployed: Zulu System, Planet Dionide,
Regimental Command: Third Army, VII Corps, 4th Division, A Battalion, S Company
Wartime Specialty: Sniper -- Demolitions
DeMayas was getting bored with the background data, although more in-depth than the standard bio, he had more important things to attend to, and scrolled down to the paragraph labeled: "Case History and Background"
Case History and Background
SSgt Malliard was deployed with 4th Division of the VII Corps as a reconnaissance mission to put down local Protoss aggression, which was threatening a Terran farming colony. Malliard was deployed onto the battlefield with his colleagues from S Company, to cover the assault on a nearby Protoss complex thought to be executing and researching military-related medical technologies. Malliard's squad leader pulled him from his post, acting upon command from the Corps Commander, to escort a troupe of military vehicles to acquire supplies from an abandoned warehouse. Stationed outside the facility in a Ghost-class powered suit, he waited patiently, watching in the brush for any signs of hostility. Witnesses report a single, non-silenced shot ring out, and the vehicles quickly and hastily exited the warehouse, with a group of Protoss tailing them quickly. Malliard and the rest of his squad opened fire on the pursuing Protoss vehicle, disabling it. They opened fire on the second pursuing vehicle, and it was destroyed. Many of his fellow soldiers had already begun the trek home, quickly bounding after the speeding Protectorate hovercar. Malliard was left behind and, according to witnesses, was met by three Protectorate, Hellion-class hellicopters, one of which was shot down, the remaining two barely escaping. He was seen escorting the sole survivor of the first chopper's crew. The unsuited airman was gunned down by Protoss fire, and Malliard as left to his own devices when a platoon of Dragoon's and Zealots surrounded and restrained him. Witnesses cannot speculate on where he was taken, or why.
Military Inquest's Theory
A military inquest was formed to determine why he was taken captive, and seveal researchers discovered his involvement in a now-abandoned medical project...
DeMayas red that first line and hovered over the emboldened link of "medical project" hoping he would learn more about what he was involved in. He was forwarded to yet another server, who prompted him for his clearance password, and he was given access to the Protectorate Medical Corps database server. He was then forwarded to a document labeled "Genetic Research and Development Lab," and a list of all the soldiers involved in genetic sciences from cancer research projects to the "Super Soldier" research. Apparently, after shifting through the secured server some more, he found a document entitled "Hybridizational Genetics," and a list of all patients involved ina the procedure ... there were only three, the first one being Malliard. He tried to click the link to the file on "Hybridizational Genetics," but was refused access by the security daemon of the server. DeMayas swore, and slammed his fist down on the desk, the computer console shaking and his coffee cup lying upset on the desktop, spilling the hot fluid onto the floor. After fixing the mess he created, he layed back, locked his door, and considered all the information today, trying to piece together the logic behind this rescue, which he had not yet deduced.
Location: Protoss Hospital Camp: Ventilation System
Planet: Dionide
Time: 12 May 2067, 1332 hrs.
Crawling quietly through the vent systems of the Protoss base camp, he would occasionally stop and eavesdrop on some of the conversations of the Protoss force here. Most talk was casual and personal, which he typically overlooked and continued on. But as he passed through the overhead duct of the restraint room he was in, he had arrived just in time to see the medical staff enter the cell, stopping dead in their tracks, one witty technical signaling the alarm, several soldiers quickly stepping onto the scene. Malliard swore silently as he saw two zealots enter the duct shafts via a screw he left unhinged, and he quickly heard one soldier's efforts moving closer and closer steadily. He climbed into an overheard duct, instantly overtaken by the forceful gusts of a nearby fan ventilator. Fortunately, the din from the fan hid Malliard's attempts at stopping, and once he saw the lone trooper pass by him, he stealthily crept down the shaft, and followed quietly after the soldier. Malliard knew that even if he was detected, the only way they could capture him was if another soldier came in. The lone zealot was too large to turn around. Malliard took the opportunity to plan an assault as the soldier stopped momentarily to catch his breath.
Quickly dashing forward toward the soldier, not caring about the noise me made to his hunters down below, he put the surprised zealot in a choke hold, and with a controlled flick of his shoulder, cracked the spine of the zealot. The psi blades deactivated, and he reached over to inspect the instruments. No Terran had ever seen working battle psis before, only malfunctioning scraps. Reaching down the shaft it, his hand and forearm slid into the support, and the device locked into his arm. His forearm was covered by the armored weapon, and his fingers remaining free to grasp another weapon. He looked around desperately for a release button, but found only smooth, bore, yellow metal, with a small slit that he decided was probably not safe to touch. Seeing the weapon flooded him with images with the earlier skirmish in the cornfields of Dionide, seeing the onslaught of zealots with the plasma weapons and psionic weapons cut down the defenseless radioman. Images of the white hot plasma of the psi blades filled his mind, and without warning, the weapon emitted bright flash of blue energy, and the pair of psi blades extended from the slit, humming softly. He gazed in awe at the energy blades, and swung his arm in an arc, cutting ventilation shaft in a spectacular display of sparks. He heard startled voices from nearby searchers, and quickly retrieved the second psi blade, locking it onto his arm. He had deduced that thought processes had activated the weapon, so he assumed that if he "thought" the blades were off, they would deactivate. Smiling smugly, he watching in eager wonder as the blades shut off just by his thought of deactivating them. Crawling quickly through the broken vent shaft, he heard a terrifying groan of metal against metal as the vent slowly began to bend under his weight, his experimental slash cutting at one of the vital supports. He cursed loudly as the vent swung downward, tossing him to the restrain room he had just escaped from. Turning his gaze to the door, he saw the astonished looks of four zealots standing in the doorway. Their blades all activated in sequence, and they charged. Malliard narrowed his eyes, and called forth his own blades, ready to fight to the death...
Bracing himself against the wall, he raised the blades defensively, and closed his eyes for a moment. He felt his body relax and a cold aura flowed out through his body, coursing through his veins. Then, his arms tensed, and, even thought it only took a fraction of a second, he felt his mind was at ease, centered totally on victory, even if it ended with his death. The team of zealots charged, the lead zealot calling out for battle with his left arm extended. Malliard had second-guessed the lead fighter, and dived forward with a low, right jab, and the blade punched through the armored hull of the zealot. Malliard barely had time to acknowledge the strength of this weapon when a second blade crashed down above his head, cutting through the failed rafters and duct pieces. Malliard lashed out once again, parrying the assaulting zealot easily, his other hand breaking the downward swipes of one of the other zealots. The last zealot knelt down to the first fallen zealot, and began to lug him out of the room, the zealots back proudly displaying a familiar symbol, the four pointed cross, a medic's insignia. With the paramedical zealot now abandoning the fight with his brethren, Malliard was left to content with the two other zealots, a feat even the most skilled of Marines would most likely fail. The two zealots circled around Malliard, lashing out feints and pulled punches. The zealot behind him charged, and Malliard ducked quickly, twirling on his hell as he cut the zealot's legs out form under him. The now-legless zealot tumbled to the ground, cursing and shouting in agony as he plunged the blade into the zealot's chest. He was brought back to the reality by a flash of light in his mind, and he dived instinctually out of the way. Instantaneously, a flash of sparks and burning metal erupted from a nearby duct as the last zealot had lashed out at him from behind. The zealot has gotten his arm embedded in the metal, and was lashing out fervently with his other arm. With a quick parry and a slash, he removed the weapon hand from the zealots body, and with a spurt of blood and a flash of light, severed the zealot's head from the body, the arm and neck bleeding freely as he turned to the exit.
As he stepped out of the door, his medical scrubs doused with spurts of blood, terrified physicians, technicians, and civilians ran in the opposite direction. In the other silence of the now-empty room, he heard the rythmic sound of pounding feet coming at him from the direction of the fleeing scientists, and dashed in the opposite direction. Soon, an ear numbing klaxon sounded, and fire doors crashed the ground in an instant. Running on instinct, he activated the blade, and plunged it against the door. The door was easily broken against the white-hot heat of the psi blade. As he cut a man-sized incision in the door, and it fell to the ground with a reverberating crash. Standing on the opposite side of him was, actually, nothing. He wiped his eyes for a second as he saw the air fluctuate in front of his eyes, and a faded image of three ghosts appeared in front of him. One soldier handed him a C-10 Rifle and a few magazines, with a resonant guffaw. He recognized the voice as Lieutenant John Majors, also known as 'the Lieutenant,' (since he was the only one of this rank in their company) his friend and brethren who accompanied him on that faithful escort mission earlier on.
"Hope you can use one of these without a suit. It's hell even with the suit. Maybe you should only use it as a last resort, son." Majors chuckled in that booming voice of his, and looked at the two other ghost troopers.
"Who authorized this mission? I saw a troop of soldiers assault the base, and were annihilated by the base security force. It ... it was a horrible slaughter..." Malliard's voice slowly trailed off as the Lieutenant patted him on the back.
"General DeMayas sent a task force of brute force down here to try to break the base defenses so we could rescue you."
"So DeMayas sent you?"
The Lieutenant shifted in his seat. "This was kind of a solo mission. Higher brass doesn't even know about it, let alone DeMayas."
"So you entered this base knowing full well you could have failed to retrieve me and died without any hope of reinforcement?"
Majors nodded in the affirmative and smiled. "Well we are alive aren't we?" That trademark guffaw was the last sound Malliard ever heard from the beloved Lieutenant, before one of the other ghosts stepped forward and broke his neck with his bare hands.
Malliard gaped in horror, and the Lieutenant's body, frozen in mid- chuckle, slumped to the floor, dead before he hit the ground. Malliard raised his now-activated psi blades, but with a wave of his hand and the blink of an eye, the ghost in the front somehow deactivated his psi blades.
The raspy, almost synthetic voice finally spoke. "Lieutenant Majors was on a mission to retrieve you, and execute you. We just saved your life." The soldier looked totally serious, and the second soldier began to dishonorably stow the deceased Majors in a nearby compartment.
"At the cost of Majors?" Malliards voice held a great deal more then a shred of contempt for this 'murderer' that stood before him.
"Sergeant -- you have no idea of the kind of shit storm you are embedded in. Do you have 'any' clue as to how I was able to deactivate that psi blade?"
Malliard shook his head, and was about to ask him how he, indeed, had managed to deactivate it. "And how--"
Malliard was cut of in mid-sentence by the second soldier, "--did you exactly do that?" The first soldier chuckled and nudged him in the side. "Its called psionic resistance. As you have noticed obviously, the psi blade recognizes 'your' brain emissions of 'your' central nervous system to determine whether or not it is activated or deactivated. We use psionic resistance to place a similar 'brain wave pattern' on your own psi blade to make it think you had told it to cutoff, but in fact we had."
"Isn't that a form of telekinesis?"
The first soldier interjected quickly. "Not quite. Telekinesis involves using psychic abilities to move 'objects.' We use PR, psionic resistance, to impersonate someone else’s mental signature. And you still have no idea how we did this do you?"
Malliard shook his head slowly.
"There's not much I can tell you now, but the basic gist of it is, you are a hybrid. You were conceived with either a Terran sperm, or a Protoss egg, or visa versa. Seeing as how slow your skills have developed, I would guess it was probably a Terran sperm.
"But anyway, Corporal Davis and myself, Sergeant Falker, were both subjects of what the government liked to call 'Hybridization Genetics.' I'll debrief you all about the topic when we return to the base.
"And for reference, please tell the upper brass that Majors was killed. We weren't supposed to know about the mission's background, but since he's dead, we can bring you back alive and claim we did not know that such orders existed. Please bear with us."
Corporal Davis presented Malliard with the suit that Majors had donned, and Malliard shook his head in disgust.
"Do you really want to get shot just walking out of the base, or hope that we can escape by using the stealth module on the suit?"
Malliard shifted his weight uncomfortably and decided to don the suit. As they soldiers made their way to the exit, he could hear the two other soldiers conversing to themselves, without the microphones, but he was too out of it to even comprehend the words. He followed behind the two men on autopilot, and they left the base uneventfully through a rear emergency exit, quickly bounding off toward the base 50 kilometers distant.
A group of Protoss zealots marched in ranks around their assigned patrols, followed closely by a few Dragoon soldiers. With their Psi Blades online and plasma cannons fully charged, this lone patrol was ready to defend against even a medium-sized assault force. With several plasma turrets dug in and online, the defensive barrier was even more effective, in combination with a new prototype troop bunker for the Dragoons. The troop of soldiers stopped momentarily for a few visiting seismologists and geographers to take measurements on tectonic plate motion, and other relevant research. Seismographs were brought out, and the scientists began to dutifully conduct their research under the protective eye of the troops.
Unbeknownst to the troops guarding the scientists, a squad of snipers lay encamped roughly 500 yards out from the post. As the Marine snipers lay prone in the grass, raising their new model silenced rifles to their shoulders. Laser-sights painted the heads of the exposed Dragoons, the whole group unsuspecting of any enemy presence. A crew of Ghost scouts, approximately 12 or 13 soldiers, began to move from a forward tactical base almost 1000 meters away from the central facility. Quickly making their way through the underbrush a nearby band of forest. Snaking there way through the surrounding cornfields, they stopped abruptly as the field stopped, blending into open pastures and farmland. Ducking low, they kicked on the stealth generators, crawling prone through the 100 meters of lowlands. Holding their positions, out of range of the plasma cannons and visual acquisition, they signaled to the snipers to commence fire, and began their charge to the post ahead, silenced pistols and sub-machineguns armed. Rifle reports sounded one after another, spurts of blood spraying out from the Dragoon's bodies. The scientists dove for cover in the few seconds to snipers took to reload, but the Ghosts were already there, opening fire at the overwhelmed force. The snipers were keeping the scientists and Zealots pinned down, and the Ghosts actively taking them down with the machine pistols and SMGs. Bullet salvos were fired in sequence. When the snipers took the time to reload the Ghosts would re- open fire, continuing to pin down the broken Dragoon and Zealot forces. As the SMGs ran down on ammunition, side-arms were drawn, and the Ghosts charged, bullets flying over the cornered force, blood, hydraulic fluid, and cryo-stasis liquids were flying through the air, staining the crop fields.
With a roar, a troop of Vultures entered the fray, concussion grenades firing into the holed up Zealots, and the few remaining Dragoons. One Vulture, flaming and primed to detonate, was abandoned almost at the bunker, and careened into it in a raging fireball. The roaring engines of an approaching Reaver squadron overwhelmed the bloodcurdling screams of the Protoss emanating from the bunker. Fleeing Vultures were caught between fire from their own snipers and the suppressive fire of the Reaver squadron. The Ghosts were overwhelmed by the sudden reinforcements and fled, opening fire with C-10 canister rifles and side arm pistols as they hastily retreated. The sudden roar of plasma engines drowned out the Terran call for help as three Corsair fighters and an Observer moved in on their position. The Corsairs took aim at the now-uncloaked Ghosts, their plasma cannons decimating the small force almost instantaneously. The snipers began to open fire on the hovering Corsairs; a lucky sniper shot knocking out ones rear rudder, sending it plummeting to the ground in a spin. The snipers tossed down the discharged sniper rifles and removed SMG rifles from their side arm holsters, randomly spraying down cover fire as the earth-shaking explosions rocked the battlefield. The cheers of the Marines and few remaining Ghosts accompanied the whir of hydraulic lifters reached the battlefield. Charging Goliath mechanized walkers were followed overhead by three Valkyrie-class missile frigates. H.A.L.O missiles streaked through the air towards the absconding Corsairs, the Valkyries were in hot pursuit, a flood of missiles tailing the Corsairs back to their helipad. The last of the Corsairs impacted with the ground in a blood red orb of flame. As the Valkyries assaulted the fleeing Corsairs, the charging Goliath's had stormed the Protoss bunker under a fierce layout of fire. Bullets impacted against the reinforced Plexiglas composite and the reinforced titanium hull. Ricochet was flying everywhere as the Goliath's plundered the bunkers, their Vulcan auto cannons and RPGs jolting the Protoss within their bunkers. A squadron of dropships lowered several platoons of Elite Special Forces Marines, which entered the subterranean bunker array. Headlights activated and safeties off, they entered enemy territory.
Shifting their view constantly from left to right, watching for the notorious floor and wall traps, the Marine platoon entered the hostile territory of the subterranean bunker facility, darkened by the blackout caused by the raid. The large Marine force was in territory they had no recon for, let alone any idea of what forces were remaining and what was booby-trapped. Moving cautiously through the facility, they were only obeying orders. Scour the bunkers for any data on Sergeant Malliard, the POW located in this quadrant. The SAR team, followed by its technical expert squad, the ragtag team of computer specialists, slowly traces their steps through the facility. A careful Marine caught a barely audible clang of metal, and motioned for his comrade's to turn about and watch their rear. A Marine cocked back the gas-launched grenade launcher on his C-14 Impaler and braced the assault rifle against his shoulder, with an audible hiss, a fuze grenade clattered down the hallway, and the Marines took cover within their suits as a large explosion filled the corridor. Four Dragoons, two heavily damaged, popped around the corner, plasma cannons firing. The flag trooper quickly brought up a prototype energy shield, activating it with a whir as the blue energy bolts impacted of the riot shield. Marines in the front opened fire in echelon formation, people out of ammo or wounded moving to the back for fresher reinforcements. The large force quickly over took the enemy force, and they slowly continued forward, stepping over the smoldering remains of the Dragoons. A long hallway stretched out before them, although dark, four blue torched burned at the end of the tunnel. In a quick flash of light, the blue orbs were dashing forward, accompanied by four long staffs of energy. A trooper called out to his fell troopers "Zealots!" and they opened fire. The grenades and bullets impacted off the armored troopers, but a Ghost target the charging Protoss with his Canister rifle, smashing the Zealot troopers into pieces. Pieces of flesh and metal burned in the corridor, lighting their way down the corridor. When the company reached the bend at the end of the tunnel, opening the access hatch on the first bunker, they were blinded by sudden natural light flooding in from the bunker rifle slits. With a metallic click, they heard the reinforced blast door close behind them, blocking the only exit. The soldier's could hear a stifled whir as a small motor activated, a large blast door opening to their right, and four undamaged Dragoons stepped out into the bunker. With a hum, the Dragoons' plasma cannons kicked in, and the Marines dove for cover amid ricocheting blaster fire. Bullets impacted against the Psionic shielding as the Marines returned fire. Two Ghosts, cloaked and hiding, charged the assaulting troopers, bringing their Kevlar combat knives to bear on the attacking Dragoons. Slicing across their main hydraulics line, a spurt of blue cryo-stasis and hydraulic fluid spray into the air, splashing into the Ghosts' lenses. With a low chuckle and a smile, one of the Ghosts spat on the smoldering carcasses of the Dragoons, and with a low sigh, the blast door blocking their exit opened, and they resumed their search throughout the channels uneventfully. A company commander and his squad leaders sat for a moment to rest, and discussed their mission amongst themselves.
"Commander, what exactly are we doing in these bunkers?" Questioned the Blue Squad Leader.
"Upper brass has sent us grunts on a reconnaissance and intelligence mission. In that base to our north..." The commander motioned toward the still unprepared hospital prison, "...lies a Terran prisoner. We are ordered to take the facility by a combination of force and stealth, and detain our comrade and escort him home."
"This large an assault force for one sole prisoner?" The Green Squad Leader inquired.
"I'm not quite sure of the reasoning myself, son. But I was told he was a medical detainee and requires removal to a Terran facility."
The soldiers shrug and continued their trudge to the hospital, hoping to breach the underground entrance while forces move to the top to defend against the coming siege.
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Running quickly through the halls of the facility, brushing by a few bewildered scientists, a Protoss security officer was rushing through the halls, carrying a ream of paper in his arms. His mad dash knocked several researchers and technicians over. Bounding into the security office without announcing himself, he stood before the watch commander.
"Sir! Terran forces assaulting rearguard Omega perimeter. They decimated the security line and breached the fence to the facility!"
The watch commander narrowed his eyes at the private, and sent him off, sounding the alarum for battle stations. In a flurry of lab coats and armor, scientists evacuated themselves to the safety of the blast shelters and the soldiers made their way to the plasma cannon batteries.
Following the rush of the lab coats and charging armor, three cloaked Ghosts tagged behind the rush of Protoss, hurrying toward the nearest exit. The ground shook suddenly, and the stampeding Protoss tumbled over each other in chaos. Explosive shells were detonating on the armored walls of the facility, but were shredding the worn armor quickly. Concentrating his thermal goggles in the direction of the blast, he saw the signature of a siege tank, and the troop hurried their pace toward the exit on their maps. Stepping out into the open field beyond the first blast door, two well- placed sniper shots disabled the other two Ghosts. Malliard stopped in his tracks and raised his hands up. Obviously whoever was shooting either knew they were coming or had detectors out. Glancing quickly, he saw a few Marines nearby moving toward him, firing sporadically at charging Protoss forces, which were quickly gunned down. Two medics tended to the wounded Ghosts, a soldier holding his side arm pistols to their heads.
"You two are under arrest under Protectorate Doctrine 8A; deserting the scene of the battle, and receive a designation of absent without leave. Also, you are charged under Doctrine 12E; failing to obey orders from higher command, and Doctrine 43T; causing the accidental or purposeful death of a fellow soldier."
The MP officer read him them their rights as members of the armed forces, and carried them off on the stretchers. Malliard glanced off to his left and saw a line of disarmed Protoss marching toward a makeshift prisoner's camp. Curiously, he saw the siege tanks continuing to shell the facility. Shrugging, he looked back to the CSM (command sergeant major) in charge of this detachment, and smiled coyly.
"Sir..." Malliard saluted to the superior enlisted man, "...those two indeed caused the death of the Lieutenant, and forced me out of the camp. I assumed they were following under the orders of my corps commander, as they had stated, and followed them as requested."
The CSM nodded nonchalantly and motioned towards a waiting dropship. Boarding the vessel, they lifted off and sped toward the tactical base 30km distant.
Looking down, Malliard could see the destruction this lone battalion had caused. Burning hulks of stacked yellow armor and death Zealots littered the battlefield. Only a few Terrans lie dead or wounded on the field, and most had already been retrieved by the medical corps. A construction battalion was laying charges on a nearby series of bunkers, and with a resonating detonation they went up in a column of flame. Soon, the dropship landed in a makeshift airbase, and he was escorted off of the vehicle by two overly aggressive MPs. He reached a nearby barracks, and was tossed quite carelessly into a barren room without any furnishings over then a wooden bench and a pillow.
Quickly, a door opened from the wall and a surly major general stepped into the room. Malliard quickly rose to salute the officer, and he motioned for him to sit. Quickly, the walls changed a deep, almost crimson, shade of red around him, and the major general pulled his sidearm, placing it to Malliard's head.
"Under executive order 82 of the Protectorate Marines Doctrine of Law, I have been ordered to execute you on the grounds of treason and espionage. Also, under executive order 32, I have been ordered to execute you under authority of the Adjutant of the Marine Corps for the protection of our sovereignty and our respective militaries. If you have anything you wish to say before you are executed, your request is denied."
In Malliard's mind, those words were spoken in a slow, monotonous, droning voice, stretching out the syllables of every word. With each spoken word his anger grew, his eyes narrowing, the veins pulsing as they grew bloodshot, the iris tinting to an eerie bright red, and his arm shot out, diving under the extended gun arm of the major general. He squeezed on the carotid artery, and pulled down sharply, cutting off the blood flow away from his head. He fell to the floor instantly, unconscious.
A rush of rage and aversion coursed through his veins, his blood red hot. He charged at the bolted door, and with a sharp crack, the lock splintered and fell from the door. A surprised duo of MPs looked up, guns trained on Malliard. He charged towards toward the MPs, dodging their spurts of bullets in a zigzagged roll. He took the soldiers by their heads and crashed their skulls together, both men bleeding freely from their scalp, lying unconscious. Malliard retrieved his confiscated Psi blades as well as the MPs sub-machineguns. He chuckled to himself and bolted toward the exit, rushing past startled MPs who senselessly fired after Malliard. Malliard grin maniacally and turned on his heel, charging two more guards, knocking them to their ass with sharp blows his elbows. He quickly squeezed the trigger to his SMGs, three-round-spurts of bullets emptying the MPs chests. He let out a demented laugh as he charged straight into the guard post, and quickly cut down the surprised guards with his Psi blades. Blood splattered the safety glass, and a nearby guard sounded the alarm before Malliard put a bullet in his head. Typing quickly onto the nearby computer console, he located the triage bay and cut open the door with his Psi blades. Quickly dashing towards the east wing of the facility, he was blockaded by a row of MPs sporting riot shields and C-14 rifles. Quickly opening fire on the stunned Malliard, their bullets bounced at his feet as he dashed towards the wall, scaling the high wall, running sideways across the wall, leaping nimbly across the riot shields. Before the bulky armored troopers could turn around, he quickly put three round-bursts of bullets into their heads, the bodies slumping over against the shields, the floor a river of blood. A mad chuckle parted his lips and he continued his charge towards the medic bay. Three ghosts sporting prototype plasma sabers; Terran mock-ups of the Protoss Psionic blades, charged the surprised Malliard.
Dropping his SMGs, he activated the more reliable and powerful Psi blades. Parrying the charging Ghosts' attacks, he spun on his heels, crouched low, cutting the lead Ghost's legs out from under him. With a cry of pain, he fell to the floor, defenseless as Malliard plunged the blade into his chest. Flying sparks diverted Malliard's attention back to the fight as he saw a raised saber swing downward at his head. Dashing backwards quickly, the Ghost's blade sliced the dead soldier in half vertically, the two parts falling away. Laughing maniacally, he continued to parry to attacks. As the soldiers brought their blades to bear on Malliard, he caught them in his own two blades, and leapt into the air, placing a roundhouse kick to the two stunned soldiers, knocking their heads together. He plunged one blade into a Ghost's neck, swinging the other against the second Ghost's neck, severing the head from the body. He turned to run and slipped away through the chaos. He came to rest by a creek and sat to rest well aware that those who sought him had long since lost his trail. He smiled softly, the red glare in his |
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