🚀 go-pugleaf

New professional-quality fanfic, updated weekly here:

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6185323/1/Starcraft_The_Path_to_Char

Author's Note:

I have no plans to write a licensed Starcraft novel any time soon, so
I am left to writing fanfiction. I probably would not enjoy writing a
licensed novel anyways, since it would mean adhering to Blizzard's
official storyline. I am much happier writing the kind of story I want
to write and the kind of story fans want to read. My goal here is to
create the best, most memorable Starcraft fanfic ever, equal in
quality to a good paperback.

WINGS OF LIBERTY: THE PATH TO CHAR

CHAPTER I

No More Playing Around

In five months Xil had revealed no hints of a seasonal pattern. The
days were exactly 30 hours long with 18 hours of light, and the winds
blew sand in every direction every day. If there had been a tourist
brochure, it would have read "Visit anytime, anywhere. It's all the
same." One big heap of dirt, and a town called Fivolas.

On such a planet, one wouldn't expect a Vulture retired thirty years
ago to last a week, but it had lasted five months. As reliable as the
planet itself, the hover bike had once belonged to a local merchant
who traded it for a pound of vespene. He thought it was worthless. A
bike that old should have been.

Its latest trip took it around Fivolas with a rider who knew Vultures,
but never one like this. The metal handlebars eased to the left. The
motor should have sputtered but didn't. The brake was seamless.

"You ride like there's a fire at your back."

Tychus Findlay walked forward, spilling a wide shadow over the bike
and its rider. The sun was large and millions of miles closer to Xil
than Earth was to its sun, but somehow Findlay seemed larger.

"Trouble with the law?" he asked.

"Wouldn't be the first time," came the reply. "You're just jealous you
don't fit in the seat."

Findlay chuckled. He had the muscles to tear the bike apart, but just
enough brains not to do it. The rider dismounted and rolled the bike
ahead. Findlay walked alongside. A few steps led them into a dusty
brown hovel where they left the Vulture and entered a living room.

Clearly separate from the town itself, the shelter was neither
permanent nor homely. The thin walls were slotted into tent poles,
which broke easily. The whole thing had been built in a day, and the
nicest thing anyone ever said about it was that it looked just like
the others nearby. Each one was filled with mercenaries under the
command of Jim Raynor. Living on Xil was cheaper than returning to the
Hyperion every night.

The rider swept a few brown bottles off a table and set down his
helmet. The face of Jim Raynor came into view, black-maned and bearded
from months of squalid living. His dark eyes glanced around from the
bottles to the empty cooler.

"I guess you found a way to pass the time. Any left?"

"You don't want one," Findlay rumbled. "This is all business right
now."

"What's up?"

"You've been too trusting."

Raynor massaged his temples, uninterested. Findlay often criticized
him - nothing new.

"You think everyone here is a saint," Findlay said. "Well, how saintly
is this? I said look!"

"What is it?"

Raynor gazed into the massive palm Findlay was holding out in front of
him. He fingered the black chip on top but didn't know what it was. He
didn't care to guess either.

"It's a recorder."

"What the hell do you mean a recorder? Is it on?"

"It was," Findlay said. Raynor lurched forward and held it up in the
light. "After today's, uh... 'activities,' I was able to see under the
table. That thing was embedded in the wood. I pried it out and shut it
off. Good work, huh?"

Raynor wasn't listening.

"Whadaya say?" Findlay asked, and he smiled with the pleasure of a
rake. "No more light touch, eh? When you baby the crew, you baby the
spies among us too. It's time to clean shop."

Raynor sunk into his chair and rubbed his brow. He had just managed to
control his anger over the last few years. Now the icy hold over his
emotions was reaching its melting point.

"Headache? I don't blame ya."

"Yeah," Raynor said. "Two days now."

"It's stress."

"So?"

"You know what they say," Findlay answered. "Eliminate the stress in
your life. Starting with Dominion spies."

Raynor laughed derisively. "You have a lot of good ideas, but other
people have them too. I don't need prompting to kill a spy."

"Okay, okay," Findlay said, and he laughed like Raynor had, except
friendly enough to ease the tension. His good humor could be as
impressive as his bullish frame when he wanted it to be. It was the
kind of gentle-giant charm that worked its way into people's good
graces, saving Findlay from the trouble he usually deserved. "As long
as we're of the same mind."

The stomp of boots faded away just when Raynor decided he no longer
wanted Findlay's company. The recorder stayed behind, and Raynor
studied it alone now, almost in a trance. With the device resting in
his hand, he focused his energy on it until his subconscious took
over. His concentration waned, and he began measuring the pulse of his
headache, now a stabbing sensation all over his body.

It was the worst pain he had ever felt. Then it vanished,
unexpectedly, amidst memories of Char. He was there again. So were
Kerrigan and the zerg.

...And the others.

"Char..."

The recorder snapped in his fist.

"No more playing around."

Around nightfall, Raynor entered the mess hall. A few men, smoking and
playing cards, were still hanging around after dinner. Around their
wrists were etched, golden bands, artifacts from a recent mission that
had earned them the scorn of the Tal'darim. These men had accompanied
Raynor at the time, sharing his victory and his disgrace, but so had
the others. Even so, he trusted these men more than most.

"Deal me in."

Raynor sat down and stroked his coal-black beard. The cards hit the
table and he barely noted his own hand before he surveyed the other
players. When it came time to bet, he opened with the largest wager of
the night and immediately felt a twinge of regret. Five minutes later,
he was out of the game.

"Consider it a bonus," he said. The winners divided his money as he
rose from the table. "For all the hard work you do."

He smiled despite himself, then quickly shed all regrets.

"Where is Bilcox?" he asked. The men had already returned to talking
and playing, the radio was spouting a monotonous report, and someone
was singing tunelessly in a nearby room. But everybody heard Raynor
when he spoke.

"Bilcox?" someone replied. "He left here a while ago. Check his room."

They were all looking at him. Raynor smiled again, this time
genuinely. He left the hall in silence then stepped across the desert
into another line of make-shift buildings, his boots slopping hot sand
onto the grooved floor.

With his anger bound tightly under his control, he neared Bilcox's
room. No rashness touched his nerves. There could be no slip-ups. It
helped that he was dead certain: he was about to get answers.

The room was neater than most, lightly decorated with artifacts
plundered around Xil. A single lantern illuminated the splotched walls
and the cloud of Fivolas cigar smoke that marked the dwelling of a
hard-living marine, Bilcox himself. He was an ugly pup, twenty-three
and bulging with the swagger of Findlay or Gabriel Tosh, only less
convincing in his strength. With a small jerk, and about as much
cheer, he nodded to Raynor as the senior man entered. They allowed
more than a few seconds to pass before speaking.

"Raynor," Bilcox acknowledged.

With no answer, he stood up. "Raynor?"

His unexpected guest was quiet, for some reason letting the silence
continue even longer than it should. Then, without any pretense,
Raynor dropped the recorder at Bilcox's feet.

The reaction told him all he needed to know. Before the powerful hands
could grab his neck, Raynor drew a gun and fired. A low charge burnt
flesh, and the hands wrapped themselves over the sizzling wound.

"Sit down!"

The order swept over Bilcox like a warm breeze. A growl shook his
teeth, "Damn you..."

The hands flew out again. A sidestep brought Raynor into position for
a grapple, and a sharp kick planted his knee in the small of Bilcox's
back.

He ordered again, "Talk or die!"

The mass of muscles shifted, testing Raynor's hold. "If I ever have
you in my power, you son of a bitch," Bilcox said, "I'll only give you
one option."

A great force shoved Bilcox to the floor. A second later Raynor was
aiming his gun between the brute's eyes, pausing to savor their
reaction. At the sight of the barrel, the eyes widened and the brow
raised in fear. Bilcox threw up his hands defensively and a well-aimed
shot severed the pinky from his left hand. Between the seething gasps
of pain were hissed curses.

"You'd better put your hands back up," Raynor smirked. "Or the next
one's going in your face."

Bilcox shielded himself and a second blast removed his thumb. He kept
his hand in the air, its three fingers twitching and his face
distorted and weird, and he screamed. Raynor fired twice more,
blasting the pointer and the ring fingers off, leaving only the middle
digit extended like a rude gesture.

"Same to you."

With a single cock, the gun was charged to kill.

"Wai-..." A raspy gurgle scraped Bilcox's throat. "I'll t-tal-..."

"Spit it out."

"...talk... I will..."

"You'll tell me everything? Who sent you and why?"

"Y-yes..."

Raynor half-smiled as he dropped his aim. Bilcox breathed deep, then
hacked on the putrid smoke of his own burning flesh.

"Dr. Hanson is next door," Raynor said. A second later he was in the
doorway, glancing over his shoulder at Bilcox, who had not moved.

"Well? I'm not carrying you."