No sooner than the text fades, a truly spectacular shockwave flows through the world. Sending Kerrigan and I careening into the trench wall. Armor bounces off embedded logs, leaving a pauldron shaped dent in the walls. I spare a glance back at Kerrigan, who has somehow remained on her feet. Despite the clumsy waddle she is piloting that armor like a champ.
“Good job Kerrigan. Keep moving.” I beam back to her.
“Are you gonna leath me behind?” She asks.
My heart breaks at her words. There is no inflexion in her voice, it’s not a question.
All curiosity is gone. Tossed into the nearest incinerator along with hope. Kerrigan’s merely confirming a forgone conclusion. I plant both feet, skidding to a stop.
“What? No!--”
I want to scream and shout at her, now is not the time for emotional breakdowns! We need to get out of the artillery barrage. But she has the mind of a child so I temper my voice, trying to keep my racing heart out of my throat. We have seconds left before the artillery hits. No, I can spare a minute for Kerrigan. The artillery is aimed at the Juggernaut, not us, nor has my suit detected any projectiles aimed directly for us. We have a moment.
“Leave my friend alone? No way. If I did that, who will keep all our chocolates safe? I need you Kerrigan. Queen of Confectionary Delights.” I say. Hearing a laugh.
The joy in her voice makes my spine tighten. True happiness dances across our tight beams, something I haven’t felt in a week. Not since being abducted. Or even before. Bazzhole could make me laugh, but laughter from him never truly made me happy. Neither did any of whorely’s kind words. They were less my friends than an alien bioweapon.
“Lets catch up to the lings–”
Shells rain like consuming locusts that tear into everything. Thousands of pops create successive earthquakes. My helmet’s HELP system slams shut, gel packs inflate to maximum. Kerrigan’s does the same, but her armor doesn’t fit her. The gel packs won’t cushion a thing. We’re thrown, bounced, tossed, and cartwheeled through the air as mud, metal, wood, and dirt become liquids. Perpetually disturbed by rolling thunder and shockwaves. Suits dent under the barrage. I feel every one of my bones bend, as if someone hit it with a baseball bat.
Pain soaks my body.
And I smile.
Not out of masochistic joy, but because this armor is the shit; and I’m not getting hit.
The fact I’m still alive means I’m doing alright, unlike the intended targets. None of these impacts are aimed at me. None are even headed into the trench. Surprising given the sheer volume. Around the battlefield my HUD changes color for each damaged Juggernaut, and I cackle as they die. Missile racks explode in secondary booms. While one green icon jumps immediately to red, skipping yellow and orange damage indicators. Ammo counter reads 200 missiles, and zeroes for autocannons.
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>Praetorian Panoptes: Oh, did you mean to blow that?
I reach for the detonator and find it crushed. Protective shielding broken and the switch all the way to the hot side.
Ooops…
>Terran Apollo: Shit. No. Did you get everything you can from the bunker?
>Praetorian Panoptes: ugh. ugh. Close enough. But I’m holding your biomass. Which REEKS. Really guys, I can’t open the door! Can we please find a bunker and turn it into a supply depot or something. Just leave a ling there and we can warp things in and out.
>Straingineer Zazathur: Im stuck in the kiddy pool so gl bro. HF.
A transmission escapes my explosive accident crossing the battlefield as the Juggernaut’s burning husk barrel rolls into the trenches.
>Straingineer Zazathur: supply ling?
>Straingineer Zazathur: supple ling?
>Straingineer Zazathur: SUPREMEME-LING
>Terran Apollo: haha, idiot. Lol.
“No direct hits. Internal explosions. Sabotage–”
Within a millisecond, faster than I can process the transmission, the Technocracy calculates likely causes and issues orders through dozens of logic cores.
“UNIDENTIFIED ENGINEER! REPORT TO BUNKER 0002 IMMEDIATELY” Echoes through my armor’s speakers, and I'm tremendously grateful for my Singularity helmet.
I might have lost some hearing to the artillery shell, but this screeching would have popped both drums like a terrible mixtape not even your deaf grandma would love. My feet move, jogging back towards Kerrigan, she’s already moving forward in that awkward waddle.
“NONCOMPLIANCE DETECTED.” Booms through my speakers, and four Juggernauts change their trajectories.
They know I’m an infiltrator. Or at least suspect me. A suspicion that will take more effort to confirm than a dozen engineers are worth, and I’m only a lowly technician. Simple answer is to blow me away, the sort of utilitarian approach I expect from cyborgs. One Juggernaut is coming straight for me, with a second to back it up. While the other two adjust to cover the holes in their formation, still heading for Singularity lines. No fire comes from our frontline trenches. Strange, maybe we gave all we had in the barrage?
“Two Jugs just for little ole me? Jesus. Get your priorities straight!”
It’s no secret that artillery barrages precede waves of massed conscripts. Which should be in position to sweep through Tulverian territory after Trinity’s infiltration. Except there are Juggernauts heading my way already, a Technocracy counter offense that I ran headlong into.
Juggernauts on an intercept course. Destination me. Or really, where I’ll be in five minutes. Napkin fueled HUD math tells of a hundred bunker busting missiles and ten thousand slugs bearing down on me. Chin taps the armor, disconnecting all external communications except for tight beams.
“Kerrigan, tanks are coming, run. We might have to split up. Don’t let the Juggernauts find you. They’ll put you back in the cage, or kill you.”
“Otay.”
The answer isn’t good enough for me. I sweep her into my arms and sprint down the trench, racing with all the speed I can muster. Power armor does the heavy lifting, but I need more speed. My wishes are granted, servos whining as limiters are exceeded, each step is a twenty foot powered leap. Still too slow.
I push harder, testing my once severed legs. They seem to lengthen, pumping with more vigor and agility than ever before.
>Terran Apollo: Zazathur, what did you use to make my legs?
>Straingineer Zazathur: what I had
>Straingineer Zazathur: the two lings I sent are the newest variant
>Straingineer Zazathur: four legs instead of six