Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Today's speech isn't about loss, it's about victory," Valerian said, trying to catch his breath. There were many things he wasn't tired of after nearly four years, and this would lead to one of them. "We can't, the speech."

"It's fine, it's been pushed back an hour," Matt whispered into his ear. "We have time."

Valerian's eyes, the grey of storm clouds over a free city, rolled back as his hands rose slightly. "Good. Please."

"Time to break in the new coat," Matt whispered, and kissed his ear softly. "Wait here." He drew away from Valerian, eliciting a whine from the young Emperor, and laughed softly in return.

Valerian gazed at himself in the mirror again. He could see colour rising in his cheeks -- and other things rising in other places -- and Matt fussing in the background, first at a side table, then dragging one of the heavy, ornate chairs in their bed chamber over to the mirror. These chairs were strong enough to hold a marine wearing a hardshell -- this claim was tested, and the truth was it was creaky, but it held -- so there would be plenty of strength for two.

"Just relax," Matt whispered. "We're celebrating, remember? Three years."

"Three years," Valerian repeated, and smiled. Through the mirror, Matt smiled back and returned to his spot just behind Valerian, and now his hands worked with surer purpose, opening Valerian's trousers and tugging them down, underwear joining them a moment afterwards, pooled around his knees. Matt's hands quested downwards, stroking Valerian gently.

Three years after the invasion of Augustgrad and the death of Arcturus Mengsk. Two years after their marriage, private when the Dominion had once been lavish, surrounded only by their friends. Five years after the first time they'd met, Matt's expression angry and disbelieving, Valerian's own uncertain and nervous, hidden by an urbane charm that had carried him through so much, a handful more after the death of his mother... but today wasn't about what they'd lost. It was about what they'd won.

This feels almost decadent, Valerian thought absently as he watched Matt work, and his own reactions, arching against his touch, pressing up against the moving hands, then back against him, hoping to catch the sensation of the bulge in Matt's naval uniform blues. Matt groaned softly against his ear. "Time may be on our side, but we shouldn't waste it."

"I don't intend to waste anything," Matt murmured, and fussed behind Valerian's back, teasing against the curve of the Emperor's ass before practically and quickly divesting himself of underwear and trousers, and now Valerian could feel the length of Matt, rubbing between his cheeks eagerly. "Just one more minute."

"I'd be willing to forgo if we weren't about to go out in public," Valerian replied, near-breathless. "But I do need to walk."

"Trust me, it's less fun than it sounds." Valerian could hear, but not see, the gentle pop-hiss of the bottle of lubricant behind his back, and feel, rather than see, the way Matt's fingers slid down the crack of his ass to his entrance, though he could see Matt's hand, gripping his hip, holding him still, as well as his own expression, flushed and wild, his cock aching and hard. "Almost."

"A-any time," Valerian managed, and his hips jerked sharply as Matt's fingers slipped inside, a sensation as familiar and comforting as it was thrilling and teasing. "Admiral."

"Your Excellency." Matt's slick fingers worked in deeply, stretching Valarian carefully and slowly, until it was impossible for him to hold back the soft, desperate noises that tore their way free from his throat. The fingers withdrew a moment after, and Matt's next instruction was nearly swallowed by the keening sounds Valerian made at their loss. "Sit down. Slowly."

"Slowly like getting the Hyperion to turn," Valerian muttered, but let Matt guide him back, and groaned as the head of Matt's cock, firm and damp against his entrance, pushed in, guided by Matt's hands, and his own rapidly unraveling self-restraint. "Matt..."

"Easy thrusters," Matt murmured, and then laughed softly at the face Valerian made. "Oh, come on, you had to have seen that coming."

"I'll tell you what you'll see if you don't--" Valerian began, and the rest was lost in his groan. Fully hilted inside the new Emperor of the Dominion, Admiral Matthew Horner of the Dominion Armed and Naval Forces began to move, wrapping the slick fingers of his other hand around Valerian's length, letting him thrust into it with short, desperate movements as Matt moved within him, letting the hand on Valerian's hip guide them both.

The coat, open and flaring, rattled with each movements, the medals clinking against one another as he rode Matt hard, groaning with each deep thrust. His hair, already unbound, clung damply to the sweat on his brow and cheeks. He watched himself in the mirror, vision blurring in and out as Matt worked behind him, and Matt's hand left his hip, coming around to hold his waist.

"Matt... god..." he gasped out, arching against his embrace. Matt's fingers brushed against the tip of his cock, feeling the beading precome and spreading it along the head.

"You... you scoundrel..." He felt himself tense, and knew in an instant, he was going to need to change something. Perhaps shoes, perhaps the shirt. At least the jacket should be safe, but it wouldn't be a time with Matt if I weren't worried someone would notice I'm hiding stains... "You outlaw."

"Hey," Matt said breathlessly, and his arms shifted. Valerian caught a brief glimpse of his legs bracing against the floor. "Once a Raider..."

"Always a Rai--" Matt thrust up sharply, and sensation and pleasure exploded inside Valerian, sending warm, pulsing pleasure over Matt's hand, and spattering onto his knees, Matt's knees, his shoes, and a few small drops onto the mirror.

"Valerian..." Matt breathed, his hips moving slower as they rode the wave down. Sticky, wet fingers and warm arms enfolded Valerian in an embrace as Matt pulled him back into a hug. "I love you."

"I love you too," Valerian murmured. It would be a mistake, later, not to move, but if they had over an hour to be ready, he could afford to be a little indulgent. He gave his reflection a lazy, triumphant smile, and let his eyes drift shut. He had time for a little post-coital nap.

Today will be a day of celebrating what we have gained, not what we have lost.

"Your Excellency!" The sharp knock on the door, urgent and insistent, startled Valerian from his resting place. "Your Excellency, your speech is scheduled to begin in fifteen minutes! The UNN needs time to check their camera angles!"

"We'll be along presently," Valerian called back. "I can find my way to the press room."

"We await you, Emperor Mengsk." The voice sounded distressed and annoyed, but Valerian could hear steps fading from behind the door. He sighed with relief, and untangled himself from Matt's grasp, wincing slightly.

Definitely, I should have moved, but I didn't think I'd fall asleep for an hour, Valerian thought absently, stretching up. He touched the slickness on his stomach with wonder. Wait.. it shouldn't still be damp. "Matt, love... how long was I asleep?"

"According to my knees, about ten minutes," Matt said, and Valerian turned sharply to see him grinning. "Better hurry, otherwise you'll be late."

"You lied to me," Valerian said, his voice mild. "You didn't push the speech back."

"Technically, I didn't," Matt replied, standing and shuffling around the room, trousers still around his ankles. "The speech's time was pushed back to this time, not pushed back further. Something about reaching more demographics."

"We have fifteen minutes to be presentable and in front of cameras!" Valerian's voice rose a fraction with sharpness. "We're going to be late."

"I've seen you haul ass to get dressed for battle alerts," Matt pointed out. "Unless you've gotten soft." His gaze drifted down, between his legs. Valerian flushed.

"We're going to ruin these clothes."

"You're the Emperor of the Terran Dominion, you can afford it," Matt said, and smiled at him. "Happy anniversary."

"...happy anniversary, Matt."

Twelve minutes and forty-five seconds later, Emperor Valerian Mengsk, first of his name, appeared before the people of the Terran Dominion, and those who witnessed his speech in person noticed how proud and pleased of his people he was, flush with joy.

It was only a shame that, today of all days, the sky was overcast and gloomy, hinting at rain. It would, as one might say, put a damper on the festivities.

"Today, three years ago, we mark the death of Arcturus Mengsk , first Emperor of the Dominion, and the death of the old, oppressive Dominion, built on the back of a corrupt Confederacy. We have spent three years rebuilding our lives, our sector, our home. We have suffered setbacks, betrayal, heartbreak. We have suffered, and I have suffered with you. I lost not just my mother to the cancer that stole her strength away, but my father, a man that taught me who I wanted to be as a person, as a leader, and who I didn't want to be.

"Every day, we sweep away the foundations of the old order, founded on hate, on deception, on propaganda from a silver tongue and a heart of arsenic. Every day, we build friendships, relationships, camaraderie. We mend old wounds and set aside old hatreds. We need not look to the skies with fear of the alien, or the uncertainty of the unknown. Our allies, the Daelam Protoss and the Charian Zerg, are watching over us, as we will watch over them.

"No longer are we faced with an eternity of darkness and despair. Dawn has come, and with its rising do we call out... praise the sun."

I don't know where you are now, Sarah Kerrigan, but if you can hear this, hear me... thank you. Thank you for all you've done and all you've sacrificed. I--

As Valerian spoke, a gap opened in the looming clouds. Rays of light, unhidden by darkness, shone down, striking a half-dozen places in the great square, the last of these directly over Valerian, illuminating him, catching the dark gold of his hair and the storm-cloud grey of his eyes in full glory.

Almost as one, the crowd gasped, and began to applaud. Valerian held up his hands, acknowledging their joy, and wondered if it possibly could have been a coincidence.

"We're still a projected two years out from your requested modifications to HQ," Nash continued. "With an end to the wars... mercenaries and pirates are going to be who they come after next. We need to plan our next move."

"Jerrick, do you think I've lost my touch?" Mira asked, her voice not quite forming a purr, but a silky-smooth wind that wafted over others while she spoke. Most men were charmed by her, and no few women, and she indulged in both when she could. Even James Raynor had been charmed by her, mostly. Only Matthew Horner, the man she'd tricked into marrying her thanks to a very high grade of alcohol and an easily thrown hand of poker, had resisted her entirely. Perhaps, that was a sign in and of itself. Or perhaps I need to interact with more gay men.

"No, ma'am," Jerrick said, though there was a quaver to his voice. "Just your focus. We've been doing this for years now, before we thought it was possible for this war to end at all, much less end the way it did. "We want... we want to know what to do."

"The war is over here," Mira replied, and turned from the screens as they moved to discussions about the parade. "It is over in Augustgrad, and perhaps even on Char and Aiur, but it will not be over in other places. How many worlds have no idea how close they came to annihilation? How many Earthlings? How many aliens? Prosperity will be good for us once we let it settle. Let them get comfortable... domestic. We mustn't distract them in case the UED returns. In case we encounter other aliens to test us. We're mercenaries, my dear Jerrick. We go where the money is."

"Ma'am," Jerrick said, and snapped off a salute. Mira looked him over, lips curving into a smile, tugging at the scars along her cheek.

He reminds me of Matthew so much. So upright, so stiff. I would like to strip that control away, mold him to my needs... hm. I never succeeded with Matthew because he had no interest in me, but Jerrick, on the other hand.

"Ma'am?" Jerrick asked. "Is everything alright?"

"Oh, yes," Mira said, and rose, pushing the papers on her desk away, crumpling them into a corner. "Today is a day of celebration. Tell me, Jerrick... how do you feel about poker? I feel a desire to gamble with the future."

"What about Malaka, Alarak?" Artanis demanded. his fingers closing into fists. "What about me?"

Standing at the threshold, Alarak paused.

"This strikes me as being a stunningly bad idea," Alarak said, folding his arms over his torso. Without his armour -- black as night with gems red as terazzine -- he felt uncomfortably close to vulnerable. A Tal'darim knew where they were in the chain, above and below, but things had changed from the time when Mal'ash had been Highlord. People had challenged outside of the pit, and if you weren't caught...

"I believe it's an excellent idea," Artanis said, and Alarak eyed him. Unlike himself, the young Hierarch looked perfectly comfortable wearing a white robe made of starsatin and picked out with gold thread. He padded across the room, and offered a hand to Alarak. "It will promote unity within the Daelam, and show that we are not so different after all."

"Hope," Alarak noted, "springs eternal." He let Artanis take his hand and lead him to the circle. Vorazun glanced up at him, and snorted as he sat down, tugging his night black robes into a more comfortable fit around his legs.

Artanis sat across from him, with Selendis sitting at his right, and Rohana at his left. Next to the former Preserver sat Karax, looking nervous and awkward away from his array of mechanical arms, and the templar woman touched his arm, comforting. Next to Karax sat Vorazun, then Alarak himself, sitting next to Selendis.

A star with six points. Two interlocking triangles. Dawn, dusk, and the dark black of endless night. There isn't room for Talandar here, even if he could participate in this little exercise.

"Thank you all for coming," Artanis said, nodding to each participant in turn. "As you know, some things are still perilous and unbalanced on Aiur, even now. We have lost so many, watched generations of protoss die to this war. We must do something, anything, to shift that balance back in our favour."

"This will be my first occasion," Karax said, awkwardly. "I have never..."

"If my mother's advice is any indication, it's as easy as falling off a scaffold, phase-smith," Vorazun said, her green eyes bright with amusement. "And if nothing else, you have plenty of chances to get things right."

Karax ducked his head, embarrassed, and Rohana took his hand in hers, and gave the Nerazim a dark look. Vorazun merely twinkled in her direction. In a ripple of motion, each protoss took the hands of those next to them, creating a circle. Selendis made a disapproving sound when Alarak reached for her hand, but took it, and Vorazun took his other hand.

Even without the Khala, a ripple of connection and familiarity went through them, like dropping a rock into a pond. Alarak knew all of them. He knew the look on Rohana's face when she was searching for a past she could not find. He knew that when he was working on a project, Karax's large fingers worked with dexterity and care. Vorazun's hands shook when she activated her dual-bladed staff, owing to the effort of walking in her mother's footsteps without being overshadowed by her memory. He knew when Selendis was remembering her time as Amon's slave because of the haunted look that would narrow her blue eyes to mere pinpricks.

From across the circle, Artanis nodded to him.

Oh yes, and I know our Hierarch very well. Alarak contemplated the warmth of feeling that suffused him, as though it was a delicious morsel. "We should get this over with."

"Always the romantic," Selendis muttered, and looked to Artanis. "You should start."

From the touch, Alarak felt emotion sweep through Selendis. She loved Artanis with a fierceness that he almost envied, and a vulnerability that made him itch for a knife. He could feel Vorazun's amusement like a lurking beast, and wished they did not have to have skin to skin contact. This is why he wore armour, around his vulnerable skin, around his jagged emotions and thrumming heart.

The disc they sat around was ornate, carved with countless white triangles, and the soft gold of a summer's sun over Aiur. On Slayn, the disc was black and etched with red. On Shakuras, bronze and green. Cybros itself had been the shape of a disc, the shape of creation, the shape of the universe as it expanded. The shape of life itself.

A protoss drank in starlight and spoke mind to mind. The Templar had once been connected by the Khala, and one by one, they had dropped from it, from Amon's chosen to Rohana herself, but connection remained. Connection always remained. Through skin. Through touch. As he spoke, Artanis' voice went through them like a wave.

"All new life comes from old," Artanis began. "The future is rooted in the present, which comes from the path. We joined together, these six minds--"

"Rohana, of the Daelam." No place for titles here, or old allegiances. Only new. No past, only future.

"Karax, of the Daelam."

"Vorazun, of the Daelam."

His turn now. His grip shifted briefly, and Vorazun pinched him. "Alarak, of the Daelam."

"Selendis, of the Daelam."

"Artanis, of the Daelam," the Hierarch finished. "Six minds and six souls, joined together as one to create new life. Let it begin."

Alarak had been witness to the births of others, other lives, other souls, but never before had he participated. Vorazun, amused at sitting between not one inexperienced male, but two, squeezed his hand. As easy as falling off a scaffold, she'd said. What if one does not let themselves fall easily?

What, don't you trust us?  Vorazun asked of him privately. We'll catch you if you fall too far.

Alarak said nothing, merely watched as Artanis divested of himself into the disk. A portion of the triangles lit up with blue light. Next, Rohana, and more illuminated, then Karax. Vorazun's light was green, rather than blue, but strong, nearly overwhelming the others. Then, it was his turn. His palms felt damp, as though dipped in water, or blood.

We will catch you if you fall, sounded in his mind. Not Vorazun. He didn't dare look up, but he did close his eyes. He didn't want to see the red light that would pulse its way across the other patterns. Didn't want to see it overwhelm, consume. His eyes were still closed when Selendis added her essence to the mix, and the disc was bright with colour.

The disc pulled from them, taking psychic power and physical strength. In the earliest days, the disc had not been metal. They had been wood and stone and grass. There was less formality, and it was said that the first of such joinings had been made out of desperation, of fear and need, rather than ceremony and diplomacy. Alarak's fingers tightened.

There was no reason this had to be done with six. So long as the number was even, and the disc was big enough, they could do this with as many or as few as necessary. Two or four or a dozen. Instead, they were six. Instead, they were--

"Well, look at that. It seems you aren't incompetent after all." Vorazun, again. This close, he felt the weight of not five minds, but eight. His eyes opened. The circle broke as hands reached towards the disc, and he looked down.

Three children lay on the inert disc, exposed to the stars above, small arms and legs flailing as they learned to move. Vorazun picked up one, a girl from the shape of her face and the structure of her tiny ribs. Her eyes were bright green, and her skin a shade paler than the dusky twilight of the Nerazim but darker than the Templar.

"Zeragal," Vorazun declared, stroking her fingers along her nerve cords that seemed so small and new. "Twilight Hunter."

Artanis picked up the second, this one a boy, bigger than the others, sturdier and the same shade of dusky pale as the first. His eyes were blue and bright, and when he was within his limited ability to reach for his father, soft, short nails scrabbled against starsatin robes. The templar's expression was one of unabashed joy, and he stroked the child's cheek with tenderness and care. "Feladar," he whispered. "Star Seeker."

The third child stared at Alarak, unmoving but watching. At first, Alarak was afraid to move, a sensation that shamed him even as he acknowledged it. What if she is ill? What if I brought sickness to this council? This meetings of minds. Because I dared to step outside the counsel of my own mind--

A voice sounded from the child. Nothing concrete, nothing like words, but there was sensation, feeling. Demand. Alarak picked the girl up, studying her features. Her hue matched that of her siblings, though her eyes were nether blue nor green, and not the blood red of Amon's chosen. Instead, they were pale pink, bright with intelligence and clear of calculation or malice.

That will change , Alarak realized. The ways of the Tal'darim are not meant for those without ambition. They die early on the chain, and then they are forgotten. His fingers ended in claws. He couldn't touch her with them. Not without risking splitting her skin open. She gripped at one of his fingers, holding onto it tightly. Armour. He couldn't wear his armour while holding her. He would have to remain open, remain... vulnerable.

"Alarak?" Artanis asked. "What will you name her?"

"Malaka," Alarak said, almost without thought. "The breaker of chains."

"Malaka will be remaining here, with you," Alarak said. "I expect you to treat her as well as Feladar and Zeragal. They should not be separated, not so young. She will have plenty of parents to care for her."

"What of the rest of the Tal'darim?" Artanis demanded. "What will you do with them?"

"We will find another world in protoss space to call our own. Not Slayn. Not with the stink of terazzine lying about so heavily. The Tal'darim do not belong on Aiur. The chain does not belong on Aiur. We will be allies, Artanis, not subjects, and not enemies. Let it go."

"I challenge you." Alarak turned, and without thought, his hands came up. "I challenge you for leadership of the--"

"Don't be a fool!" Alarak cried, and advanced on him three steps. "Do you think you can beat me in combat and force me to submit? To come to heel like a good little subject? If you challenge me, we will have to kill one another! One of us will die, and then the other will." Vividly, he imagined the light in Artanis' eyes going out, and then the feeling of his own claw blade stabbing into his heart, dissolving as one. He shoved it back, hating his vulnerability. Hating that he had ever taken off his armour. Hate made him stronger, but more hollow. "If there are Tal'darim that wish to stay, they can make that decision, once, to stay or to follow me."

Artanis stared at him, hands flexing, eyes bright with anger. Alarak glared back until Artanis, one who had even entertained fighting him, turned away, showing him his back and the severed, capped nerve cords that had taken him from Amon and the Khala both.

Goodbye, Artanis. Alarak turned away, and once again stood in the threshold when he heard a voice.

"Papa Artanis?" She had been the first to learn to speak, the first to walk, and he could hear her pattering feet on the glass and gold floors. "Where's Papa Alarak going?"

 Not wanting to hear Artanis' answer, even through psychic connection, Alarak left.

Most of the Tal'darim left. Most, but not all. Those that remained let many of their traditions leave with Alarak and the Deathfleet: the chain, the Breath, the aggression. They integrated with the others, still bloody-minded, still blunt.

Every remaining Tal'darim, no matter how old or young, recognized Malaka as their Highlord, and through her, Artanis, as Hierarch.

Every Nerazim, every Templar, recognized Artanis.

The Templar were the dawn, golden and pale, rising at the start of a new day.

The Purifiers were the noon, hot and bright, illuminating all and leaving no darkness.

The Nerazim were the dusk, cool and fleeting, walking the shadows so they never threatened the night.

The Tal'darim were the night, black and burning, the darkest before dawn rose once more.

They were the Twilight Council, dawn and dusk, noon and night.

For Aiur.

"Commander, everything is ready for your flight." Standing next to the graceful, deadly Phoenix, Commander Malaka wore a black flight suit, edged in a pink that matched her eyes. She ran her fingers over the side of her fighter, and adjusted her helmet one last time. Next to her stood one of the phase-smiths, his eyes bright blue and his hands wrapped around each other anxiously. "Are you certain--"

"I am entirely certain, Shakash. Did Feladar send you?" Malaka's voice pitched stern. "He worries too much."

"No, Sister. I came myself instead." Born of the same joining of minds and power, Feladar was larger than the rest of his siblings, but rather than becoming a Templar or an Adept, as two of his parents were, he had followed Papa Karax's path. He was a foot taller than Zeragal, which irked her, and four inches taller than Malaka, which she took with grace since the first time she knocked him over in a duel and sat on him. "I don't think you should do this."

"Your input is acknowledged," Malaka replied crisply. "But I have made this decision. I expect you to abide by it."

"...what if I told the twins?"

Malaka clenched her gloved hands into fists. While she, Feladar, and Zeragal were the oldest children of the Council, they were by far not the only ones. Mama Selendis and Papa Artanis had had a daughter, a few solar cycles after they had come into the world, and a few years after that, Papa Karax and Mama Rohana had had twin boys, almost unheard of with only two joined. Mama Vorazun had only one child, claiming she had more than enough to do with the other children.

Their eyes were all blue, and Zeragal's green. No one, not even among the other Tal'darim, had pink eyes like hers.

"You can tell anyone you want, but my Wing is leaving on a scouting mission in two hours. I need to be in pre-flight in ten minutes. The time to argue is not now, Brother. I have made my decision, abide by it."

"Anyone could be on that planet, Mala." Feladar's eyes grew wide, and pleading. "Anyone. Pirates, thieves, mercenaries... you could die."

"Do you think so little of me?" she demanded. "Just because you're a coward, doesn't mean I am." She turned and levitated herself into her ship, psychic energy humming against her skin. "Goodbye."

Inside the cockpit of her fighter, she didn't need to see the hurt look on her brother's face, and the pre-flight check prevented her from thinking of her parents' sorrow.

Is there no end to it? Alarak thought, and anger at his weariness brought the second and third blows to his challenger. "Enough. You are defeated. Descend the chain."

Karass bowed and retreated to the sorcerers who scolded her even as they remarked on the scars she would bear. Karass had been close, closer than the first dozen challengers. All the way down the chain, there had been challenges. Movement. The ebb and flow like the oceans of Sharath, the new home of the Tal'darim.

The world was constantly assaulted by storms, and when it wasn't raining, the air was thick with humidity. Sunlight refracted from water, making difficult to sustain themselves. Those that survived, and there were those who did survive, were fearsome. Those that did not were laid to rest along the coastline, their last possessions swept away by the tide.

It had taken a few years to find an appropriate world, a place where the protoss would never bother colonizing, not when the Koprulu Sector was bursting with beautiful, sun-drenched worlds. Aiur was only the crown jewel in the diadem controlled by the Daelam, and occasionally, the youngest of the Tal'darim joked about how easy their cousins had it.

Alarak reminded them often about the price of the reborn protoss empire.

What has come over people?  Alarak wondered. Why so many challenges? Why now, of all times?

The Tal'darim had not been prepared to live on Aiur. They were not prepared to give up the battle for dominance, but Alarak had instituted changes. No longer did every challenge end in death. No longer did the chain shatter and become reforged. Instead, warriors could shift up and down the chain, learning from their mistakes and committed to not making new ones. Battling their new home gave them little time to fall to corruption or ruin.

They had survived here, and if they had not exploded in population like the Daelam, then they had not dwindled to nothingness. They had not sacrificed themselves for an evil god that cared nothing for them.

Somewhere out there, Sarah Kerrigan is looking out for us, wearing nothing but divine glow. I can think of worse gods. I have met them.

"Highlord Alarak of the Tal'darim." The voice, with an accent that was alien and yet familiar at once, drew his attention back to the present moment. It was a woman's voice, strong as it sounded within his mind, and demanding, insistent. He turned and saw a warrior wearing black, edged in pink, her features entirely obscured by a helmet. "I challenge you."

Alarak almost said no. He almost said he was tired of disputing with foolish children -- and this woman was young, perhaps a fraction of his age -- but for all he had changed about the Tal'darim, he had not changed them that much. "Very well. Draw your blades, we will fight here."

"No pit?" the woman asked, and she might have been glancing around, behind the helmet. "How will we determine the winner?"

"We fight to three blows," Alarak said, and his voice buzzed with disapproval. "We have not fought the death challenges in full solar sweeps. As you should know."

"No," the woman said, igniting her blades. "I don't know at all."

Alarak watched her warily, igniting his own kine blades. His were the throbbing red of the Tal'darim, but hers were paler, more a pink than a red. Memory itched at him, memories of regret, sorrow, and pride. They circled one another, watching. He didn't know this warrior, he realized. He didn't know her name or where she sat on the chain. The way she would fight.

The woman leaped at him, her blades sizzling close as he dodged her first and second attack. He struck back, kicking at her thigh. She spun, striking again, and again. Their blades met, sizzling as rain misted down. If she was a stranger to him, she could have been a stranger to this world. She would not--

Her foot lashed out, kicking him in the calf, causing him to slide in the mud. He couldn't block the first strike that cut him across the arm, nor the second across the thigh. He dug his heel into the mud and flung himself at her. He was exhausted, and had too little sun. The rain began to pour now, water gushing from the storm clouds like blood from a wound.

Wounds like his own. Wounds that made him slow.

They exchanged half a dozen strikes before she tripped him and, faster than he thought possible, she was kneeling on his chest, blade at his throat.

"Submit," she said, the psychic voice in his mind demanding and insistent. "You have fallen, Highlord."

"I have fallen," Alarak said, letting his arms go limp, his kine blades disappearing. "I submit."

"Do you still kill those that lose here?" the woman demanded. "Do you still kick people into a pit?"

"No," Alarak said. "Those who lose fall down the chain. Though, if you choose, you can kill me anyway. You did win."

The woman was silent, and her weight shifted to press him down. He said nothing, though his ribs creaked. Slowly, she dismissed her kine blades though she did not move. Instead, she seemed to watch him, study him behind her helm. Finally, long after he'd assumed she was going to kill him slowly instead of quickly, she spoke. "Why?"

"Why, what?" Alarak asked, waspishly. "Why don't we kill people? Why are we laying about in the rain?"

"Why?" the woman asked, her voice shaking his mind with the force of her emotion. "Why did you leave me behind?"

It can't be... he would never have let her leave. Alarak scrabbled at the mud, his fingers sinking into it. "Malaka?"

In one motion, the woman pulled her helmet from her, revealing features too dark to be proper Tal'darim, and too pale to be Nerazim. Instead of Templar blue, or Nerazim green, her eyes were pale pink, unlike anything the Tal'darim had. Her brow was high, tattooed with the crest of a phoenix. This close, he could feel the anger in her mind, the hurt, the thrill of victory and relief.

"Papa," she said, and shifted off of him, offering him her hand. "I'm here to break the chain."

Dahaka had not been pleased. Dahaka had left. She had let him go. He was not of the Swarm, for all he was Zerg. The Brood Queens had questioned, demanded, challenged. Learning as she had from Kerrigan, she sent them to retake worlds around Char, but retreat from others.

She had learned to negotiate with the humans and the protoss. The humans would leave them be if they did not push onto their worlds. The protoss would leave them be if they did not push onto Aiur or their other colony worlds. The Zerg spores on their worlds had sung to her until one by one, their voices died out and became as nothing.

Perhaps the humans and protoss had found them. Perhaps it was something else, some other force.

She would never know for certain. It was not her business to know. She was tasked with leading the Swarm.

Voices. So many voices. All demanded her attention. She had been a Brood Queen, so she had believed she knew how to manage the voices. Most lesser Zerg barely spoke, barely understood beyond hunger. Only the greatest of Zerg, her fellow Queens, and some small few others could understand more than hunger and the moment.

Perhaps she shouldn't have let Dahaka leave.

"My Queen," Abathur said, gesturing with his tiny hands. They were always busy, even with nothing in front of him to work on. "A suggestion."

"Abathur," Zagara hissed. "Go ahead."

"Attention divided. Many tasks. Demand your attention. Too much for you."

"I was chosen," Zagara said, bristling. "I am Queen."

"Correct. You are Queen," Abathur said, his voice deep, flat, and without inflection. "Limited by design. Limited by biology. Spin essence sequences. Samples from Queen of Blades. Emerge as stronger whole."

"Do you seek dominance?" Zagara demanded. "Leadership of the Swarm?"

"I am a servant," Abathur replied. "A weaver of sequences and a spinner of potential. Not a leader. Not a queen. The Swarm requires a strong leader. Descent into anarchy inevitable."

"Very well," Zagara said. "Let us commence."

Zerg did not smile, not truly. They did not feel anything but satisfaction or hunger.

It was, therefore, disconcerting that she felt as though Abathur was smiling.

Agony. The transformation was a thing of agony, of elemental force. She could feel herself dissolved and wrought anew. Greater, stronger. Better. She could feel that Kerrigan had refused to be modified, be twisted by Abathur. She could feel he had been responsible for her first form and she hated him for it.

She felt so much. She felt everything.

It was impossible to say how long she had been in her transformative cocoon. It was impossible to say where the pain ended and she began. She could hear the other Zerg. It wasn't merely hunger that drove them. Consciously or unconsciously, she could feel the urge for growth within them. The urge to take in essence -- a word she'd hoped not to hear or think after Dahaka's absence -- and change.

You must change too, Abathur murmured in her mind as she writhed. You changed when Kerrigan taught you vision. You changed because we are no longer a mindless swarm. We are no longer the beast with a million mouths that requires meat. We are a thinking, living organism with as many heads as you can safely control... and trust me when I say, I have no intention of returning to being a beast.

In times past, the chrysalis Abathur spun needed protecting. Too often had change come on a battlefield, out of desperation. Now, deep in the heart of Char, there was nothing external to threaten the Zerg or the change. Internally, however...

I must not lose control, Zagara thought. I must not let the Zerg splinter. Each Queen must obey me, not simply out of fear, or a desire for violence, but because I have vision.

To have vision was to have a plan. To have a plan was to know that the future was coming and that she needed to be ready for it, whatever it might hold. In the past, the Zerg's purpose had been to serve the Overmind, tool of Amon. To bind the pure of form with the pure of essence. Now, with Amon dead, the xel'naga slain to the last, and Kerrigan as a being that was neither human nor zerg, xel'naga nor mortal, that purpose had come to an end.

We are Zerg. We evolve. We change. We grow. So too does our purpose, Zagara thought, twisting within as new limbs formed and grew and old ones died. The humans are rebuilding their empire in the hopes of finding prosperity and peace. We must build our own empire. We do not need overwhelming numbers, not any longer. We need few, but powerful ones, guardians of our worlds... leviathans to travel between stars. Behemoths to protect the hives. Cunning ones, more than just things that consume and fight and die.

Flailing out, the chrysalis strained, shook, and broke under Zagara's assault. A new limb pierced the surprisingly fragile shell, and Zagara ripped and pushed her way free. She was large, larger than before, in both body and mind. She could hear the voices of the Zerg, but there was room for her own mind. She sorted out the various presences of Queens and drones while she resettled on her new limbs.

The wide 'skirt' of her form was gone, and instead she had four legs, each flexible and capable of bending or straightening with ease. Her torso was thicker now, but incapable of creating more larvae. Instead, she was meant to bear more punishment, to fight face to face instead of shooting darts from a now non-existent tail. She had four arms, small, but clever and dexterous, meant to handle things, objects and zerglings and things.

I have thumbs, intriguing, Zagara thought, flexing her new hands, not quite claws but not as a human's either. And I do not have ridiculous spike-feet either. Abathur does good work. She looked around, her eyes seeing and her mind processing billions of colours in subtle and overt shades. Abathur!

"I am here, my Queen," the gene-spinner said, coming forward. With new eyes, she could see he was pleased with his work, but cautious not to show it, lest he be chastised. "How do you feel?"

"Powerful," Zagara said. "New. I have plans, Abathur, and you will help me. You and the Queens."

Abathur's filiform mouthparts quivered with excitement. "I am pleased to hear it, Queen Zagara."

"If Kerrigan was the Queen of Blades, I must have a new name, something to suit myself." Zagara considered. "I am the Empress of Change."

Abathur didn't bother to hide the fact that he was extremely pleased this time, and bowed his head in submission and acknowledgment. "Empress."

Have you come to gloat?

I've come to say goodnight, you son of a bitch.

Alexei Stukov, formerly of Earth, stared up at the stars and tried to find his own. The Sol system was distant, or so it seemed. He missed his home, and he missed being human. He missed having two hands made of skin and bone, not chitin, and a voice that didn't echo with the will of the Overmind.

It was not as though vengeance had left him cold, merely that in a place that had found peace, there was so little to do for a man who had lived his life at war.

Stukov closed his eyes, and remembered.

The lake was icy cold, even at the height of summer. It filled with run off from the mountains in far western Russia, so it was only barely above snow. He went swimming twice a day, at dawn and then at dusk, and his sister Natalia claimed that he would catch his death of cold.

"Cold, my sister, is death for other people. Not for me."

What was it like to be cold? Or warm? He felt so little.

He climbed from the lake, shivering badly and laughing about it a little. This was not where he lived. He lived in Moscau, in the military section near the starport. They needed him so often when he was not on duty that he joked that he might as well sleep in his office, but his assistant looked scandalized, so he agreed to an apartment he was rarely in for long.

When he was on leave, he got out of Moscau as fast as he could, fleeing to the Chechen border and the cottage his family had raised him and his sister in until he'd joined the army at seventeen and not spoken to them for a decade.

He had never told his sister about the cold. She didn't speak to him, she'd moved to America and was now yelling at people in a high rise office somewhere in St. Louis.

He retrieve his towel and patted his face, then wrapped it around himself as he walked to the cottage. He was utterly alone, here. Not so much as a dog. He didn't have time. He never had time for anything other than work. He sighed, into the towel, as the numbness began to wear off, though his skin was still bright red -- orange -- from the cold.

There was a woman standing on the porch.

Vice-Admiral Stukov? Admiral DuGalle wants to speak to you.

The woman had red hair that gleamed in the rising sun, and wore white. Her suit was so tight that it was like a second skin, and Stukov took a moment to admire her before approaching. She was smiling -- smirking -- and her green eyes twinkled with amusement. "Last time someone thought that about me, I called them a pig."

"Was I that obvious, or are you reading my mind?" The woman spoke english, and he answered her in kind.

"A little from column A, a little from column B." She smiled a little more, and he suspected she was American. "Do you know where you are, Alexei?"

"Of course--"

"No. Where you really are."

Am I not even allowed to daydream now? Must I be forced to confront the truth even when I close my eyes?     

Stukov opened his eyes, and found himself in a place he did not expect. He was not on Char, staring up at the sky. He was not in Russia, swimming in a lake that was too cold. Instead, he was in a field, endlessly green, with a blue sky above and little puffy clouds that wandered their way across it. "Kerrigan?"

"In the flesh... so to speak." The woman who had been, and always would be, Sarah Kerrigan, stepped forward, the sunlight igniting her hair until it burned with the strength of a universe full of suns. "I want to talk."

"You are a god, Kerrigan. You can do whatever you like."

"That's not how it works," Kerrigan said, shaking her head. "At least, it's not how I choose to be. The xel'naga imposed all kinds of restrictions on themselves, believing that it is difficult to be all-powerful and moral at the same time. So they retreated, only doing what they had to for survival. I can't exactly follow their example, but I can try."     

"And not exactly includes house calls?" Stukov clenched the fingers of one hand twisted by Zerg creep and relaxed. "What brings you here? Or me here, in this case." He gestured around him with his better hand.

"I've been repairing the Sector," Kerrigan began, and she began to walk, the green grass weaving around her legs. Stukov followed, and for a wonder, the grass didn't wilt behind him. It only ignored him. "There was so much damage done, by the war, by Mengsk. I can't -- won't -- repopulate worlds with sentient beings, but there will be new things living on old worlds. If we wait long enough..."

"But not in my lifetime, or those of our protoss friends. Perhaps only in yours, eh?"

"Perhaps," Kerrigan agreed. "Things are going well for the humans, from what I've seen. Valerian is making inroads. He'll be a good Emperor, unlike his father. Perhaps some day, they won't need Emperors any more, but for now, they need guidance. Artanis and the Daelam are also doing well. They rebuild quickly."

"Their trouble has always been unity, as those of the humans has been," Stukov said. "The Zerg don't have quite the same problem. Not entirely." His monstrous hand closed into a fist again.

"Zagara is happy," Kerrigan said. "Abathur is happy. Izsha is a little lonely, but mostly happy. I might do something for her next, but I wanted to go to you, and the other infested Terrans."

"Me personally? I'm flattered, of course. I assume you aren't about to ask a stupid question."

"No. I know you aren't happy." Kerrigan stopped, and turned to him. He sucked in a breath. In green eyes, he could see the weight of the cosmos. In red hair, he could seen the golden, red, brown and white burn of suns. "But I can't make the decision by myself. I needed to speak to you."

"What is it that you're offering?"

"Transformation." Kerrigan gestured to him. "I can push your form towards proper Zerg, or I can rescind it so you return to humanity. I can end your life, if I must, but I don't believe you want that. Otherwise you wouldn't be staring up at me sadly, longing for something different."

"I wasn't--" I was staring up at the sky full of stars, which I suppose... "You're correct. I wish to be different then this half-human abomination. I would prefer to be fully human."

"I thought you might," Kerrigan said, and began to walk again. "Do you want to go home? To your cottage or Moscow or Earth?"

Stukov considered. "Earth believes me dead. If I return, I would have to tell them what's happened. It could delay them, but it could also call the UED to Koprulu in force. I will not do that, not to you. I would like, I think, to go to one of your new worlds. To walk in the grass and look up at the sky. Perhaps then I will find my own path."

Sarah Kerrigan, once the Queen of Blades, once one of the Sons of Korhal, once a Ghost of the Terran Confederacy, once a frightened girl with powers she didn't understand, nodded. "Then walk, Alexei Stukov. Walk and keep walking. You'll find your way."

Stukov saluted her sharply, and when she stopped walking, he continued, wading through grass that became harder and harder to walk through until it clung to his legs. He reached down, pushing the grass away and blades of green wrapped around his arms. He tugged hard, and found his hands, human and monster alike, cut open and bleeding.

This isn't funny, Kerrigan, Stukov thought, struggling and swearing. This isn't funny at all.

The grass was growing at a rapid pace, wrapping itself all around him. Over his torso and around his shoulders, and soon it would cover all of him. He opened his mouth and--

"Proximity sensors, alert. Planetfall in fifteen minutes. Please secure yourself." The Adjutant's voice was that of a woman, too robotic to be real, and soothing in a way that drove people mad when they wanted someone to be just as frightened as they were. Alexei Stukov jerked to wakefulness and wiped his mouth with one hand.

Just a dream, he thought, sitting up in the pilot's chair of his small vessel. Hands, one, two, moved as fingers, one through ten, flicked various switches. He secured himself in a seat that seemed overly large, even to him.

Expeditionary vessels, even small ones, had all one needed to survive on a new planet. If it was too cold, it would keep him warm. If too hot, it would keep him cool. On any planet, so long as it had life, it would process that organic matter into food he could eat, or if he could manage something as advanced as hunting or gardening, make himself real meals. The equipment was ludicrously expensive and restricted to scientists.

And here I have the best of the best, Stukov mused. Someone up there must really love me.

Looking down through the clouds as the vessel tipped towards the planet, he doubted he would need some of the more advanced functions. It was a beautiful world, with blue oceans and green landmasses. There were mountains and deserts and forests. Stukov programmed in the last of the flight path that would take him to the best landing site he'd scanned in orbit.

I wonder what lives here? If I am alone, it will be a one-man's paradise.

One man. Alone. Looking up at the stars. All of a sudden, he remembered. He remembered everything. He remembered his sister. He remembered the cottage. He remembered the UED. He remembered Sarah Kerrigan.

Suddenly, he began to laugh.

End