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Chapter 617: “Heh… Easy, Little Jimmy.”
🕑 Added 2025-06-08 23:56:32 +0000 UTCLeon keenly caught the fleeting hesitation in Jim Raynor’s eyes.
The ranger commander’s gaze kept shifting between the holographic projection and the view outside, but neither Leon nor Mike showed any sign of impatience.
They had seen far too many warriors caught between the gears of war. This sort of wavering was merely the lingering echo of survival instinct.
“Perhaps we can approach this differently.”
Leon retracted the hologram. His tone was as calm as if he were discussing the usual dust storms on Mar Sara, not a potential alliance that could reshape the balance of the entire sector.
“Let’s start by joining forces to clean up the remaining Terran Dominion forces on Mar Sara—and jointly establish an evacuation corridor for civilians.” He pointed outside. “Your Raiders, plus me, Mike, and the squad of giants outside.”
Mike immediately caught on and added, “Think of it as a trial run? See if we’re actually the same kind of bastards as Mengsk.”
Raynor stared at the two for a few seconds—
“Haha!”
He suddenly burst into laughter and pulled a crumpled cigar from his pocket.
The click of the old-fashioned lighter cut through the silence. The orange flame lit the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, and the bitter scent of burning tobacco mingled with the lingering aroma of whiskey.
“Phew~!”
A silver-gray smoke ring drifted from his lips, forming a halo above his head.
“Alright then, cowboys.” The Ranger commander braced himself on the table and stood up. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The three stepped through the shattered bar doors—and the scene before them was absurdly theatrical.
More than twenty Raiders clad in blue CMC power armor were locked in a tense standoff with six Salamanders.
The image was almost comical.
Even in full power armor, the Raiders only reached the neck or chest of the Salamanders.
A young Raider’s Gauss rifle (StarCraft model) was trembling slightly, its muzzle rising and falling with the Salamander’s breathing as it tried to track its movements.
This type of Gauss rifle was adequate for regular enemies, but penetrating Titan-grade armor with energy shields would require an almost perfect angle and sustained suppressive fire.
The Salamanders, by contrast, stood absolutely still, exuding a suffocating tension. Their .75-caliber bolters seemed casually slung at their thighs, but everyone knew these machines of death weren’t clumsy—they could enter combat mode in the blink of an eye.
“Safeties off, boys! Relax!” Raynor shouted with his cigar between his teeth, “No need to fill out death benefits today! And definitely don’t write my obituary just yet!”
With the trio’s appearance, the standoff dissolved. The hidden Raiders around Raynor lowered their weapons with visible relief.
The Salamander squad leader gave a subtle nod—a gesture of friendliness, Astartes-style.
But just as the tension began to ease, a sudden wailing siren erupted from the eastern watchtower of the town.
The rusted metal scaffolding shook with the sonic blast, scattering local vultures into the air.
“Boss!”
A Raider’s voice came over the comms, mixed with the static hiss of sand hitting armor. “An unidentified individual is approaching—alone!”
Raynor instantly swapped his cigar to his left hand, and with a twist of his wrist, drew the legendary revolver Crisis Star, pointing it toward the source of the sound. The chrome barrel gleamed coldly in the morning light.
“Another Dominion mutt, or some zerg mimic?”
His voice dropped to a chilling monotone.
“Neither. Armor paint job looks like an old Raider model, but we’re not getting a friendly IFF signal!” the Raider’s voice was filled with confusion. “Wait… he’s waving at us?”
Everyone instinctively looked toward the town’s entrance.
Through the swirling dust, a blurry figure was walking toward them at a steady pace—like a dormant beast slowly approaching.
As he drew nearer, the details of his power armor became visible.
It was a battle-worn CMC-400 series suit, its surface riddled with bullet marks and scratches, but still structurally intact. On its shoulder plate was a pin-up girl decal and a Terran Dominion prisoner’s ID number.
When the figure stopped about ten meters away, his helmet hissed open, revealing a rugged, weathered face—and a pair of sharp eyes.
He was also chewing a lit cigar. The ember glowed faintly red under the dim light inside his helmet.
“Well, well, little Jimmy,” the man grinned, “Looks like you’ve made some new friends.”
Jim Raynor’s pupils contracted slightly. His finger stayed on the hammer of his revolver—he hadn’t relaxed one bit.
“Tychus Findlay.”
Raynor spoke the name slowly, his voice a mixture of caution and something more complex. “How’d you get out of the Dominion prison? Good behavior, early release?”
The man named Tychus Findlay laughed heartily, his voice rough and booming. He spread his arms in an exaggerated surrender.
“That’s right, buddy. Model citizen, right here.”
Raynor’s lips twitched, but his gaze stayed cold.
“Tychus, cut the crap.”
Tychus let his grin fade. The smoke from his cigar curled in front of his face, making his expression hard to read.
He lowered his head slightly and glanced at Leon and Mike standing next to Raynor, then at the six silent Salamanders. A flicker of surprise passed through his eyes.
“Heh… Easy, little Jimmy,” Tychus said with rare seriousness. “When the Dominion was transferring me and a bunch of inmates, I broke open the cryo-unit, took out a few guards, and escaped. Only problem is, I couldn’t get this walking prison off my back… So I came running to my old friend.”
He paused and looked around. “Didn’t expect things here to be this messed up, Jimmy.”
Raynor didn’t respond immediately. He seemed to be gauging the truth in the man’s words.
Meanwhile, the intelligence streams in Leon and Mike’s HUDs rapidly refreshed, giving them a summary profile of the man before them.
Target Identified: Tychus Findlay.
Affiliation: Former member of the Raiders, currently a wanted fugitive.
Threat Level: High.
Notes: Reliable intel suggests the target had secret dealings with Arcturus Mengsk. His current power armor is a specialized prison suit—attempting to remove it using local human tech will trigger a lethal response. Suspected Dominion mole. Exercise extreme caution.
Tychus seemed to sense something. His gaze shifted back and forth between the two, finally settling on Leon.
“What’s the matter, pretty boy?” he grinned, yellow teeth exposed. “Never seen a fugitive before?”
Leon didn’t answer, but the Salamander squad leader subtly adjusted his stance—the muzzle of his bolter rising a fraction of an inch.
Raynor finally spoke, his voice low and firm.
“Tychus, perfect timing.” He exhaled a puff of smoke. “We’re about to clean up the last of the Dominion forces on Mar Sara—and save some civilians while we’re at it.”
Tychus raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a charity gig, Jimmy.”
“You can help, or you can leave,” Raynor said coldly. “But if you try anything—”
Tychus raised his hands again in mock surrender, but his eyes still sparkled with mischief.
“Relax, buddy. If I wanted to start trouble, I’d have shot you already.” He patted the heavy pistol at his waist. “But since you’re so eager for my company, guess I’ll stretch my legs a bit.”
Raynor stared at him for a moment, then snorted and turned to rejoin his Raiders.
Tychus remained where he was, watching Raynor walk away. Then he turned his gaze back to Leon and Mike.
“So… you two Jimmy’s new bodyguards?”
Mike quipped, “No—we’re here to make sure he doesn’t get shot in the back by any ‘old friends.’”
Tychus let out a booming laugh and slapped his chest plate. “I like that! Straight shooters—I can work with that.”
Leon stayed silent.
The wind picked up, sunlight bathing the deserted town.
A dangerous alliance had just been forged.
Leon decided he’d wait until they reached the dimensional gate with the Raiders—then expose Tychus’s role as a spy.
And since the intelligence report mentioned that Mengsk’s tech made removing the prison suit fatal with local tools, then they’d just use Imperial tech to break it open.
At that moment, Tychus was cracking jokes with the Raiders, his laughter echoing across the plaza.
But Leon noticed the supposedly casual brute always positioned himself at optimal shooting angles with each step—and beneath the smoke, those sharp eyes constantly monitored everyone’s weapon status.
Even more telling: Jim Raynor, despite his aloof demeanor, kept a precise, familiar distance from Tychus—muscle memory from years of fighting side by side.
Leon could tell Tychus Findlay was someone deeply tied to Raynor—and formidable enough to be worth recruiting into the Human Empire.
“Mount up!”
Mike’s call broke Leon’s train of thought.
The six Salamanders were the first aboard the Thunderhawk assault boat, their mag-boots echoing heavily on the metal ramp.
The Raiders split into three groups—one aboard an old armored transport, another into several modified assault vehicles, and the last group mounted four siege tanks for heavy fire support.
Tychus casually climbed into one of the assault vehicles and slapped the driver’s helmet.
“Keep it smooth, kid—I’d rather not bite my cigar in half.”
Leon gave the staging area a final scan, sent a message to the front-line base requesting evacuation support for the town, and stepped aboard the assault boat.
The hatch sealed shut, and with a bone-jarring lurch, the convoy launched in unison, speeding toward a Dominion-held residential zone two hundred kilometers away.
Before long, the settlement appeared on the horizon.
Towering alloy walls surrounded the area, topped with automated turrets and sniper nests.
Inside the compound, ten transport ships were busy “loading cargo”—or more accurately, evacuating Dominion officials, officers, and their families.
Civilian shuttles had been commandeered. The elites rushed to board with luggage and valuables, while armed Dominion soldiers kept commoners away from the spaceport.
Cries of despair and curses of rage filled the air. Anyone who dared breach the perimeter was mercilessly cut down by Gauss rifles.
Blood spread across the metal floor. No one dared move again.
Even more insulting, Dominion broadcasts continued to loop warnings:
“Attention! Mutant giants, created by rebels in collaboration with aliens, are attacking this area! All civilians, proceed to underground shelters! Repeat: these giants are bloodthirsty killers! Do not approach!”
Terror spread among the crowd. Most had no idea that the so-called “monsters” (Astartes) were here to save them.
The Thunderhawk carrying Leon, Mike, and the six Salamanders didn’t slow down. It accelerated as it neared the port.
Energy shields rippled as the assault craft smashed through the anti-air perimeter.
Shells from auto-turrets exploded in showers of sparks on the shields, failing to stop the steel behemoth.
“Prepare for hard landing.”
The pilot’s metallic voice echoed in their comms.
The landing gear hadn’t even fully deployed before the Thunderhawk slammed onto the platform.
CLANG—CLANG—CLANG!
The ramp dropped—and the Salamanders charged out like beasts unleashed. Their bolters roared, instantly tearing through nearby Dominion troops.
WHIRRR—SCHRAK!!
A Dominion officer raised a pistol—only to be bisected by a chain sword in the next second.
Another soldier dove for cover—only to be obliterated, wall and all, by a power fist.
The Astartes fought with ruthless efficiency—
No wasted bullets. They charged straight into the enemy and crushed all resistance with primal force.
Meanwhile, Jim Raynor’s Raiders launched a full assault on the perimeter.
Siege tanks blasted open the gates. Raiders on assault vehicles charged in under smoke cover, exchanging fire with the entrenched Dominion troops.
Tychus, cigar in mouth and rotary cannon in hand, laughed as he shredded enemy lines with a hail of bullets.
Amid the chaos, Leon and Mike vanished like ghosts—their optical camouflage rendering them nearly invisible.
They infiltrated the port’s command center in silence, their custom firearms silenced to mere whispers.
Dominion officers didn’t even have time to react before being dropped by precise headshots.
Leon’s HUD kept tagging key targets—captains, comms officers, logistics heads—each eliminated in turn.
Once the high command was neutralized, Leon contacted the front-line base’s intelligence division:
“This is Team Seven. We’ve suppressed Dominion forces in our sector. Request escort formation—preparing for civilian extraction.”
Meanwhile, Mike stood at a control console, hacking into the port’s dispatch system and unlocking every transport shuttle.
His voice replaced the Dominion’s propaganda on the broadcast system:
“Attention civilians—transport shuttles are now open for boarding. Repeat, the shuttles are open. This is not a trap. Please evacuate in an orderly fashion.”
At first, people hesitated—until a few brave civilians sprinted for the ships and found the armed guards already cleared out.
Then the crowd surged like a tide toward the port, overcome with the joy and tears of survival—
But when they caught sight of the Salamanders who had just brutally dispatched Dominion troops—
They froze in place, stunned.
