EPTParched earth rumbled and belched forth a legion of lithe Zerg fiends, heralding a clattering stampede that might as well have shook Korhal itself, given Robin's terrified quavering. Father's arm tightened around her as he muttered, “Don't let go, even if you faint.”
Robin clenched her tiny hands into Father's ballistic leather jacket just before the Vulture whipped around like tar spiraling down a drain. The hollow whizzing of a grenade was overwhelmed by a dozen carnal roars. Before Robin's brain even told her hands to clench tighter, the Vulture launched away from the Zerg, splashing grit and pebbles at the furious creatures.
The hoverbike was old, though, older than Robin herself, and as soon as she lifted her face from her father's chest, her eyes were filled with the slavering maw of a Zergling in the hunt.
Robin's insignificant scream mixed with a mêlée of sounds, filling her ears with a whirlwind of thruster, claw, and grenade music with a few of Father's choice curses mixed in. A brief shift in pressure informed Robin of her miraculous survival, but not before Father spun the wheel violently, once more transforming the Vulture into a grenade spewing dervish.
Robin knew not how long she spent at the eye of the tornado, but eventually the Vulture was placidly cruising along, like one of the cirrus clouds people said once seemed to race across Korhal's skies.
“Father!” Robin exclaimed, “You're a hero! No wonder they call you the Tornado! You-”
“No, Robin,” Father shook his head, “The Tornado is a murderer, not a hero. He left his own son behind.”
“With all due respect, Commander,” Robin hissed into her Banshee's intercom, the sweat on her brow as much from the Korhal sun as from frustration, “Raiders or no, these positions you want destroyed are purely Terran. I urge you-”
“Don't give me this bullshit, Lieutenant.” The Commander retorted, “I trust you've studied the Fall of Augustgrad? Terran or no, any military that dares test the Dominion on Korhal must be dealt with. Now go deal with them.”
The signal was cut before Robin could even utter formalities. After encryption scrambling, Robin signaled her squad.
“Execute plan Omega.”
The Banshees split apart like grenade fragments. Idling behind clouds, Robin's squad circled the Terran camp like carrion birds. Points of data suddenly filled her vicinity map as orbital command's relay arrived.
“Swoop.”
Within seconds, each mourning spirit spewed a torrent of fire on the Vikings that were too conveniently unmanned.
“Reform.”
Banshees converged and then overwhelmed a nearby turret in cluster rocket fire. Robin's eyes darted. 10 rounds left. Another cascade of rockets wrecked a nearby turret when Robin's HUD showed: missile lock.
“Disperse,” She ordered, activating her cloaking unit.
Missiles from over the next dune barely missed her Banshee as its shimmering profile hugged the sand. Robin's exhale of relief was interrupted by a missile from her blindside.
Impossible. There was no lock!
All systems immediately terminated, sending her tobogganing across the sand. After ejection, desert gales buffeted Robin about, until she finally drifted into... the arms of an enemy soldier.
“Your uniform suggests you commanded this sortie.” A masked voice uttered.
Robin looked up to find that the man was a ghost.
“Tell me, Robin. Why target obvious decoys and unmanned turrets?”
“I... didn't think desert raiders would play such hands.”
He removed his headgear.
“We aren't mere raiders,” Robin's brother explained, “We are Raynor's Raiders. Tell me, Robin. What have you been fighting for?”
