The eye beams dim to wire thick beams, almost nothing, still too much light. A Juggernaut has sensor suites, and their technicians are infamous for replacing organic eyeballs with wider spectrum scanners. I may as well be driving through Walmart on an electric scooter with a dozen air horns blaring.


    Except today I rolled all sixes. No one is present. In fact, all lights are off and most the equipment is gone. This isn’t a real bunker, just an ammo cache.


    “Thank god.” I mutter.


    Stacks of rockets with red and yellow hazard striping on the nosecones rise into the air. High explosive warheads. Too large for a human to move or carry. Hundreds of empty crates line the walls and floor, autocannon ammo of various calibers, all empty. I quickly scrounge through the bunker, finding a flechette pistol and two thousand rounds. Which really sounds like a lot until you realize the ‘pistol’ is the size of a briefcase, not really a pistol at all. Instead it''s a miniaturized railgun that fires steel spikes -sewing needles- with fins duck taped on. Highly efficient on space and ammo, but worthless against armor. Which is probably why the Technocracy loves these pieces of shit. No disgruntled tech can damage their precious machines. But hey, it’ll go bang. I won’t get sodomized by the first rat who looks my way. Or the damn iguanas!


    Relief sends me into a fit of cackles, stroking the steel pistol as I close my eyes and laugh, taking a few steps towards a row of steel near the back. I’m in space, talking to voices in my head, on an alien world, and I just found a railgun. This moment doesn’t feel real. Cackles fill the silent bunker echoing as artillery and missiles explode across the world.


    I’m one person, against an entire world of assholes. What can I do? My cracked lenses fog up.


    “I need a new helmet.” I say aloud.


    The words return me to a normal place. Tickling the flashtraining’s desire to complete my mission.


    That’s right, the mission was to get a weapon and fight back. I’m not alone.


    “Alright. Stay alive. Find armor, find a bigger gun, kill a Juggernaut.” I say.


    Once again I turn towards crate mountain. In the dark it looks like a vehicle of some kind, but there are piles of gear and crates of odds and ends keeping it concealed. My foot snags on something soft, cartwheeling me face first into a pile of lukewarm fabric. Flash training did an excellent job of desensitizing me to war life, but the pile of earthlings in gasmasks sends a shiver down my spine. This isn’t right. We shouldn’t be here. Buuuutttt, the pile is kinda bouncy… A great place for a nap. If I weren’t fresh from the cryotubes.


    I know something inside me has cracked. Some ancient mechanism to prevent emotional trauma from killing me. I’ll probably pay for it with a life of PTSD, but for now I open my chat log. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    >Human Athena: I have biomass. Let me know when you’re ready.


    I stare at the words I''ve mentally typed, surprised at how easy it was. Then inhale before sending. Survive, beat back the Technocracy and save earth. Maybe then I can get laid. Simple as. Well, and maybe punch Bazzhole in the cock-er spaniel. I wonder if he was drafted too…? Whorely is probably knocked up and back on earth. Ick.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Send me 100 kilos. Cant hide more in… cant hide more.


    I touch the bodies, mentally tagging them for Praetorian’s teleporter. It’s absurdly easy on my end. I need physical contact but after that I just look at the item and mentally think ‘mark’, then they appear with a faint outline overlaid. Out of stubbornness I try to mark myself, but fail since nothing whatsoever occurs.


    The first body vanishes, then after a delay the second goes after. I hesitate a moment, but only one, before stripping them of everything, my inner and outer layers are made whole once more, as is my shattered gasmask. Then to top it off this squad was at least given weapons. One glance tells a sordid history with the sharpened shovel, red oxides coat one edge, something I hope is rust, but I know better than to try and remove it. One is holding a slender blade, something I once saw Baz call a ‘Fairbain-sykes fighting knife’ whatever that is. Beating someone to death is low on my list of desirable outcomes, but Sable Yurten is capable of the deed.


    “Does flash training make you schitzo? Or just bring it out? Whatever, I need a real gun. And… armor.” I say aloud, searching through Technomancy crates.


    Missiles and gauss rounds are what I find, all munitions for the rolling buildings they call Juggernauts. No way can I use these, even with powered armor I can’t carry or launch high caliber projectiles. Outside the artillery barrage redoubles. Shells following the Juggernaut’s path. One artillery hit won’t knock out Juggernaut, but it could destroy enough guns to make it combat ineffective, forcing a retreat or giving infantry squads a chance to hit them with focused laser fire or anti tank missiles. A few dozen of those bad girls is enough to knock out anything unshielded.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: crap i need an immediate teleport! Eugenic Hitler is counting babies! Feck! Make one zergling and the census shows up.


    I stare at the text, giggling at whatever a ‘eugenic hitler’ is. What a term. Almost sounds like a cranky Abathur.


    >Executrix Alaea: Zergling? NO. Not on my ship. Thena? Want a puppy?


    >Human Athena: A puppyling? THAT’S what you call a WARRIOR? Feck it. I don’t have a choice. Send it. It’ll listen to me right?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Only one way to find out. I’ll tell em to play nice.


    >Executrix Alaea: say something if they misbehave.


    >Human Athena: yes maam!


    Two blue ripples appear in space time, almost like a protoss warp in animation, but way faster and less sparkly. Both creatures materialize in seconds. Spines run down their quadruped backs, talons digging into the bunker’s floor as they scent the air. Elongated snouts full of teeth slip open. Like a wolf’s maw, if said wolf had two rows of shark teeth and sabertoothed canines.


    “Sit!” I say, forgetting that I''m wearing a sealed gas mask.


    No way they can hear me-


    -Both creatures sit, leaning back onto their haunches. Spinal ridges elongate slightly unsheathing four bone spikes with some kind of pressurized fluid contained within. These are anything but zerglings.