Neiman sets his dropship down on the small island on Stryko II, guided by Narud’s expert advice on Xel’naga artifacts. When they disembark, he leaves it cloaked, as always; there is no reason to take unnecessary risks. For a similar reason, he has goggles on and his C-10 canister rifle ready, just in case any animals take an interest in them as they hike through the jungle. He leaves his personal cloak down though, since Narud is fully visible.
The balding scientist’s long white hair clings to his shoulders in the humid environment as he studies the scanner he is holding. He nervously wipes the sweat from his forehead and rubs his mustache. He is not exactly a prisoner, but he also is not free to just go. And on top of that, he is currently trying to trick a ghost.
“Da, da, c’mon,” Neiman says, prompting him onward. “You say this is place. Should be good, da? We’ll help each other out.”
“Yeah, yeah, it should be over yonder, hoss.”
They head into the jungle and are able to find the ruins without much difficulty. Narud knows exactly what he is looking for. Whoever responded to his plea for help chose an excellent location for freeing him. At the entrance, Neiman looks around and then smiles at Narud. “I have good feeling about this, comrade,” he declares.
Narud keeps as level a face as he can, thankful that the jungle provides an excuse for how much he is sweating.
“What is problem, comrade?” Neiman asks.
“Uh… well, often a lot of these places are pretty dangerous. There are traps. You have to be very careful.” The words roll out, one on top of the other. The dangers of Xel’naga defenses provide additional cover for Narud’s fear that his personal treachery will be uncovered.
Neiman eyes him a moment longer. “Very well,” he says finally, turning away. He heads down the stairs, Narud close behind him. The scientist is not allowed to be more than an arm’s length away.
“I don’t like this, hoss,” Narud says, of the speed with which they are moving.
“You don’t have to like it, it turns out. We just have to do it. We find artifact, we send important message, we leave. Simple. Is better than prison.”
When they reach the bottom of the stairs, Neiman’s first reaction upon seeing the stone guardian is one of dismissal. “This is stupid,” he declares, having no patience for unnecessary delays. He shoots it with his C-10. The shot hits true, but the explosive round does not even scratch the target. “Nyet,” he growls. Then the eyes light up, and suddenly all the burnt foliage around his feet makes sense, “Move!” he shouts at Narud, following it with a string of other heavily-accented words.
“I don’t know what that means, hoss,” Narud protests. “We’ve got to run!”
Neiman grabs Narud and slings him across the room. The scientist stumbles, and after he catches himself in the safety of the corridor, he turns back to see what has become of Neiman. The ghost is gone. The statue remains on the alert for a moment, and Narud rushes away, down the short corridor. He is just beginning to examine the walls of the next room when hears, “That was close, comrade,” from down the hall behind him. Neiman must have used his personal cloak.
Not wasting any time, Narud looks over the doors and quite quickly comprehends the situation. His message really was properly received by someone willing to help him, which is a relief. These quasi-protoss symbols would be laughable under other circumstances, though. One of them clearly says, “Safe space, this one! Key 1.” What in tarnation is this mess? he wonders. Someone sent him this planet’s name, presumably to rescue him here, but he still has no inkling who. One consolation is that this slapdash work does not look like something the Dominion would do. Better than prison, he figures, grabbing the first key. And better than an unstable ghost. He steps to the first door and puts the key in the lock. What the hell! he thinks, resigned, and then turns it, expecting the door to open. But no, the floor does. With an unseemly shriek, Narud falls.
Behind the sixth door, Malorn waits, bored. Rather than stay in the artifact room itself, he is pacing just behind this door. He hears a scream and readies himself, but there is no action. He bounces on his toes, agitated. There could be nobody left to fight if this door does not open soon! He ignites his psi-gauntlets but does nothing further. “I will wait,” he mutters to himself. “I will honor my agreement with that insufferable psion.”
Neiman is still in the hallway when he hears the scream. He rushes into the chamber just in time to see the floor closing in front of a door with a key in it. “Nyet, not that door,” he mutters to himself. Then he frowns as he looks at the symbols all over the doors. “What is this…?” Something seems off. There is some ruse in play here, but Neiman is too impatient to sort out the details of this stupid nonsense. Seething with frustration, he turns to the altar. He is so close to his goal, he will not tolerate anything slowing him down further. In a burst of psionic power—which taxes his moebius reactor far more than is wise—Neiman levitates all the keys and telekinetically slams them each into a lock. Chaos ensues as columns slam, pits open, and a psi-blade slashes across. However, Neiman does luck out with his selection. One of the doors reveals a corridor instead of a blank wall. “Finally!” Neiman growls, anticipation high.
“Finally!” echoes the temple guardian visible through the settling dust. This one is a flesh-and-blood protoss with psi-gauntlets rather than a stone robot with laser eyes. Close quarters combat is not Neiman’s preference. He squeezes off a quick shot with his rifle as he dives behind the altar to put something between him and the illuminated psi-blades.
Malorn evades the poorly aimed shot and then launches himself into the key room, completely done with waiting. He is allowed to toy with the pathetic terran ghost but not to kill him; that will have to suffice. As he closes the distance, the man vanishes for a moment, but with sputtering and sparking, his cloak fails. Malorn focuses his psionic will on the man. Purge! With a leap, he slides across the empty altar, and when he lands on the other side, the terran before him is leaking blood from his ears, nose, and eyes. “Sure, I could cut you down with these psi-gauntlets, but now you know your psionic defenses are as paper—as weak as your flesh,” Malorn taunts, looming above his prey.
Neiman curses, now rueing having wasted so much power with his earlier telekinetic fit. The attack rattles him, and not just because it is forcing his own blood out of his system. A sniper like him prefers to be well away from such chaotic melees. He draws his knife in an effort to parry the psi-blades menacing him. Neiman has never heard protoss laughter, but the sound that greets this may very well be it. The alien’s overconfidence costs him though, and Neiman does manage to land one solid blow in the ensuing scuffle, catching him in the leg. That gives Neiman the break he needs to back cautiously towards the key room’s entrance.
“Run, coward,” Malorn growls. “I will let you run so that you know how pathetic you are!” And true to what he told Imogen, he lets the ghost flee.