Terran Dominion capital, orbit of Korhal IV. Dominion secret orbital prison.
Screeech—!
In the dim cell, the twisted screech of metal joints echoed. Flickering light gathered on the warped doorframe. With his ears ringing, and the cell's soundproofing shattered, a flood of noises surged into his ears all at once.
The pup-pup-pup of C-14 'Needler' Gauss Rifles rattled endlessly, like fabric ripping, the rain of fire hammering against the prison ship's layered hull with deafening clangs.
"Open fire! Open fire, you idiots!"
"Requesting reinforcements! Requesting reinforcements!"
Terran Dominion Marines shouted frantically.
"Our orbital defense forces have been wiped out—ahh! We can't hold them, the defense modules are destroyed, evac—splurt!" Their screams mingled with the wet tearing of flesh, the sound of bodies ripped apart by large-caliber rounds.
BOOM! BOOM-BOOM—!
The muffled, hammer-like detonations that followed were different from the high-speed chatter of Marine rifles. They reverberated through the closed steel spaces like a blacksmith's hammer smashing his eardrums, making Jim Raynor reel.
Fresh from the soundproof darkness of his cell, the sudden storm of noise battered his senses. His eyes struggled with the light, his ears rang, and his heart pounded like a battering ram against a castle gate—uneven, but harder with each beat.
"Hey, who are you?"
Forcing himself to focus, Raynor squinted into the chaos and shouted his question.
At first, he had assumed it must be Sarah Kerrigan and the Raiders, or perhaps Valerian Mengsk coming up with some plan to rescue him. But it didn't look like either…
Outside the door, the armored figure stood too tall and broad for the frame, clad in ornate purple power armor trimmed with gold. The unfamiliar design made Raynor narrow his eyes.
As the founder and leader of the Raiders, his philosophy was always "freedom's fighters," rejecting Arcturus Mengsk's tyranny and fighting the Dominion's oppression. They valued simplicity and utility above all.
Yet the lavish, gilded armor before him looked even more extravagant than Arcturus' own palace guards. There was no way this was one of his men.
If one of his Raiders ever turned up like that, Raynor would kick his ass with his iron-booted foot.
Could it be Valerian Mengsk's people?
True, Arcturus' son had secretly backed Raynor's Raiders through the Moebius Foundation, despite them being branded a terrorist group by his father. He had reason to act. Was this him finally moving against Arcturus to claim the throne?
But did Valerian have the guts?
Secret support for "terrorists" was one thing. A direct assault on a Dominion prison was another. The former could be swept under the rug, since he was the only heir. The latter would cost him not just the title of crown prince—it could get him executed outright. Arcturus was only forty-four. An "old warhorse" siring more heirs wasn't impossible.
Raynor's mind raced.
"No need to be nervous, Jim Raynor, freedom fighter of the Raiders."
Thud, thud.
A deep, resonant voice rolled in his ears. The towering warrior in purple and gold armor stepped aside, making way.
"Maximum-security convict. The Dominion High Court sentenced you guilty of war crimes, treason, looting, arson, destruction, abandonment, sabotage, and damage against the state… But now, by decree of the Sacred Selene Empire, you are released on bail. You are free."
"For now," he added.
"I don't understand." Jim Raynor shook his head. "What difference does it make, one empire or another? Have I been locked up so long I've fallen out of step with the world? The Sacred Selene Empire—what kind of power is that? A 'terrorist' like me is worth breaking out?" He gave a self-deprecating laugh.
"Your value is greater than you imagine. As for the Empire—you will come to know it. To bathe in the glory of the God-Emperor is your honor. For Selene!"
The words rang with the fervor of a zealot.
Great. Another religious empire? That was Raynor's first thought. The Koprulu Sector was already chaos enough, and now this?
"If you're planning to use me to wipe out or absorb the Raiders, save your breath."
Arcturus Mengsk's transformation after toppling the Confederacy had already ruined Raynor and his men. The very word "Empire" carried too much tyranny for him to ever trust.
Watching their "big fish" sulking in the cell, too weary to even stand, the black-armored warrior frowned beneath his gilded helm.
Bzzt!
Suddenly, the power sword's field hummed to life with a thunderous crackle.
Shhhk!
Like slicing through butter, the blade carved a three-meter-wide gap into the metal wall, thick as a man's palm.
Molten red magma dripped from the edges.
As the heavy plates crashed down with a metallic clang, the towering figure's shadow engulfed Raynor.
"Oh, shit!"
"Genetically engineered?!" Raynor's eyes widened. In both the old Confederacy and the current Dominion, Marines in power armor stood around 2.2 meters. But this? The monster before him had to be over 2.7 meters tall!
In the Koprulu Sector, gene-mods meant one thing: unstable, short-lived, violent, and broken. Dominion Reapers, for example, were barely altered, yet rarely lived past two and a half years.
Otherwise, it was the fate of gangsters' enforcers, tycoons' guards, nobles' bodyguards—poor bastards with their memories erased, their bodies reworked, serving until they broke down, then replaced.
Instinctively, Raynor raised a fighter's stance.
WHAM—!
Raynor's famously strong body, one of the toughest even among the Raiders, flew like a ragdoll. The black-armored warrior swatted him aside with one hand, smashing him against the wall. Dust burst in the dim light.
"Ahh—"
Raynor groaned, trying to roll over on the floor.
"Jim Raynor. Congratulations. You still have your uses."
With noble elegance, the warrior first extended the invitation. Then, like lifting a chick, he seized Raynor in one hand and flung him out of the cell.
"Take him."
...
"Move! Evacuate! You, you—activate the escape pods! The rest of you, cover! Hurry, or we'll all die here!"
BOOM—!
"Evacuate my ass! Half the prison's already gone! They blew the central command bridge to hell! The whole station's destroyed! What escape pods?!"
"Sir, it's pointless. The enemy aren't Zerg. Why throw our lives away for Mengsk's credits? Let's just surrender."
Shouts, commands, gunfire, explosions—all melded together. The prison shuddered again as a spear of light blasted into its hull, rocking it violently.
The noise was deafening. It pulled Jim Raynor back from unconsciousness.
"Argh—"
Pain wracked his body, forcing a hiss through his teeth.
"Report: maximum-security deck cleared."
"So this is him? The fugitive Jim Raynor, publicly executed by Dominion records? Leader of the Raiders, one of the sector's major players. Hmph. Let's hope he proves useful."
The words were incomprehensible. Jim Raynor shook his head and opened his eyes. Before him stretched rows of purple-and-gold armored boots.
Not far away, several towering giants stood around a shattered central control console, their heavy helms crested with tasseled crowns, olive and laurel engravings etched into the designs. Gray-white cloaks draped from their left shoulders marked them as officers. Their deep voices conversed as intelligent drones plugged cables into ports, breaking through Dominion comms and digging into the prison's databases.
Fuck you.
Raynor forced himself to stay calm and take in the scene. He realized he couldn't even pick out the bastard who had slammed him into a wall. They were all dressed in the same gaudy, ostentatious armor.
Their sculpted plate gleamed, every chest emblazoned with the gold double-headed eagle spreading its wings. Around it swirled filigreed lightning, feathers, and cornflower wreaths. Massive left pauldrons bore snarling dragon emblems, right pauldrons the Roman numeral "III" wreathed in olive, alongside symbols of their order's duty.
Even their weapons—unknown models—were ornamented, engraved with elaborate designs all the way to the blades. Were they here for a candlelit banquet, or a war?
On a battlefield, flashing that brightly, didn't they know they'd just paint targets on themselves?
Raynor could only shake his head in disbelief.
He had thought there was just one. Instead, there was a whole squad.
And worst of all, this so-called Sacred Selene Empire had now extended its reach into the Koprulu Sector. Already a cauldron of chaos, the sector was about to boil over with yet another wild card.
The mysterious Protoss, the all-devouring Zerg, the fractured Terrans, the United Earth Directorate waiting to return, the dark fallen creator Amon that Zeratul warned of… and now, the Sacred Selene Empire.
Dammit.
The glimpse of their overwhelming power left Jim Raynor deeply unsettled.
"Take him. Transfer him to the fleet flagship." One of the black-armored officers turned and ordered, noticing Raynor had awakened.
Dragged back to his feet, aching and weary, Jim Raynor was pushed into line. A squad of these black-armored warriors escorted him toward a teleport array deployed after the landing.
All along the path lay devastation: twisted decks, bulkheads melted by unimaginable heat, streams of molten metal still glowing red-hot as they dripped and cooled. Corpses littered the corridors, bodies mangled and broken.
Fragments of CMC-300 armor scattered like paper scraps across the floor. Entrails, bone, and gore painted the halls. The carnage was overwhelming.
"These weapons… direct penetration, then secondary explosions," Raynor muttered, his eyes falling on one of their sidearms—a massive, ornate handgun hanging at the warrior's hip, its surface etched with finery, gleaming with a cold metallic sheen.
Prison guards and Marines who hadn't been slain outright were rounded up, disarmed, and forced into work crews, repurposed as technicians to repair the damage. The invaders showed no fear of mutiny, so absolute was their confidence.
Perhaps it was justified. Just like when the UED briefly seized Korhal IV, so long as the conquerors were human and orderly, most Dominion troops wouldn't fight to the death. Against Zerg, perhaps. But humans? Most would fold.
Arcturus Mengsk might be a bastard, but at least he was still human. The Zerg were monsters.
Passing an outer corridor, Raynor caught sight through a reinforced viewport: an entire section of the prison ship was simply gone. Melted, twisted, blackened into skeletal ruins.
Thud, thud.
He stopped in his tracks. Even prepared, the sheer devastation made his heart clench.
He was no stranger to hell. Decades of war had hardened him. Yet even he could not look on such sights without dread.
Though the corridor was silent, in his ears thunder roared.
BZZZZT—!
BOOOOM!
Orbital defense platforms flared as colossal cannon shells slammed into shimmering shields. Light lances and lasers streaked across the void, colliding in storms of fire over Korhal's moons and fortresses.
In orbit, a fleet vast as the stars themselves prowled. Warships like steel predators bared their fangs at the Dominion's capital world.
The heavens burned as firestorms rained down. Korhal IV's skies split with meteors of flame, the atmosphere shrieking as the invaders fell.
Raynor closed his eyes and whispered bitterly, "Mengsk's dynasty is finished. And Korhal… is finished."
He had helped build this empire from the ashes of nuclear fire. And now he watched it fall.
—
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