Catalyst

Chapter 56: Collapse

Slash, spit, crush, tear. Let the brutalisk charge forward, let them rip apart the feeble terran flesh, let their ears soak in the screams, the cries, let the pained wails guide them to their prey. Abathur enjoyed the pattern, enjoyed it's familiarity, enjoyed observing the results, enjoyed the secondhand rush of adrenaline and the slight spike of resistance when his children's claws passed through a hunk of metal or a human's spine. He enjoyed how it was so easy for him to charge through the muted thuds of tank shells and bullets.

In the distant corners of his mind, Abathur was aware of the other parts of his hive cluster, crawling and repairing and healing. He would leave it to its own devices. The more intelligent strains could manage that, they knew how to recover their grip. He wanted all of his focus right here, in the frenzy.

Let the Swarm tend to itself, let Daggoth finish his long journey, he was going to tear apart the last shreds of human resistance.

(Transition)

Dumbledore had contemplated his death often enough. He was reaching the age where it was a regular concern, rather than some faint, distant possibility. Even then, it was not something he wished to dwell on. These days, it was the deaths of others that occupied his mind. The death of those on the battlefield and increasingly often the deaths of those behind it. It was these deaths that he was thinking of now.

Not all of that was morbid, traumatised reflection. This ritual, entrenched as it was in the act of finding a solution to violent problems, had a tendency to drag out those thoughts. Dumbledore could feel it siphon away his magic, dragging it out in drops and pulses, shaping it to fill the carvings, flowing like water into every gap they could. Adeviar and he had gone over it to the point of exhaustion, ensuring thoroughly that this time, nothing could or would go wrong.

It was finally time, and all Dumbledore could think about was the people on the battlefield, dying right now while he completed this task. The ritual demanded it, demanded that focus on death and those about to die. Adeviar, standing stoically on the opposite side of the room, must have been thinking the same thing, even if he didn't show it. No doubt he had many things to dwell on.

Dumbledore's attention returned to the circle, swirling and rising, a vague aperture opening in the middle, tinted a bright blue. He had no idea what would come through. All he could do was have faith.

(Transition)

Tassadar's mind had never been as clear as it was now. He was standing on the deck of Gantrithor as it fell apart around him, channelling power that he would once have considered heretical beyond belief, and aiming his prow into the leader of a race dangerous beyond reason, a creature the size of a mountain, and his mind was tranquil like the bright and constant golden structures of his youth, not half a hemisphere away.

A portal yawned into place over the Overmind. It seemed the dark creature intended to flee. Tassadar, in his focused state, knew it was pointless. He was too close, the power of the dark templar too strong and too eager for the foul mind's death. This was its end. This would be his death too, but that didn't seem quite as important. Right now, he was Akhundelar, the tip of the spear. It was the fate of all templar to draw blood and seep it.

His life for Aiur. Somehow, he had always thought he would die this way. He had trained. He had fought. He had learned. And now, it would all be worth it.

The ship was breaking apart beneath Tassadar's feet. He was close, mere moments from the impact, when something pulled on the edges of his mind, a gap of awareness, a void of thought, inviting, pleading for his presence.

(Transition)

Thenabar stood abruptly. Dumbledore's pet traitor had finally gotten desperate enough to try the ritual. Such a silly man, thinking that hiding from their control would hide him from the sight of the Overmind. A delightful lie, so ripe now, what fear would he feel when Thenabar plucked it away?