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The Blizzard Global Writing Contest was an annual writing contest conducted by Blizzard Entertainment since 2009. Each year, individuals submited a short story set in the setting of Warcraft, Diablo or StarCraft and a winner is chosen, along with runners up. The purpose of this article is to document such stories in the StarCraft setting.
Why We FightEdit
Ward sat on the lower bunk listening as the names of the newly deceased rolled by through the air. He was watching as two new fresh faces cycled into the room, replacements for those lost the day before. It was always nice to see new faces, guys excited about their jobs; it just wasn't easy taking the fact that men had to die. He was used to it, but never used to it. He carried every one of them on his shoulders.
"Farenzo, Julian. Federline, Markus. Fisherton, Johnathon...."
Warden sniffed the air, lowering his head. "Yeah, kid. Glad you're resting now. Maybe I'll see you soon." He looked up, watching another wide-eyed recruit making the walk to replace the now empty bunk that had belonged to Fish. "I'll make sure this one knows about you."
The Intrusion carried onward into the darkness of space, ready to secure another world, another line of resources. Charlie Warden sat, ready, prepared. He waited for the next fight. He hoped to preserve another life. He was a 20-year veteran of the Marine Corps. Most of all, he remembered.
Where Loyalties LieEdit
"No. I like this one. This scumbag's too good to waste."
I can't see who is talking. He's big and, I'm betting, ugly. I want to punch him as he drips his syrupy voice into my ear.
"Your brain must be frying like an egg right now, but try to keep up. It's a brave new sector, and the Dominion needs good marines. Even Confederate psychos like you, my friend."
I don't have the strength to curse him. I black out.
Flashes of waking and sleeping. A series of nightmares, painful memories. I feel such terrible things in my brain, as if the cells are exploding like bombs, and there are so many of them. Moments ago I understood what was happening to me. I can't remember now. Can't remember much of anything. I ought to be scared, terrified, but before I feel any kind of loss, I'm given something else. Happy memories are torn away, but others are forced onto me, not better but not worse either. It's as if I'm being slapped with one hand, caressed with another. Not unpleasant, just strange. I can't tell if I feel different because there's no frame with which to compare. As far as I know, I am this way and have always been so.
And in the back of my mind, there's a feeling that this isn't the first time I've experienced this. Once, years ago, I was here before.
William Glass is dangerous. A sociopath. He's difficult to read, which makes me all the more curious to explore his psyche. Of course, I never find anything pleasant. Like all tormentors, his life is a chronicle of abuse. Abuse from his father, from the old Confederacy, from himself. While incarcerated, the Dominion recognized his penchant for brutality as a talent and put him in a suit. A cage with arms and legs. Cages are meant to demoralize animals, make them feel powerless. But he wears his cage with pride. It only whets his appetite for violence. He's addicted to it. Too much power for someone with such a fragile mind. He'll probably take his own life if they ever set him free.
"See, I keep my kills right here." He taps the chest of his exoskeleton with the tip of his steel puppet finger, gesturing to the dozens of tally marks scratched into the surface. "Out in the open, where everyone can see 'em."
I count one hundred seventeen. Exactly.
Memories of the FutureEdit
"This was all he had, Captain," Wilde said, a foot to my right.
I jumped and looked over: he was holding the admiral's pistol out to me. I took it reluctantly.
"I'd give you mine, but I have a feeling we're fighting our way out of here." He holstered his pistol and unslung a huge rifle from his back, brandishing it menacingly. The anger that had been evident in his face a moment before had gone, replaced with a frightening calm. Cold-blooded. The normal Wilde. I shivered against my will.
Sonny spoke up for the first time since we'd entered the room. "What do we do with fatty, Abe?" He pointed the gauss rifle at Tarson.
"Kill him," said Wilde. There was no malice or emotion. Just a simple statement of fact. He pointed his own rifle at the admiral.
A thought occurred to me before I could agree. "No," I said. "No, damn it. We can't hope to establish peace from across the galaxy if the first thing we do is kill their leader. We need to get the hell out of here. Figure it out later."
Wilde looked at me. I could almost see the disagreement in his eyes, but instead of arguing, he simply said, "There's a reason there are no real altruists left, Talman," and dragged a finger across his throat. "But you're the boss."
"Don't you forget it," I said, brandishing the pistol. "Let's go."