Sarah’s brow creased, her lips becoming a thin line.

“You do remember what happened to the kitten,” said the lieutenant, drawing nearer. “Death will not come quickly, child—no, not at all. It will be a marathon of suffering, even to such a dull-witted specimen as he.”

The lieutenant was leaning over Sarah’s chair now, both hands plant firmly on the armrests, waiting for a response. Looking in the girl’s eyes, he saw fear, pity, and agony…but not compliance.

“So be it,” he said. Setting his jaw, the lieutenant turned to the window and nodded his head.

Inside the adjacent room, the tech placed the syringe to Patrick’s arm.

“No! If you do this, I’ll use my power to kill him and me!”

Sarah’s wide, furious eyes turned to the lieutenant. “I’ll do it—I swear I will! I’ll kill both of us!”

Suddenly Sarah felt a prick in her wrist. A needle in the arm of the chair had punctured her skin, delivering a powerful sedative into her bloodstream. Sarah felt fire flow in her veins, and the room began to go dark. The last thing she saw was her father’s haggard, uncomprehending face and those wide, oblivious eyes.

The lieutenant breathed a sigh of relief as Sarah’s chin slumped to her chest. He turned and made a brief vertical motion with his hand. The tech nodded and removed the syringe. The wall shimmered and became opaque once more.

The lieutenant stood looking at the little girl, his emotions conflicting. He did not relish the decision that he must now make, but he was an animal of the Confederacy, and ever since he was a child he had always bowed to the wishes of superiors, be they right or wrong. A neuro-adjuster would be employed. He would recommend it. The little girl would never be the same again.

THE QUEEN stood once more overlooking the massive, gloomy chamber, waiting for the cocoon to open. The decision to continue had not been an easy one. But then again, why should she care for the welfare of some human subject, brave or not? Because of the potential, she told herself. There’s still a possibility…

Metamorphosis complete, interjected the Cerebrate.

The Queen watched as the bottom of the sac opened up, spilling its contents onto the floor below. There, huddling and shivering in a fetal position, was what remained of Amanda Haley: a slobbering, malformed, half-Zerg, half-human genetic defect.

The Queen sighed, sending a telepathic message for the creature to stand, which it is immediately obeyed, struggling to an upright position, on shaky, alien limbs.

Another drone, thought the Queen. Her mind belongs to the swarm now. The potential is wasted.

As suspected, the formula was incompatible, offered the Cerebrate.

The Queen nodded. The Cerebrate had a way of stating the obvious. Looking down at her arm, the woman who had once been known as Sarah Kerrigan could see the faintest traces of an old mark—a scar, really, —that still glistened despite the molecular changes her body had undergone. It read “24.”

“So be it,” whispered Kerrigan as she spun on her heel and stepped once more into the long, desolate corridor.