Prologue
On the half-frozen, half-scorched battlefield known only as Dual Site, two alien races battled each other; some with tooth and spine, nail and claw; and others with lances of fire, blades of psionic energy, and beams of plasma.
Above a mass of roiling, purple sludge that moved with a life of its own called the creep were the hive-like mentality zerg, creatures mutated and morphed from the likes of peaceful herbivores and simple carnivores into cold-hearted killing machines. The zerg had adapted themselves to life nearly anywhere; the scorching hot and periodically erupting ground on their side of Dual Site baring no exception.
Taking up residence on the plateau of ice, rocks, and more ice were the telepathic warriors known collectively as the protoss. Rather than relying on sheer numbers and ferocity to overwhelm their foes, the Protoss employed robots and unsurpassed technology to bolster their dying numbers. Every protoss warrior's sacrifice was keenly felt.
Standing atop the slippery, ice-laden ramp that led into the protoss' base of operations was a figure clad in brilliant gold armour. This figure was known as a zealot, and he had a very important job. His name was Bob.
This is his story.
