Dante's Abyss Spectators

[PepsiWhirda]

Leaning back in the chair and interlacing her fingers, Whirda sighed. She relied on her unpredictable partner to provide the diplomacy in these meetings. If Yuuka couldn’t maintain her composure in the midst of their absurd gimmick, what hope did she have? Not for the first time, Whirda considered abandoning the game and focusing her efforts doubly on the battles to come.

The words of Tia Dalma and the Syntech doctor came back to her then, though, and she set her jaw with stoic resolve. Dante’s Abyss represented perhaps her only change at salvation, and currying the favor of Karl Jak only furthered that goal. While she had not encountered a true challenge—one that threatened her elimination from the tournament—yet, she knew her trials would only grow more arduous as they advanced. Perhaps, with some luck and the right amount of groveling, she wouldn’t need victory in Dante’s Abyss to achieve her true goals.

That thought renewed her sense of purpose. “I apologize for my partner’s behavior,” she said to the man with the lapel pin. “Please know we are committed to Pepsi and do not require additional compensation.”

“You sure you don’t need to discuss that with Yuuka?” the man asked, arcing one manicured eyebrow.

Whirda shook her head emphatically. “She is combative, sir, but not ungrateful. Dante’s Abyss can raise the hackles of even the most agreeable Primes, I’m sure you understand. The stakes are high.”

“You know,” the man said, nodding his agreement, “We don’t necessarily need two representatives. If Yuuka is… dissatisfied, perhaps that opens up more benefits for you to reap.”

The comment hit Whirda like a slap in the face. Her chance at redemption aside, Yuuka had fought beside her through two brutal battles—had agreed to the deal with Pepsi in the first place, despite her hesitance, for no better reason than Whirda’s vague hints at her personal benefit. The man’s dismissive tone, his callous disregard for the growing bond between Whirda and her partner, sent a shudder of anger coursing through her lithe frame.

When she looked up at the man with the lapel pin, her eyes crackled with barely contained, electric blue energy. Shadows gathered in the boardroom. The executives around the table shifted uneasily, some even rising to their feet, poised to flee.

But the man with the lapel pin didn’t seem concerned, even leaned in closer so Whirda could not miss his next words. “Take care, Whirda Windstrom,” he hissed, and Whirda sensed a mounting power in the man to rival her own. “The decision you make in this moment will define the rest of your life.” In that moment, Whirda knew the man had been baiting her—had tested the depths of her loyalty. And she had failed.

Rip him, the contagion implored.

Whirda fought to sublimate the urge.

Tear him, the contagion implored.

Whirda fought to sublimate the urge.

Kill him! No sooner had the savage compulsion climaxed within her than she was up on the table, crouched low in a sprint, daggers seeming to spring of their own accord into her waiting grasp. Rip him. Tear him. Kill him!

Without any control over her own actions, Whirda lashed out at a suit-clad executive who was foolish enough to reach out to trip her, to impede her progress. In the span of an instant, a dagger drew a fine red line across his throat and a booted heel splayed his nose across his face. He staggered back, with a gurgle, into the waiting arms of death. But Whirda did not see the man go down, for she focused fully on her prey, the man who would dare to impugn the character of Yuuka Kazami.

Leaping high, her daggers crisscrossing into her favored reverse grip, Whirda pounced on the man …

… and was promptly rebuked by an invisible barrier, taken fully by surprise, her taut form slamming helplessly into the unrelenting shield and falling back, gasping for air.

Throughout the entire ordeal the man with the lapel pin hadn’t moved a muscle—hadn’t adjusted his wide, expectant grin. The invisible barrier rippled and shimmered with red, white, and blue hues, made visible by the contact. To her bruised and battered dismay, Whirda saw it formed the unmistakable logo of PepsiCo, Inc.

The rest of the gathered executives, now standing far back from the conference table, held their breath as they waited for their leader to speak. The man with the lapel pin looked from Whirda to his dead colleague, then back to Whirda. In his dead eyes, she saw only the promise of death.

Then the man burst out laughing, tossing his head back and veritably spasming with mirth, spittle flying from his lips. “God,” he wheezed, when his laughter had subsided, “you really are the real deal, aren’t you. I just wish I could have aired that moment for all the world to see. Sales would be through the roof!”