The Primordial Weapon

[PepsiWhirda]

Somehow, impossibly, the tarrasque fell. Primes fled in every direction, scorched and gasping, as its colossal body hit the ground. Whirda caught sight of Blues, ever the noble companion, dragging Atelos clear of the rivers of magma pouring from the beast’s scarred hide. The air shimmered with heat. Buildings splintered like so much kindling as the top heavy tarrasque thrashed and howled its frustration into the night, unable to regain its footing.

For all his saccharine arrogance, Whirda had to credit Dio Brando’s selflessness. The towering man hit the tarrasque’s skull with an audible crunch, his limp body hanging on less out of strength than sheer stubborn resolve. Ten feet below him the magma flowed freely, threatening to devour him the moment he let go.

Flanked by her clone, Whirda strode toward the beast, trying to take in every angle, every variable, of the plan she was now forced to enact. Still a solo fighter by her pragmatic nature, it was a constant struggle to rely on her new allies, to expect anything other than more blundering messes she would be forced to clean up. She hefted the crate of explosives under one arm, the belt of detonators slung over her shoulder. She and her clone skidded to a halt at the edge of the magma pool surrounding the beast, just in time to see Aang carried to safety by Dio Brando’s unusual weapon. Only two factors remained: rescue Dio, and deliver the killing blow. After an entire battle with virtually no responsibility, the fate of the Verse now came to rest on her shoulders.

The tarrasque’s thrashing slowed. Hours of constant bombardment seemed finally to have caught up with it. Whirda cast her gaze across the shimmering sea of magma to see Dio’s grip begin to slip. He shook his head weakly, seeming to slip in and out of consciousness.

Acting fast, Whirda turned to her clone, who regarded her silently. Ignoring the peculiarity of the situation, she began to tap into the thrumming strings of shadow in the air around her. She took hold of her clone like a marionette, manipulating each string to reshape the mass of shadow. When she was done, a gaping hole in its chest exposed a hollow core. She wrenched open the crate and transferred each container of the holy explosive into that core, tossing the thermal detonators inside as well. Sealing the clone shut, she imparted a simple mental command. Stay.

The first part of her plan secured, Whirda conjured a gust of wind that hurled her high over the battlefield. Another gust, then a third, steadied her as she fell into her descent, landing lightly on the bridge of the tarrasque’s snout. The creature seemed not to notice her, the extent of its wounds too great. The “great” Dio Brando still clung to the side of its gargantuan head, muttering gibberish to himself, his arms and face streaked with blood and soot.

Whirda trotted over to Dio and knelt beside him, bringing her face close to his ear. “This is going to hurt,” she said with no small amount of satisfaction, as she conjured another gust of wind. Dio flew free of the perch to which he clung, the force of the wind carrying him far over the magma, where he landed in a heap. If he yet lived, he gave no indication.

Beneath her, the tarrasque snorted. Its beady eye blinked, seeming to regain focus. Mimicking her earlier strategy, Whirda dropped to a knee and slid the rest of the way past the creature’s flaring nostrils to rest, her legs dangling in open air, in front of its yawning maw. Its tongue lolled out of its head as Whirda dropped on top of it. A wave of hot, putrid breath greeted her, bringing bile surging up her throat. She retched and spit, taking a tentative step toward a row of teeth even taller than her.

Only then did the beast respond. The roar began as a tremor, a low, primal noise rising from the back of its throat. The tarrasque shook its head vigorously, trying to dislodge her. Whirda stumbled, desperate to regain her footing as the great tongue began to roll beneath her, like a sticky carpet pulled from under her feet. She pitched forward, her arms wheeling, her balance completely lost. She spun until she was staring into the inky abyss of the tarrasque’s throat, just as she slammed against the row of five-foot-tall fangs.

Agony wracked her body as two of the fangs sunk deep into her back, piercing armor and flesh, scraping against bone, wreaking who knew how much havoc. Whirda screamed, writhing and twisting to get herself free, but she couldn’t move. This time she couldn’t hold the vomit back, the sticky stuff pouring free to coat the front of her armor. She twisted her neck wildly, desperately, the plan still a dim flicker in the back of her mind. There! Her clone waited across the battlefield, staring impassively into space.

With what remained of her strength, Whirda wrenched herself free, blood pouring from the gaping wounds in her back. Keeping the image of her clone in the forefront of her mind, she did the unthinkable. She dove headlong down the tarrasque’s throat, the darkness rising to meet her.

*****

When she reappeared, Whirda stood in the exact place her clone had been waiting. The swap had worked. She collapsed to her knees, her vision going dark. If this was the end of her, she could at least take the gods-damned tarrasque with her.

All that remained was to detonate the explosives – and she knew just the Prime she could trust. Her flickering vision focused on the approaching silhouettes of Blues and Atelos. Blues let Atelos slide to the ground as he rushed to her side, mouthing words she couldn’t hear.

“Explosives… down its throat. Need… something to set it off,” she breathed, the words emerging in a barely audible whisper. “It’s up to you, kid.” She smiled, revealing teeth stained with blood. Coughing wracked her body as she fell to her chest in the dirt. The wounds weren’t fatal; she could already feel them stitching and healing as the contagion did its foul, regenerative work. All she needed now was a nice, long sleep.