The Primordial Weapon

[PepsiWhirda]

Whirda pushed herself to her knees with black-veined arms, and climbed shakily to her feet. She convulsed as the contagion churned within her, beginning the arduous process of repairing the muscles and tendons damaged by the tarrasque’s fangs. Relief would be a long time in coming, but at least she could stand. She rotated her shoulder-blades and winced as pain blossomed anew. Fresh blood leaked from her wounds to further soak her undershirt.

“What in the hells…” she managed, surveying the changed landscape. All signs of their battle had vanished. The corpse of the tarrasque, the magma-charred remains of the village, everything, gone. All that remained of the moors was the ashen sky, and the ground, now the reddish-brown of copper, underfoot.

Whirda took a hesitant step toward Blues and followed his gaze past their battered allies. A pedestal of rough-hewn stone jutted unceremoniously from the dirt about twenty yards away. Hovering above it, a varicolored globe of omnilium danced and wriggled as if eager to burst loose and drift away.

The preteen machine echoed her confusion. “No idea,” he muttered. “But this can’t be good.”

Atelos limped into view beside them, affixing his dented helm over his brow. A telling move, Whirda thought, that he chose to position himself next to her and Blues, instead of the ragtag allies with whom he’d arrived. Something about the situation made her uneasy, the feeling only growing as Dio Brando stirred.

The mercenary and the ice man rushed to his side, dropping to their knees. They conferred in hushed tones as their de facto leader dragged himself to a standing position. If possible, he looked worse off than the trio of primes watching them from a short distance away, and yet, when he turned, he made his best approximation of a hero’s pose, one arm akimbo, the other raised to brush his nose with his thumb. A storm of pain and anger coursed behind his eyes, but the expression melted into curiosity—and was that a hint of eagerness, even greed?—at the sight of the raw omnilium before him.

“If this gets sticky, you guys have my back?” Whirda whispered, taking advantage of Dio’s distraction.

Blues nodded mutely, watching the scene from behind his cracked visor. The preteen machine was battered and bruised, but no stranger to the nuances of situations like this—and, it seemed, no less cautious than the pragmatic Whirda. She found she had come to trust the kid, even value him as something of a friend after the many battles they had shared.

“My dear Whirda!” Dio’s voice drifted across the field, jolting her from her reverie. “So good to see you survived.” If he was lying, he showed no outward signs. Whether an expert liar or a saccharine-sweet, pompous, but ultimately genuine character, Whirda had yet to decide.

“Hell of a stunt we pulled,” Whirda had to admit. “What do you suppose all this is?” She gestured to the pedestal and the mysterious orb.

“I am not inclined to speculate,” Dio replied, wincing with each word. The extent of his wounds showed in his body language if not his rhetoric. “A trap, perhaps, designed to lure us to our fate? As the leader of this party,” he continued, somehow seeming to cast Whirda and Blues under his tenuous command, “I would be remiss if I did not investigate personally—and suffer any potential consequences, of course.” He bared his teeth in a humorless, blood-stained grin.

“No,” Whirda and Blues said in unison.

Dio arched an eyebrow, seeming amused by their dissent, but allowed them to continue.

Whirda shared a look with the preteen machine, who dipped his head in a slight nod. His permission granted, she said what they were both thinking. “You do not lead us. We wish to discuss this further before any action is taken.” Her skin veritably crawled with suspicion as Dio’s stare flitted between them and the pedestal.

“Very well then,” he said finally, gesturing that she should continue, “discuss.”