"…what… are… you?" the Prime croaked. His voice was a thread of torn breath, a sliver of sound barely audible over the soft crackle of burning leaves and the distant drip of blood off bent steel.
He wasn't standing. He wasn't kneeling. He wasn't anything anymore.
His arm was twisted backward, bone jutting out at a grotesque angle. One eye had been split open, its white turned to a pink mess of bursting vessels. His ears leaked blood like a slow, steady stream, and one of his legs—no, his leg—was still in Atlas's hand, dangling like meat.
"…told you…" Atlas breathed, voice calm, terrifyingly quiet. "…I am your death."
Then he threw the severed limb aside with a wet flop, as casually as one would discard spoiled cloth. The sound it made against the ground was hollow and final.
The Prime whimpered, arms trembling as he tried to drag himself back—some instinct deeper than pride clawing at the possibility of survival.
"No… no… have me…rcy…"
Atlas tilted his head.
"Oh, fuck off."
