As Kora and her warriors charged into battle, Peter was assaulted by an imaginal storm comprised of metaphysical hysteria. Thanks to the Fuckrising, his psyche was protected from the aetheric rip currents.
[Peter!] Eun projected from the Bite Mobile. [Are you okay???]
He looked back and squinted at the craft. He no longer enjoyed the reality-cohering properties of its dyadic forcefield, so it didn’t look solid, it appeared vague and hazy. It flickered and blinked as it arrowed through a mess of chimeric planes.
[Eun!] he screamed. [Can you hear me? EUN!] The Bite Mobile was becoming less visible by the second; now its contours were morphing and blurring.
[G s ve t e w ld!] she shouted.
[WHAT?] He opened the throttle on his personal willpower, pushing his thought-form to keep up with Dissona. His gut lurched with dread; her carapace was starting to unfold, unleashing black tendrils of cancerous fog. [I can’t hear you! What did you—]
[SAVE THE WORLD, PETER!]
The Bite Mobile sank into a sparking whirlpool, then disappeared altogether.
Oh shit oh fuck oh holy fucking mamajama.
Peter’s aura now looked like a holographic version of an anime robo-suit. He felt his breath catch in his throat (the feeling of respiration wasn’t real, only a simulation—his body and psyche had been stripped down to their vibrational essence and mingled together), and squeezed his eyes tightly shut as countless dimensions blitzed his mind. Thankfully, his psychedelically boosted auric immune system did its job: it protected him from the unchecked blast of the interplanar ecosystem.
Okay, Peter. He opened his eyes and took a “breath.” Concentrate.
Dissona halted and burst apart, cracking into a mess of black, pustulent jags. Despite being protected by the psychogenic filter of his auric armor, some of the insanity was still getting through.
Fuck. His nose and ears started bleeding. Don’t know how much more I can take. Don’t know how much—
And then she started spreading, infecting the expanse with not just darkness, but her God-cursed namesake: utter dissonance. Peter’s armor began to dissolve.
No! he thought desperately. NO! Dissona was about to complete her ascension. He thought through his options, and realized they were all but gone.
All save one.
He followed in the footsteps of every hero who’d managed to pull a Hail Mary win out of his or her terror-puckered asshole, and muttered the most powerful phrase in all of existence. A two-word poem that held the secrets to the universe and the key to bliss, an eternal mnemonic that accepted everything and denied nothing:
Peter fired up the thrusters on his psychogenic armor and plunged into the heart of Dissona’s being.