47The static air of the empty room was unbearable. Sure, the house was fully furnished, but it wasn't a physical vacancy that bothered Trish - rather it was the empty time that she inhabited. There was a pressing task underway, but she had no part in it. She could only sit and wait.
Two men shared the wide living room with her, but neither seemed to fill the space they inhabited. Melone was completely absorbed in the screen before him, his fingers jumping from key to key. She'd already attempted to make conversation with the other. His name was Abbacchio, and that was the extent of what she knew. The responses he had given her were short and curt. Not necessarily rude, but clearly angled to end the conversation as swiftly as possible.
A less than ideal environment for passing time.
Trish leaned back into faded upholstery, sending dust flying like a startled flock. She could hardly quiet the myriad thoughts ricochetting through her brain. Where were they all right now? Had they found the boss? Were they in danger? Someone could be dead and she wouldn't even know it - and if that was true, who had died? Was her father dead? Or was it one of her allies? Each possibility bit her like an insect. They were like a swarm, steadily invading her brain. Yet all she could do was sit and wait as silent stress slowly consumed her.
"Hmm." The subtle noise came from across the room. Melone was looking at her now, his hand under his chin, cradling his face. "You're worried, aren't you?" He wore an inquisitive expression. It was hard to say how long he'd been watching her, but clearly, it had been ample time to recognize her state.
"Yeah, I am actually." She'd only spoken with this man once before, yet she felt little need to hide her answer.
"There's no reason to worry - not yet at least." The blond turned the bulky mass that resembled a laptop toward her. Its screen was filled with text, an exchange between Melone and some other party. "They haven't run into anyone or anything yet - well, at least the ones with Risotto haven't."
"This isn't you talking with Risotto though, right?" Her eyes scanned over the messages. It seemed as if Melone was giving orders and the party on the other end was mostly asking questions or giving updates.
"Very observant!" Melone gave a bright smile. "No, this is a log of my communication with my stand's creation."
"Your stand creates something?" Trish nodded, hoping he'd divulge more. The assassin was clearly delighted at her interest. She still felt a small need to guard herself, but this was a far cry from their earlier interactions. If she was looking for information, he wouldn't disappoint.
"Yes, I can create independent units that can be taught to act a certain way. On top of that, they're able to rearrange matter - including their own bodies. Right now it's being carried by Ghiaccio as a duffel bag. Convenient, right?" Melone paused to gauge Trish's reaction. She'd ceased reading the screen and had her eyes trained upward and to the left, contemplation apparent in her brow. "It's a bit more convoluted than most stands, but I'm glad you understand. Any other questions?" Her eyes returned to him with that.
She parted her mouth slightly as if to speak, but then stopped herself. Placing her hand on her hip and turning her head away, she hesitated a moment before making up her mind.
"Yes, but it's a different topic."
"I'll answer just about anything." Melone prompted.
"What happened to you while we were moving?" Her gaze was affixed to his left shoulder.
"You're asking where my arm went?" Her eyes shot back to his, only to turn away.
"If you don't want to-" Trish began, only to be cut off by the blond.
"That's just a hazard that comes with the job. Usually, people in our positions lose their lives. I was lucky enough to get away mostly intact." Melone spoke with a casual tone - that would be the best way to alleviate the girl's tension over the subject, and hopefully bring down her guard a bit in the process.
"You wouldn't mind telling me how it happened then?" Trish asked.
"A rather nasty stand ambushed me. Then again, isn't that always how it goes?" He grinned. "I'm sure you want to know the gory details though?"
"No I-" She was taken aback. "I was just curious about-"
"Don't worry, I'm only joking." Melone waved his hand. "You're clearly not the type to indulge in that sort of thing. It was a stand with no user - well, it didn't have a user anymore, at least. It melted my arm away, and it would have taken the rest of me too had Ghiaccio not stepped in."
"He beat the stand?"
"He cut my arm off." Trish blinked at Melone's answer.
"What happened to the stand then?" After a moment's pause, she spoke again. "Did you take it out yourself?" The girl had become rather engaged in the story at this point.
"No, sadly my Baby Face takes a bit more preparation than most stands. I was more or less a sitting duck. Ghiaccio is reliable in a pinch though. None of us could truly destroy that thing, but we were able to immobilize it and contain it for relatively-safe keeping." Melone frowned as he recounted the results of the battle.
"And that means…?" Trish pushed.
"Shrunken down, frozen, and encased in steel. I believe our leader is personally hanging on to it." The blond recalled.
"That doesn't sound like a great outcome."
"Oh no, it was very suboptimal." Silence hung in the air for a moment. "I hope that answers your question. I actually had a few of my own, if you don't mind?"
"Ah?" The request took Trish by surprise. "Yeah, I guess that's only fair." She couldn't shake the feeling that her question had invaded his privacy.
"Lovely." The man's lips curled into a smile. There was still hesitation in her eyes. "And don't worry, none of it will be about your father."
"That's a relief." The simple mention of him caused her tone to shift. Melone took note.
"I did want to ask about your mother, however."
"My mother?" Trish was slow to respond this time, hesitation clear in her voice.
"Yes, you were living with her, weren't you?" Melone pressed gently.
"I was." The girl was hesitant to say more. "It's not like there was anyone else I could have stayed with."
"No grandparents?" Melone raised an eyebrow.
"No, they've already passed away."
"I'm sorry to hear that." Melone tuned his voice to a sympathetic pitch.
"No, it's fine. I didn't ever really know them." Trish crossed her arms and looked to the side. Without intending it, her gaze crossed with that of the other man in the room - Abbacchio. She only then realized that he'd been watching the two talk this entire time and he made no attempt to hide that fact now. "...So yeah, it was basically just me and my mom."
"Hopefully you got along then? It would be a shame if you two were on… less than great terms." Melone paid no mind to the silver-haired man in the corner.
"Of course." The girl's voice was quiet, but it held conviction. "Of course we did. We did so much together, there was no one else as important to me." The blond nodded as she spoke.
"What kind of memories do you have of her?" He questioned.
"Well I- We didn't have much, not enough for me to take lessons, but she was classically trained and instructed me the best she could." Trish looked down. "That was her career, but it's hard, you know, to establish yourself like that. I think she was close though, she was starting to make headway and meet people and-" She suddenly cut herself off. "And now there's nothing left."
She seemed to curl into herself ever so slightly, her arms tucked against her chest as her hands gripped her shoulders. She wasn't in the room with them anymore, her gaze was far too distant. Melone inhaled and opened his mouth as if to say something, only to be cut off by the deep rumble of a new voice.
"That's enough." Abbaccio hadn't moved a muscle, but he didn't need to assert his presence. "You with the computer. I'm tired of hearing your voice. Focus on your job."
Melone blinked. "Excuse me?" The cut in surprised him - he didn't enjoy being interrupted, and he wasn't about to let this stranger step in and end the inquiries he'd been holding on to for so long. "I didn't think you were part of this conversation."
"I don't want to be part of it. I want to end it." Abbacchio had settled back into the wall, his eyes closed. "Trish, you should rest a while." The man's unexpected words had caught her attention, bringing her back to the space they all shared.
"Oh- No, I'm fine really." she shook her head. "I want to be ready, just in case."
"See? She's fine." Melone was quick to get a word in. A smile was still plastered on his face, refusing to betray any annoyance Abbacchio had caused him. "As we were discussing-"
"I believe you, Trish." His voice was stern - it seemed that he had a bit of trouble breaking from such a tone. "But this sort of thing can wear on anyone." He paused a moment. "And if we are needed, it's better that we're rested."
That seemed to convince the girl. She hesitated for a moment but ultimately chose to make her way to the couch and settle down. As she left, Melone's eyes finally hinted at some of the irritation he'd kept under wraps. There was little he could do now to revive the conversation naturally, and if that wasn't enough, Abbacchio's eyes were steadily trained on him. The man looked to him like a dog, stalwart at the end of its leash.
Deciding it better to give up on conversation for the moment rather than potential destroy his chances later on, he returned his attention to Babyface with his lips pursed.
The world created by Man in the Mirror was a perfect reflection - every detail warped across a spectrum of light to form a backward carbon copy. The flawless features weren't what made it such an ideal inversion - it was the stillness. A world free from others. A world that carried on, empty and despondent. The streets Illuso knew well were free from tourists and playing children. They were his alone. Everything in this vacuum belonged to him, and anyone inside was left to his mercy. In this world, Iluso stood as the only man and the only god.
Yet cracks had begun to snake through his perfect world like spiderwebs. He had been forced to allow two strangers into his realm. Two boys who had been his enemies just a day ago. Each slight was greater than the last, gathering on his body like bruises. If only they'd entered Man in the Mirror's realm on his normal terms, ones wherein he was the sole judge of their fate. Another fault had stricken him. As he stared through the shard of glass that reflected the real world, Illuso saw a storm - a real, true storm, Something undoubtedly present that refused to manifest within his world.
"I don't see anything yet." Formaggio spoke in a hushed tone that deeply contrasted the roaring mirth he'd displayed just minutes ago. "Kid, about how much time til the enemy's on top of me?"
"Uhh, I'm not sure, maybe a minute?" Narancia's eye was practically pressed to Aerosmith's monitor. "Maybe 20 seconds?"
"Well damn, which is it?" Formaggio slipped behind a tree. He couldn't pick any shapes out of the forest. If they were still a ways away, he could shrink himself and get the drop on his aggressor. If they already had sights on him, cutting his size would only put him at a disadvantage.
"He's approaching from right in front of you, quickly too." The boy updated.
"They must already know where I-" Formaggio was cut off as his chin bashed against the tree's bark. His senses were split between the air rushing past his body, the raw, torn skin on his jaw, and the fingers pressing into his shins as he was pulled to the ground. He clawed at the trunk in front of him, but despite his best efforts and the splinters and lichen accumulating under his nails, his descent was barely slowed.
"What's going on out there?!" Mista's voice echoed from the other world. The shard of glass the ginger had been holding only reflected the sky now. "Formaggio, where'd you go?!" The teen's hand was clamped onto the handle of his holstered pistol.
"Settle down." Formaggio's voice rang out, it's source unknown to his comrades. "I'm fine, but I'm up to my chest in dirt."
"Dirt?" Narancia gasped, gaze still trained on the monitor before him.
"Dirt." Whatever had been pulling him down had relented. "Seems like whoever's on their way has quicksand for a stand." He spoke quietly, never looking towards the mirror shard that had fallen from his grasp. "Now shut up, will ya? They'll be here any minute."
Rainfall obscured any sounds from the forest. Testing his situation as he scanned his surroundings, Formaggio found that he was firmly embedded in the ground. There was no give to the earth around him - it was as if he'd been packed in.
The slightest glint of light caught his eye. A figure was slowly approaching him.
The stranger's movements weren't relaxed or cautious. Rather, the steps they took were crooked and erratic, unwilling to lend themselves to a constructive pattern.
"It's been ages since I saw a huge forest like this." Formaggio could barely make out what the boy was saying. "They're rare nowadays. Would you say they're rare? There's the Amazon and that park with all the giant red trees, but you don't see land like this every day." It was easier to make out the rambling as the figure drew closer. Formaggio could see him relatively clearly now - it was a young boy. Probably a decade younger than the ginger, and yet his entire body was marred with scars.
"The forest ain't exactly my biggest concern right now," Formaggio called out. The boy froze, one leg still lifted in the air. Stagnant seconds past before his foot dropped. He twisted his dagger out in front of him, pointing to the assassin.
"That's the problem!" Vittorio roared "It's not your problem - at least you don't think it is!" He grumbled something that failed to reach Formaggio's ears before turning the knife back inward and beginning to dig under his nails with its tip. "We're all gonna die you know, that's what I think. We're just moving so fast, so fast that the world can't keep up. Us more than most, really. Really think about it! Being stand users and all, don't you think?" The boy's eyes had snapped to Formaggio.
"I don't even know what a stand is, don't ask me." Formaggio shrugged, making no attempt to hide his grin.
"Oh, I see," Vittorio replied flatly. "You're not going to take this seriously at all. Well that's okay, I'm tired of you anyway." The bangs that usually protruded from his hood sat damp and heavy against his cheek. With all the grace of a blinded deer, he swiped the blade away from his fingers. The rust that adorned its faces reduced Formaggio's reflection to an orange smudge. Meanwhile, the real ginger sat in anticipation. His fingers curled into the dirt that kept him firmly in place.
He had expected the boy to approach him, but Vittorio did not move. The blade that was surely meant for Formaggio was raised in spite of the fact that a stretch of earth still separated the two. It was Vittorio that wore a grin now, but there was no humor held within his smile. The sadism stitched into his face only intensified as he brought the knife down into his own arm. Even as he twisted the blade deeper into his bicep, his eyes remained locked on his opponent, ready to take in every cry of pain and squirm as a delicious morsel.
Dolly Dagger's transfer was immediate. An invisible force bore itself deep into Formaggio's arm, chewing through muscle and tendon in time with the boy's handiwork. The surprise of the attack thwarted any effort Formaggio had to restrain himself. His scream ripped through the forest as he clawed at the wound, failing to push away the phantom that tore into him. Even as Vittorio pulled the dagger from his skin, the pain tearing through Formaggio's body did not cease.
"You're such a stupid little flee!" Vittorio raised a finger at the assassin as a fit of laughter swept over him. "You have no idea what's going on, none at all!" He suddenly snapped to attention and crept closer to his target. "Hey, does it still hurt? Does it really still hurt? It does, doesn't it?"
The boy was right. Formaggio had gotten a hold of himself enough to silence his cry, but he could still feel his body shake as a piercing pain coursed through his body. What was the enemy's ability? He must have been transferring damage, but then how was he able to drag him into the ground? Why did he feel as if he was still being stabbed? He couldn't wait around for answers and risk letting his enemy hit him again. Without hesitation, he called upon his stand. The enemy wouldn't even see it - a slice so quick that Little Feat wouldn't even fully manifest. The effect was immediate for him though.
"What-" For the first time, Vittorio was at a loss. "Where did you go? That's not fair!" Anger rapidly filled his voice. "Not fair! Not fair! Not fair!" He began striking his outstretched arm rapidly with his blade, only slightly puncturing himself or shallowly slicing the side of his arm as his erratic, unguided hand hopped from place to place. This time, all of the damage stayed with Vittorio - Dolly Dagger reflected nothing but an empty pit in the ground.
It had been a simple task to slide out of view by shrinking himself down. Momentarily Formaggio could catch his breath, but even as the boy had lost track of him, the pain in his arm did not abate. This wasn't the fresh, gnawing sting of an open wound - he'd experienced that too many times to mistake it. What he felt now was a knife thrusting into him, as if he was still being impaled at this very moment. Formaggio lifted his hand from the wound. The red of his blood coalesced with the rain that dampened his skin. A puddle was beginning to form in the legged-shaped pit he hid in. He wouldn't be able to stay here forever.
He'd already dropped the mirror he'd been using to communicate with his team, but that was an easy fix. He fished in his jacket pocket until he found a shrunken replacement - this one he'd swiped right off the bathroom wall from the hotel they'd stayed at in Venice. There wasn't space in his pit to enlarge it, but maybe he could at least pass on information to the others.
The other mirror…
There was no sense it keeping it shrunken any longer. It was hard to say where it ended up above ground, but it would need to be full size to be of use to anyone. That wasn't much of a challenge either; Little Feat needed to make contact to enable its ability, but not to release it. Whether this course of action would help with his current predicament or not he truly had no idea. If he was lucky, the boy might approach the hole and enter his stand's range in the process.
That was wishful thinking though - Vittorio's tantrum didn't sound like it had migrated any closer. He dug his hands into the wall of tightly packed dirt that stretched out above him. If he could climb fast enough, he might be able to slip into some cover while the boy was still distracted by fate's perceived cruelty. He kicked the toe of his shoe into the earth, only to find it slipping away with even the tiniest bit of force. After a moment of confusion, the assassin looked down - raindrops were making their way in, but there wasn't nearly enough water to turn the soil into mud. He tried another section of the wall only to be met with similar results.
Before he could ponder the phenomenon further, the wall in front of him exploded outward. Mud hit him like a tidal wave, and something obscured in the mess wrapped itself firmly around him. Erratic motion disoriented Formaggio as he was pulled to the surface and slapped onto the ground. A hand was stretched over him, pushing his tiny body into the mud. Above him loomed a man in a burlap-like suit. It took the assassin a moment to realize that this stitched together mess was his stand, and not some off-kilter fashion statement. Suddenly things began clicking into place.
"You can't-" The face staring down at him was twisted into a sick expression of elation. The man was smiling so widely that drool was beginning to ooze out from the corners of his mouth. After tripping over his own words, he finally got the message across: "You can't hide there!"
Vittorio suddenly became as still as a statue. He looked to where Secco had caught his target. As if a switch had been flipped, his expression perfectly reverted to its earlier glee. He rushed over to the two, dropping to his knees and half way sliding into position opposite the suited stand user. Vittorio dropped his head low, his eye hanging only a few inches above Formaggio.
"That's right! You won't get away!" The boy snickered, his eye taking up Formaggio's full field of vision. "You turned small, but I'm smart, I knew to bring someone with me." Vittorio suddenly pulled back and looked his accomplice dead in the face. "Say, I don't think I even need to use my Dolly Dagger's ability anymore. We can just push it through his stomach! He'll pop like a spider!" The boy's head pulled away and a glinting blade took its place.
Formaggio could feel the ground below him losing its constitution. The force with which Secco had him pinned slowly sank his body into the mud. He could disengage Little Feat's effect, return to his normal size and attempt to fend them off, but there were two of them, and both of their stands had straightforward advantages in combat. He could attack them both with his stand, but in the time it would take for them to shrink, they'd gut him. Vittorio's knife hovered above Secco's splayed fingers. His twitching hand sent tremors down the blade. Whatever he did would be far from exact - aiming at such a small target seemed to take the utmost concentration for the boy.
"Right into his stomach, I think!" Raspy breaths punctuated Vittorio's sentence. Secco didn't weigh in, opting instead to nod frantically, his smile the only confirmation needed to seal the grisly agreement between the two. Formaggio couldn't wait any longer, he had to do something. If he shrank them they would be less of a threat to Illuso - but no, they'd make quick work of him, and Little Feat's ability would be dispelled if he-
A gunshot and the distinct ping of metal on metal rang in his ears. Another bullet whistled through the air. Bone cracked, Secco screamed, and suddenly the pressure holding Formaggio down lifted. He didn't need to know what had happened - before anything else, he needed to free himself. Little Feat released its effect on him. He pushed his palms into the mud below him, springing upward as he grew and drawing back his leg. When the assassin reached his full height, he cracked his foot into the suit stand user in front of him, throwing the man backward.
"Move again and I'll shoot." Mista's voice greeted Formaggio as he regained his balance post-kick. The teen's words weren't aimed at him, however; Vittorio was frozen on the ground, reaching towards the blade that had been shot from his hand. Mista held his position steady - gun trained forward, finger ready - as he stood on the mirror that lay in the forest's dirt.
"You never think, and you always get into messes like this." A muffled voice called out from the inside Formaggio's jacket. As he put distance between himself and his former captors, the ginger pulled one of the shrunken mirrors from his pocket. Illuso's eye gazed back at him, brow furrowed. "I'll bail you out this time, but at some point, you'll need to learn to clean up your own messes."
The only sound between the three was the wispy sliding of brush and the mournful song of a bird caught in the rain. Giorno slid his eyes to the side, hoping to get a clear read of his two companions without turning his head. Risotto's eyes were directed forward. The expression he wore was rigid, determined. Far from bothered by the silence, his sole interest was their shared goal. This unflinching demeanor, his total and resolute devotion to the objective, was the mark of a true professional. In this moment, there was nothing else. Rebel or not, he was paid murder crystallized - the perfect assassin. Perhaps not Giorno's desired career path, but nonetheless, he couldn't help but admire it. No doubt Risotto had earned that much.
The assassin beyond Risotto was… Less impressive. The boy was making no attempt to hide his scowl. He clearly winced whenever a stray leaf slid past his ankle or a hidden rock blocked his step and each instance seemed to compound his sour face. There was zero subtlety in it. Everything he felt bled immediately onto his sleeve. In a word, it was embarrassing. There was nothing wrong with openly expressing oneself - perhaps the blond himself preferred restraint, but that didn't mean everyone had to. This was beyond that. There was no filter, only a broken spigot leaking vitriol.
The young assassin carried a duffel bag with him. In truth, this was a product of a stand called Baby Face. The extent of its abilities were still unknown to him, but his teammates had confidence in Melone's abilities.
Giorno turned his eyes back to the thicket stretching on before them. Taking notes on their behaviors was still critical. Ghiaccio was easy enough to read - his lack of restraint made cataloging his reactions to various events a simple task. Risotto Nero was another case, unsurprisingly. Even though he had changed the trajectory of Giorno's life, he hadn't known the man. He didn't understand him then, and he was still coming to fully grasp his character now.
The rainfall continued, unconcerned with the trio's mission.
They were moving with little direction. Narancia would locate their enemies eventually, but in the meantime, they would all try to find the boss through more conventional means. The weather wouldn't bother them when they were so close to their goal.
Their goal. To pose a coup and dethrone the Don of Passione. But what came after that? Giorno's gaze returned to the silver-haired assassin. What exactly was Risotto's plan once he had killed the boss? Did he intend to take the throne himself? It was true that the man had been acting as the leader of the rebellion - a silent concession that Giorno still hoped to amend with time, but it seemed that time was now running thin.
Had Giorno not had his thoughts consumed by the Capo at that moment, he may have missed it. A slight misstep, just a momentary falter before normal movement was regained. It couldn't have been caused by a stray rock or root. No, the slight tremor had its locus at the top of his body.
Once more the man flinched. From the corner of his eye, he could see as Risotto draw a hand to his chest. It rested there for a moment as if to steady his body and will it to behave.
Suddenly Risotto stopped.
His attention already focused on the man, Giorno halted in time. Ghiaccio took another step ahead of them before noticing his boss's behavior. Risotto's head sunk down and his hand slid from his chest to his neck, and finally to his lips. It came to stay there, half cupped as the towering man's body seemed to tremble slightly.
"Capo?" Ghiaccio spoke before Giorno could, confusion clear in his voice. There was a note of anxiety to it, bearing the same feeling as he inquisitive 'hello' one might call out into an abandoned building or cave.
His words garnered no response and the weight of Risotto's silence sunk into the two. The man's eyes were turned downward. His legs curled and shook as he reached out and braced himself against the ground.
"Risotto, what's going on?" Giorno's eyes weren't focused on the assassin; Instead, he scanned the environment. "There's something attacking you, isn't there?" The man before him curled into himself further. His chest heaved. The rain beat down upon them. Giorno saw movement everywhere as drops struck the abundant vegetation. Risotto's chest heaved again, sending a stream of bile spilling out from between his fingers.
Giorno's nerves shot to life, his brain thrown into a tizzy by the myriad signals they shot off. The left side of his body was burning, heat exploding out from it and consuming him as his skin ripped open, birthing a thousand misshapen blades. The impact was sudden and devastating. There was only one possible explanation for what had split open the skin of his arm and leg, and yet his mind drew a blank as shock set in. Had it not been for the scream of anguish let loose by Ghiaccio, confusion and fatigue may have dragged him down completely.
As his entire being shook and pain split through his consciousness, Giorno slid his eyes to look upon the blue-haired assassin. A similar pattern of gashes had erupted on his arm and leg. He must have fallen when the shrapnel burst forth, as he was curled on the ground clutching his arm.
"You haven't suffered nearly enough." The words dropped from Risotto's mouth like lead. For a moment, despite every sensation tearing away at him, Giorno's blood ran cold. The Capo's eyes were turned upward. They weren't focused on him - or anything for that matter. Those dilated pupils weren't Risotto's - they weren't anyone's. They were far away, disturbed and distracted.
"Ghiaccio, move!" Giorno summoned his strength, roaring the command and launching himself away from Risotto. The pounding of his heartbeat and the splash of his feet as they sloshed through puddles filled his ears as he prayed to distance himself in time. The breath in his lungs burned and the colors around him muddled themselves together through the raindrops. How far had he run now? Running, if you could call it that. He was struggling not to trip over his mangled leg, praying that his brain could make sense of the blurred environment. The faint sound of a singing bird weaved through the storm. Finally, the boy slowed, gripping the trunk of a tree. He forced himself to breathe evenly, to reject terror and close his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, the world began to steady. The ringing in his ears subsided and he was finally able to inspect the extent of his injuries.
Metal had erupted out the side of his body, tracing a line down his left arm and leg - the ones that would have been closest to Risotto. He gingerly brought his right hand to the mass jutting out from his wrist. It was twisted, missing any concrete form. Some pieces looked so thin they could snap apart with the slightest touch, while other pieces had the girth of bullets. Gold Experience overtook his unscathed hand. Metal was inorganic at least - as long as he had managed to escape Risotto for the moment, he may be able to undo at least some of the damage.
He was accustomed to this pain now - it was no worse than what he had suffered earlier. It wasn't unlike brushing his gums until they bled (albeit, far more painful.) But the dull pulse was the same. He looked around. The grey clouds swirling above had turned the forest into a dark labyrinth. There was no sign of his aggressor, but a snippet of white did catch his attention.
Checking his surroundings once more, Giorno briskly moved toward the jacket that had caught his attention. Ghiaccio lay slumped against a tree, white album manifested over his legs and hips. He clutched his right arm, a pile of stained metal piled below it. The blood running down his limb had frozen, clogging the wound, but clearly causing a great deal of pain to the young assassin. He looked at Giorno through the red rims of his glasses.
"Let me see your arm, I can-" Giorno reached toward him, only to have his hand swatted away.
"Don't touch me!" The blond could see Ghiaccio's hand shake as it stood in the air.
"We both need to be in working condition if we want to survive." Giorno paused to scan the area. "If we have any hope of taking down Risotto, we need to be able to move." The bitter expression on Ghiaccio's face only deepened.
"Taking down?" His voice was overflowing with rage. "You would want to betray our Capo like that, wouldn't you?!" Ghiaccio scooped up pieces of the twisted metal, White Album manifesting to glove his hands as he did. "This shit is NOT Risotto's handiwork! Something's wrong with him and you're gonna use that as a chance to pull a coup!" He threw the scrap metal to the ground. "You've been wanting to call the shots since you got here, Illuso was right!"
"I'm only addressing the situation at hand." Giorno's eyebrows tilted inward. "We can't carry out our mission with him like this. We have to incapacitate him somehow."
"Like hell I'm gonna do that!" Ghiaccio roared. "We need to find the stand that's doing this to him and beat the shit out of it!" A flash of realization spread across Ghiaccio's face. He ripped his attention away from Giorno and looked back in the direction the two had come from. "Damn it Melone, where the hell did your shitty stand end up?" The boy hadn't bothered to keep the transformed Babyface with him as he ran.
"I agree with you, Ghiaccio." Giorno tempered himself. "There has to be something very wrong for Risotto to attack us like that." The assassin gave little credence to the blond's words, opting to continue looking through the brush instead. "But if we don't act we won't survive." His plea was met with silence.
Ghiaccio had ceased searching though - He now stood completely still, looking dead ahead. The damage the two had sustained had kept them from fleeing far, and what little distance they'd created had already been closed. The figure approaching them from afar didn't so much walk as he did lumber. His face was distinctly Risotto Nero's, but his eyes were far off, focused on something immaterial. He was following them, without a doubt.
Giorno knelt to the ground, sweeping his hand through the grass and shoots. Terrain like this put him at a disadvantage - Gold Experience could only give life to the inorganic. In the middle of nature, he would have to make do with what little he had. Grabbing the chunks of iron that had been left behind by Ghiaccio, he wound his arm back and whipped them at the approaching man. As they flew their form shifted, taking on yellow stripes and large compound eyes. The swarm stayed on course, heading straight for Risotto.
The wasps never reached their target - as soon as they'd come within 5 meters of him, Metallica struck. Their bodies should have burst apart - shredded from within as blood gave way to needles - but instead, their forms bubbled and warped. As the insects lost their composure and fell to the ground, lacerations burst out from Risotto's chest. Though skin ripped violently from his ribs, he wasn't phased. His steps didn't so much as falter, and his eyes remained locked dead ahead.
"He's attacking indiscriminately within his range," Giorno sucked in a breath and reached towards the earth again. "If we keep sending the life created by my Gold Experience, he'll-" A sudden pain jolted up his arm like lightning. Tearing his gaze from there aggressor, he found the rain on his hand condensing rapidly into ice. Each new drop was flash-freezing as it touched his skin. The ground beyond his hand stretched into a sheet of ice connecting him to where Ghiaccio stood, White Album fully manifest.
"Attack the Capo again and I'll kill you." Ghiaccio hissed, gliding towards the boy on the patchy ice that formed around them. The blond attempted to stand, only to find that his hand refused to move. A pale tint crept up the flesh on his arm.
"Ghiaccio, we don't have time for this. If we don't find a way to stop Risotto, he'll kill us." The boy kept his tone steady, but he could feel fear rising in his chest.
"Capo would never do that!" As he yelled, ice jumped up the blond's arm. "There has to be a stand! You don't trust him to fight it himself!" Giorno winced as frost pinched apart his nerves.
"I believe you, Ghiaccio. There has to be some sort of stand controlling him, but we can't allow-"
"So we kill the stand!" The assassin cut in before he could finish. Of course, they would need to take out the stand, but how could they do that when they had no idea where or what it was? It was clear to Giorno that Ghiaccio wasn't thinking clearly. He continued to skate towards the blond. It wasn't rage alone that had led him to his state - it was fear. He could hear it clearly in the way Ghiaccio's voice pitched as he yelled. Panic and disbelief seized him, and with nowhere else to go, they became anger. Lashing out was the only way he knew how to react to a situation as stressful as this one. It was likely his raw strength alone that had allowed him to survive in the world of Passione this long. Ghiaccio grabbed the collar of Giorno's jacket and pulled his torso forward. Pain shot through his arm as it strained to move with him. "If you won't help me, then you can stay frozen here as bait!"
Seeing the assassin's eyes so closely only confirmed Giorno's hypothesis - these weren't the eyes of a person firm in their own convictions, these were those of a scared child. Even with the incredible abilities granted to him by White Album, in this state, there was no way that he'd be able to overcome the challenge set before them.
A song burst through his thoughts, scattering them with its erratic notes. The melody had no name, yet he recognized it - as they'd hiked up the mountain, as he'd fled Risotto's initial attack. Twice now he'd heard this bird's song. He looked past Ghiaccio's head. A small, ragged blackbird had come to rest on a tree branch just behind them. Undeterred by the rainfall, it continued to sing.
The next sound the blond heard came from directly in front of him. First, something like a grunt. A noise resembling a misshapen word, gnarled by surprise and disbelief - but mostly terror. A scream followed, loud and unrestrained, only to gurgle away as Ghiaccio choked on blood. Giorno's eyes cut back to White Album's helmet.
He could no longer see the assassin's face. The visor had been painted over with a thick, red splatter.