#godscends

this is no time for dramatic antics and yet, that's what's happening anyway. but is there much room for complaints on his end when he is just as, if not more guilty? he was the one who might or might not have prolonged the torture of the captor responsible for this situation. but that was just him demonstrating the reason why, under no circumstances, is anyone to fuck with any member of the execution team. the brutality in finishing off that man's life is necessary. ( or so he claims. ) he would have done the same had it been any of the others in their place.

just as he keeps mentally reciting to himself that he would do the exact same gesture of carrying them. melone had visible injuries -- minor, surface level ones that needed no medical expert to determine that -- and they needed to leave the vicinity of this place before potential reinforcements arrived on the scene -- because the previous guards proved to be such menacing threats, cut down ruthlessly by metallica's wrath -- and. . . and . . . well, it's irrelevant what he does or doesn't do. he is the capo. must he always justify what he does?

it's no roman colosseum, but it's absurd to think that an entire indoor arena had been commissioned for an event like this. no expense spared. few birthdays had ever been celebrated with this much splendor, but this one was deemed exceptional. his father felt inclined to simultaneously spoil him in his own depiction of affection and to cast a message to his adversaries. it was a means of properly introducing his now grown heir and successor -- my time may end soon, but my son shall oversee all that i began. and it was a message that risotto was to follow through, he had trained all his life for it.

his thumbs skimmed on the hilt of his tightly clenched blades, each a byproduct of his own iron. he forged his own weapons as opposed to accepting any other. it was intended to be a symbol of his stance and of his upbringing -- very little had been simply handed over to him by his father. it was earned, through blood and through battle. and he would show them all, those who doubted him still, those who feared only the father & not the son, and above all else. . . those who came on behalf of the don to view the display.

the entrance slowly gives way from where he waits in the dark. the lighting gives the impression that his crimson gaze burns. already the invited audience begin to wildly cheer; nero! nero! nero! named for the emperor who let rome burn. they yearn to see what his spiritual successor can do. he marches to the heart of the arena with a rigid stance, head proudly held high, black robes flowing. ( the black prince, they sometimes call him in lieu of the color he favors wearing. a contrast to bruno, his spiritual brother & rival, who is always clad in white to emphasize his facade of sainthood. ) the chanting is infectious, it drives his spirit wild. but he is not here for them. as he reaches the center, he kneels with surprising elegance for his father only.

he is the only man he intends to ever bow to. and once he dies -- whether by time, by an enemy, or perhaps by his own sons' hands -- he will answer to no other in such a matter, no matter how hard they wish.

a handful of traitors have been captured and held, kept alive against their will, for this special occasion. whether the act of treason is sincere or mere accusation is irrelevant. judgement has long been decided and the sentence of death is certain. but the matter of doing so is unusually severe. the don, it seems, grows more paranoid with each passing year. discontent worsens among the lower ranks, and he wants these sparks extinguished before the fires of rebellion begin. capo polpo came up with a creative solution to demonstrate a proper means, an inspiration for those treacherous minds to keep silent. and he would do so solely for the benefit of his son.

metallica may slay them from a distance, in theory. it could be done with so little effort and plenty of promising brutality to satisfy most. but that is not the purpose of this display ; he will do so upclose, in true combat, to show that he is a force without his stand. ( like passione's old world, his father explains. a dying breed. those who knew how to kill with their hands & minds, rather than cheap tricks. ) for those who may think that he can be killed by other, simpler means as opposed to stand usage, may they rethink their terrible plans. they will all bear witness to the slaughter -- which, at first, is almost laughably easy. some of them have been drugged, against risotto's wishes. but he was told it was a necessary precaution. until it becomes clear that one isn't.

their blades are locked, like true gladiators of the roman empire teleported to the presence. there is hatred in the eyes of this stranger, a determination to survive. whoever he is, he has lived long enough in the organization to know how to convert his fear into resolve. an admirable feature. but risotto's resolve is greater. the audience's cheers are deafening, and for a single moment, somehow, he can single out the sound of only his father's voice. show me who you are. polpo knows precisely who he is, who he made him be. he expects nothing less of his son. and risotto does not intend to disappoint.

gradually, he overpowers his opponent. a rare smile -- a twisted sneer of sadistic enthusiasm bleeding out from a normally apathetic and stoic mask -- spreads on his face. the enemy struggles, trying to hold on for as long as possible. he fights well, but not well enough. he wavers, limbs shaking. there is a moment of weakness, an opening. risotto eagerly snatches it, and in a single, swift motion drives the twin blades into the other man's chest. show me who you are, polpo had demanded of him. show them all. no longer the sullen boy, no longer the black prince. but someday, someday soon perhaps, capo nero. ( and, if his father has his way, don nero. )

leone is his moon, pushing and pulling the tides of this world into an orderly form. you say it is i who brings you ease, he often thinks back on. and yet, do you know what you do to me? with leone, there is peace and ease he can find nowhere else. bruno is many titles and each is placed ahead of his own being -- he is the people's capo, napoli's protector, a leader, a mentor, a son honoring his father, a father protecting his own -- and that leaves the simple man last. only around leone, is he allowed to be his truest self, flaws & all.

diavolo trusted no one. he withdrew himself from the world and saw enemies everywhere. in a way he was. . . strangely pitiful, for he was incapable of meaningful bonds. he had no desire to bond with his innermost circle of squadrons. he abandoned the woman he might have loved. he yearned to annihilate his own bloodline for some deluded reason of preservation. he stood alone in his throne, which was stacked upon a set of pillars, high above the rest of the world. it had been a cold & lonesome place to be.

giorno withdrew the dark curtain of fear & uncertainty that diavolo had set. like a sunrise stretching across the kingdom, he welcomed with a kindly smile and open embrace. he offered warmth and light, a guiding light to a newfound path. a new world, a better one. the sun burned only those who'd truly earned his scorn. otherwise, he stretches out his open arms and accepts the desperate hands of the people; they weep and they wail, they yearn for his miraculous hands and the blessings he offers. savior, they call him.

❝  everything i have done is in direct contrast to diavolo's reign, and still it seems i have done everything wrong to you. ❞ there is a tired smile, a courteous one. he is trying, he has been trying for so long. but abbacchio's coldness has only worsened with time. what started as understandable distrust then became blatant blame -- for bruno, for narancia, for everything -- and resentment. ❝  i wish to open hearts, i wish to keep an open mind. i don't necessarily trust everyone, but i certainly don't shut out those who wish for a chance. ❞

i want to emulate bruno. he would say, but there is no telling how quickly that may set the other man off. to speak of his loved ones, whether living or dead, almost always earns his ire. it matters not that giorno cared deeply for them too. for abbacchio there is a line drawn, a deep boundary, which distinguishes his family. a family which he has never considered giorno to be part of.

❝  beloved. ❞ there is a sweet, unsettling crone to her voice. it barely conceals her anger. ❝ wake up.  ❞

he does not understand her, he does not understand the language of her craft ( and he never will, whispers justice rather snidely. ) what sort of impression does he have of it, she sometimes wonders, to conclude that every issue is resolved by a mere snap of her fingers? her work is archaic and carefully laid plans, delicate spiderwebs woven with purposeful precision. whilst he was a mortal babe, she was whispering words, planting seeds that would form suffocating roots, poisoning the trees of empires.

❝  magic is but one of the tools in one's hand. ❞ she explains carefully she slowly approaches the shadowed corner where he lingers. her movements have a special sort of allure, not just seductive but intrigue that makes it impossible for one to tear their eyes away, for fear that perhaps she may strike instead. it's so hard to gauge, until it is too late. ❝  just as the artist wields a paintbrush, the writer with his pen, the warrior with his sword, or the priest with his scriptures. ❞

her hand carefully drags itself across his back, her fingers dragging across the cold skin teasingly. there is slight bite in her words, the last ones to be precise. but she is merely teasing him about that unaddressed matter. she stalks around him in a circle, as a shark when drawn to blood.

❝  without their tools, they themselves are not their profession. they are nothing. but without the proper user to wield them, the tool itself is useless. surely you understand where i am going with this. . . ❞ her voice trails, her half - lidded gaze almost looks hopeful and her painted lips are smiling serenely. she stops in front of him, both hands stroking his chest where beneath no such beating heart exists. ❝  magic cannot, on a whim nor on its own, rewrite destiny. ❞

she leans closer, as though yearning for the taste of him. even if his mouth were blood - coated, it would make no matter. let it be mine as well. ❝  magic may build the foundation, it may build the stairway of ascension, so that one -- and only one, someone worthy -- may climb and rewrite destiny himself. ❞

the twins cling to him, cowering behind his legs and crying. they cry and beg and plead with their other father to make this thing, this monster go away. they are too young to conjure stands of their own -- though it is possible the escalating trauma of this scenario could activate them -- but they have the gift of sight. they are aware of magician's red and his warm, comforting presence. they think of the phoenix as an image of him, a sign of comfort. just as they do with the noble silver chariot, their papa's knight.

this... whoever or whatever this is, this is not their father. this is not avdol's husband. this intruder who has somehow violently made his way into their house, masquerading as his jean, now has the audacity to cry?

anger burns within him, but he must quell it. the children are too close in range, the indiscriminate flames of his own stand could hurt them. and there's no telling what this pretender can do. the only favorable strategy right now is to deescalate as best as he can, buying enough time for yosef & charlotte to get away. once it's the two of them, avdol can plot an attack. he needs this man alive, though. he needs him to tell him where his jean is, and for his sake, that he'd better still be alive.

❝  okay. . . ❞ he replies unevenly, still frowning and still on the alert. one hand gently nudges yosef's tear - streaked but curious face back, a subtle hint for the two to back away. the other hand is raised to show a means of defenselessness. and the fiery, blazing orange aura that simmers around avdol's form carefully extinguishes itself. he is not relinquishing magician's red entirely, just enough to the naked eye. ❝   i believe you. ❞

the twins back away, whilst avdol takes a slow, careful step forward. gradually sealing the distance between himself and this doppelganger who so eerily resembles jean. up close, he can sense immense sorrow. the tears are not an act, they're sincere. it is like the threads of his heart, his very soul, have all snapped or been sliced away. for a moment, avdol hesitates. he feels conflicted. could this be . . . ?

he takes one look back at the kids. he remembers that he was lied to, made a fool of, and manipulated. he remembers enemies of dio who could shapeshift into mockeries of their loved ones. he cannot take another chance. he must continue with this act.

it is as if he holds a dagger behind his back, intending to strike this false jean at the right opportunity.

two halves of a similar coin, but not the same one. separate paths, separate lives, separate worlds -- they each begin the same on a dirt trodden path on a rainy evening. in one life, she never even makes it home. in another, in the one she knows, jean saves her at the cost of his own life. someone always dies, someone has to die. there is no other way this story continues.

this jean, she thinks, was given a crueler story than hers. there are similar notes, similar chords struck -- there is always a journey, a promise of revenge, there is always dio, and there is always the crusaders -- but they were different songs. and jean's is sadder, ending on an unfair, lonely note.

there are fights no swords can win. what a profoundly sad set of words. she bites her tongue before she can protest. her silver chariot, an invisible presence which lurks in the interaction, bows solemnly in agreement. but sherry refuses to concede.

❝  look at me, ❞ she grasps the face of the man who is her brother, will always be her brother in every universe. her thumbs skim the tear - streaked cheeks. ❝  you are the one who taught me everything i know about fighting. ❞

and about honor, about love, about having dreams that extend beyond the borders of their sleepy little village they grew up in. you taught me to be brave. he told her to be so with his dying breath. everything she knows, everything that she is now, she owes to him.