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Mourn Us
Title: Mourn Us
Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Vento Aureo
Character(s): Giorno, Fugo, Mista, Risotto, Illuso, Ghiaccio, Melone, Formaggio, Pesci, Prosciutto
Pairing(s): None
Genre: Angst
Word Count: 1,340
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Major character death
Summary: The spirits of the assassins linger, and ask the only people they can for help.
Notes: Definitely not CCB material.
What Giorno realizes first is that this is the beach where Abbachio died; second, that he does not know the man sitting on the ground before him; third, that he is dreaming.
He rarely dreams lucidly. Giorno hesitates before acting on his first impulse: checking to see if he can reach Gold Experience Requiem. If he was attacked in a dream, he would prefer to be prepared for it, though he doesn’t know if it’s even a possibility or if he’s just being paranoid.
His Stand doesn’t respond. The man on the ground in front of him looks up at him; the black sclera of his eyes are unsettling, but seemingly harmless to him.
“I don’t intend to attack you,” says the man. “Even if I had the power to do so, there would be no point to it.”
“Who are you?” Giorno asks, wary.
“My name was Risotto Nero. I was the leader of the assassination squad, who once tried to take revenge on the former boss for the killing of my subordinates.” Risotto folds his hands. “That revenge led us into conflict with your group, and to a man, we were killed.”
Giorno remembers, though he never met this man in particular. “What is it that you’re after? Vengeance?”
“We have already received it. The boss, Diavolo, has been punished more than any of us could ever have achieved. Your squad, responsible for our deaths as they are, acted in self-defense.” Risotto speaks plainly, without hurt. “What we seek from you is simpler. Mourn us.”
Giorno says nothing.
“We had no time to grieve for our lost while we pursued revenge, and now none of us are left to pay respects. I don’t claim that we were blameless, but until someone mourns our deaths, we are trapped here, unable to move on.” Risotto lets silence fall, broken only by the sound of imaginary waves on an illusive shore.
When Giorno wakes, he finds himself in perfect health, with nothing missing from before he went to sleep. The dream remains in his memory, in perfect clarity despite the passage of time.
“I don’t blame you.”
It’s an unlikely thing for Fugo to hear from one of Purple Haze’s victims, even in a dream.
On the other side of a mirror, Illuso stares at him. “Death was always a risk I had to take, and that’s just the way your Stand happens to kill. It wasn’t personal on either of our sides.”
“That’s open-minded of you,” says Fugo, finally.
“I’ve had a while to think about it. There’s not much else to do but think, when you’re dead and you can’t move on.” Illuso leans his head against the other side of the mirror. “I’ve gotten tired of that a long time ago. I don’t blame you for killing me, but the least you can do to make up for it is let me go on to the other side.”
“How is that my fault that you’re stuck?” Fugo asks.
“It isn’t, but who else am I going to ask to mourn me when my only friends are just as dead?”
Fugo wakes slowly. When the fog clears from his head, what he remembers most struck him was how tired the man in the mirror looked.
“Asshole.” Ghiaccio crosses his arms, back to a familiar tree.
Automatically, Mista reaches for his pistol, only to find that he doesn’t have it. He figures, with that and somebody he saw die standing in front of him, that he’s probably dreaming. “Bastard.”
“Trash. I can’t believe I have to ask someone like you to mourn me.” Ghiaccio groans. “This is worse than being killed.”
“Why the hell would I do that?” asks Mista, with narrowed eyes.
Ghiaccio’s scowl deepens. He raises three fingers. “One, you’re responsible for me being stuck like this. Two, even if I’m not the most likeable guy, at least you can pay your respects to the rest of my dead squad. Three, who deserves being stuck in limbo for the rest of eternity?”
“You should probably be asking Giorno instead,” says Mista. “He’s more sympathetic to people who’ve tried to kill him.”
“He’s booked for dreams. Just don’t forget what I said, or I’ll have to come back again and say it louder.”
Mista wakes with a pounding headache. The dream sticks in his mind long after the headache fades.
“Giorno Giovanna.” Melone stops his motorcycle. “I have a few words for you.”
Giorno realizes he’s dreaming lucidly again and makes a quick deduction. “The automatic Stand’s user?”
“You remember me! Very good.” Melone smiles, but it’s clearly hollow. “You’re a busy man, I understand how it is. I’m sure you have many responsibilities as the new boss.”
Silently, Giorno nods.
“Even so… Surely it wouldn’t take too long to put together some kind of funeral rites. I’ve noticed that Buccellati and the others of your group who were killed aren’t hanging around like we are. You couldn’t have failed to give them respects, even with your busy schedule.” Melone turns his eyes skyward. “We were not your friends or your teammates, and we were not moral people, but we do not deserve this. Don’t you think so?”
Giorno wakes before he can answer.
When Fugo realizes he’s dreaming lucidly, the first thing he asks is, “Who are you supposed to be?”
“The name’s Formaggio. Or, I guess I should be calling myself in the past tense, huh? The assassin formerly known as Formaggio.” Formaggio is sitting on the front of a car. “You remember when Narancia set fire to a whole street just to kill someone, right?”
Hearing ‘Narancia’ still causes a painful twinge in Fugo’s heart. “I remember that.”
“Well, I don’t have anybody better to haunt than you now. Narancia’s long since moved on, I can tell.” Formaggio snorts at Fugo’s expression. “What, you were worried about that? Your friend’s definitely in Heaven.”
“...He deserves it,” Fugo murmurs, not looking at him.
“So does my squad. Gelato and Sorbet… I haven’t seen them, probably because we had the time to mourn them, but the rest of us are stuck here.” Formaggio shrugs his shoulders. “Even Hell would probably be an improvement over never moving on. So whichever you think we’re going to, it wouldn’t hurt to send us there already.”
After waking, Fugo opens up a particular drawer, where he keeps photos of Buccellati’s group while they were still all alive and together, and he stares at the pictures for a long while.
“Big brother… Can you handle this? I’m not good at talking.” Pesci fidgets, glancing between Mista across the aisle and Prosciutto sitting next to him in the train.
Prosciutto sighs heavily. “You never will be, now. Very well.” He turns to Mista. “What would it take for us to receive a funeral?”
Mista thinks about it. “I don’t know. An apology?”
“I can’t promise you that. We did what we felt was ‘right’, and we will not be taking back our attempts to seek justice for our comrades.” Prosciutto’s gaze bores into Mista. “If it was you who was killed, what would you want your friends to do?”
The answer comes easily. “Live. I’d want them to live.”
“W-we’re not very smart, I guess.” Pesci speaks up. “But, I know we tried our best. We can’t do any better.”
Mista wakes shortly after that, and puts speaking with Giorno first on his list of tasks for the day.
The funeral is small, with no bodies to be buried and very few in attendance. A clergyman was found who could be relied upon not to ask too many questions, and the service is brief. They know nothing of the personal lives of the dead, and can’t say much that’s tailored to them.
Yet as the service comes to a close, for a moment, they see the front pew filled with spirits, all in a row with held hands and gentle expressions. A blink, and they’re gone.
None of them dream of the assassins again.
Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Vento Aureo
Character(s): Giorno, Fugo, Mista, Risotto, Illuso, Ghiaccio, Melone, Formaggio, Pesci, Prosciutto
Pairing(s): None
Genre: Angst
Word Count: 1,340
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Major character death
Summary: The spirits of the assassins linger, and ask the only people they can for help.
Notes: Definitely not CCB material.
What Giorno realizes first is that this is the beach where Abbachio died; second, that he does not know the man sitting on the ground before him; third, that he is dreaming.
He rarely dreams lucidly. Giorno hesitates before acting on his first impulse: checking to see if he can reach Gold Experience Requiem. If he was attacked in a dream, he would prefer to be prepared for it, though he doesn’t know if it’s even a possibility or if he’s just being paranoid.
His Stand doesn’t respond. The man on the ground in front of him looks up at him; the black sclera of his eyes are unsettling, but seemingly harmless to him.
“I don’t intend to attack you,” says the man. “Even if I had the power to do so, there would be no point to it.”
“Who are you?” Giorno asks, wary.
“My name was Risotto Nero. I was the leader of the assassination squad, who once tried to take revenge on the former boss for the killing of my subordinates.” Risotto folds his hands. “That revenge led us into conflict with your group, and to a man, we were killed.”
Giorno remembers, though he never met this man in particular. “What is it that you’re after? Vengeance?”
“We have already received it. The boss, Diavolo, has been punished more than any of us could ever have achieved. Your squad, responsible for our deaths as they are, acted in self-defense.” Risotto speaks plainly, without hurt. “What we seek from you is simpler. Mourn us.”
Giorno says nothing.
“We had no time to grieve for our lost while we pursued revenge, and now none of us are left to pay respects. I don’t claim that we were blameless, but until someone mourns our deaths, we are trapped here, unable to move on.” Risotto lets silence fall, broken only by the sound of imaginary waves on an illusive shore.
When Giorno wakes, he finds himself in perfect health, with nothing missing from before he went to sleep. The dream remains in his memory, in perfect clarity despite the passage of time.
“I don’t blame you.”
It’s an unlikely thing for Fugo to hear from one of Purple Haze’s victims, even in a dream.
On the other side of a mirror, Illuso stares at him. “Death was always a risk I had to take, and that’s just the way your Stand happens to kill. It wasn’t personal on either of our sides.”
“That’s open-minded of you,” says Fugo, finally.
“I’ve had a while to think about it. There’s not much else to do but think, when you’re dead and you can’t move on.” Illuso leans his head against the other side of the mirror. “I’ve gotten tired of that a long time ago. I don’t blame you for killing me, but the least you can do to make up for it is let me go on to the other side.”
“How is that my fault that you’re stuck?” Fugo asks.
“It isn’t, but who else am I going to ask to mourn me when my only friends are just as dead?”
Fugo wakes slowly. When the fog clears from his head, what he remembers most struck him was how tired the man in the mirror looked.
“Asshole.” Ghiaccio crosses his arms, back to a familiar tree.
Automatically, Mista reaches for his pistol, only to find that he doesn’t have it. He figures, with that and somebody he saw die standing in front of him, that he’s probably dreaming. “Bastard.”
“Trash. I can’t believe I have to ask someone like you to mourn me.” Ghiaccio groans. “This is worse than being killed.”
“Why the hell would I do that?” asks Mista, with narrowed eyes.
Ghiaccio’s scowl deepens. He raises three fingers. “One, you’re responsible for me being stuck like this. Two, even if I’m not the most likeable guy, at least you can pay your respects to the rest of my dead squad. Three, who deserves being stuck in limbo for the rest of eternity?”
“You should probably be asking Giorno instead,” says Mista. “He’s more sympathetic to people who’ve tried to kill him.”
“He’s booked for dreams. Just don’t forget what I said, or I’ll have to come back again and say it louder.”
Mista wakes with a pounding headache. The dream sticks in his mind long after the headache fades.
“Giorno Giovanna.” Melone stops his motorcycle. “I have a few words for you.”
Giorno realizes he’s dreaming lucidly again and makes a quick deduction. “The automatic Stand’s user?”
“You remember me! Very good.” Melone smiles, but it’s clearly hollow. “You’re a busy man, I understand how it is. I’m sure you have many responsibilities as the new boss.”
Silently, Giorno nods.
“Even so… Surely it wouldn’t take too long to put together some kind of funeral rites. I’ve noticed that Buccellati and the others of your group who were killed aren’t hanging around like we are. You couldn’t have failed to give them respects, even with your busy schedule.” Melone turns his eyes skyward. “We were not your friends or your teammates, and we were not moral people, but we do not deserve this. Don’t you think so?”
Giorno wakes before he can answer.
When Fugo realizes he’s dreaming lucidly, the first thing he asks is, “Who are you supposed to be?”
“The name’s Formaggio. Or, I guess I should be calling myself in the past tense, huh? The assassin formerly known as Formaggio.” Formaggio is sitting on the front of a car. “You remember when Narancia set fire to a whole street just to kill someone, right?”
Hearing ‘Narancia’ still causes a painful twinge in Fugo’s heart. “I remember that.”
“Well, I don’t have anybody better to haunt than you now. Narancia’s long since moved on, I can tell.” Formaggio snorts at Fugo’s expression. “What, you were worried about that? Your friend’s definitely in Heaven.”
“...He deserves it,” Fugo murmurs, not looking at him.
“So does my squad. Gelato and Sorbet… I haven’t seen them, probably because we had the time to mourn them, but the rest of us are stuck here.” Formaggio shrugs his shoulders. “Even Hell would probably be an improvement over never moving on. So whichever you think we’re going to, it wouldn’t hurt to send us there already.”
After waking, Fugo opens up a particular drawer, where he keeps photos of Buccellati’s group while they were still all alive and together, and he stares at the pictures for a long while.
“Big brother… Can you handle this? I’m not good at talking.” Pesci fidgets, glancing between Mista across the aisle and Prosciutto sitting next to him in the train.
Prosciutto sighs heavily. “You never will be, now. Very well.” He turns to Mista. “What would it take for us to receive a funeral?”
Mista thinks about it. “I don’t know. An apology?”
“I can’t promise you that. We did what we felt was ‘right’, and we will not be taking back our attempts to seek justice for our comrades.” Prosciutto’s gaze bores into Mista. “If it was you who was killed, what would you want your friends to do?”
The answer comes easily. “Live. I’d want them to live.”
“W-we’re not very smart, I guess.” Pesci speaks up. “But, I know we tried our best. We can’t do any better.”
Mista wakes shortly after that, and puts speaking with Giorno first on his list of tasks for the day.
The funeral is small, with no bodies to be buried and very few in attendance. A clergyman was found who could be relied upon not to ask too many questions, and the service is brief. They know nothing of the personal lives of the dead, and can’t say much that’s tailored to them.
Yet as the service comes to a close, for a moment, they see the front pew filled with spirits, all in a row with held hands and gentle expressions. A blink, and they’re gone.
None of them dream of the assassins again.