OPEN POST 2021

[siberia]

1. Post here with the character you want to play with in the header or body
2. Put your prompt in the body of the comment (or leave it to me - i don't mind coming up with something!)
3. ????
4. Profit

IN THE MOOD FOR:
    
    
    

--> FULL MUSELIST

Comments

[arkproject]

[ The environment is a strange mix of too-advanced technology and a misshapen, decaying building, some kind of office or research complex. At first, there's not much to find or see; what technology there is to interact with is either defunct or requires passcodes or an interface with another unknown device to access.

But Catherine is starting to lose patience and get desperate. She thinks she'd rather be deactivated than left in isolation until her power source runs out. Whoever or whatever else is here has got to be better than being stuck in a terminal and unable to move under her own power. Being stuck in Phi with Simon pissed at her for eternity would even be better. ]

Hello? [ she calls out as loudly as she can through her one tinny speaker. By now she's a little emotional, frustration and urgency underlining her words. ] Is anyone there? Please, I need help! I'll take anything at this point!

[302]

[ Well. What else is new.

He's become all too used to this kind of thing in too short a time - or maybe it's more that it still doesn't feel real. No matter what imagery appears before him, he finds himself still going forward as if in a dream, approaching some vague endpoint that isn't even clear to him. And every time he thinks he's putting things together, or thinks there's nothing left to frighten him, everything gets turned upside down again. Case in point: he doesn't recognize this place at all, from anything, not his memories, and not Joseph's or Walter's or anyone else's.

Maybe. He doesn't really know anymore.

But, again, he feels numb to the shock, and the strongest emotion in him is a vague relief that nothing's tried to kill him yet until hearing a disembodied voice shocks him out of his dreamlike reverie. Henry realizes he is in a storage room, or something - he's not great with technology, he doesn't know what he's looking at, and he's also not sure where that voice came from in the clutter of the room, or if responding to it is even a good idea. Fortunately, wise decision-making has never been his strong suit, "receiver of wisdom" title be damned. ]

... Hello?

[ a meek, confused voice. now he's talking to empty air... ]

[arkproject]

[ Honestly, it could be worse. They're human-bodied or at least human-shaped, and they're speaking sensibly, without the kind of incoherent violence she'd seen in the confused, WAU-riddled robots back on PATHOS-II.

She'll take meek and confused.

Catherine's voice jumps in eagerness and transparent excitement. ] Hi, you heard me! Thank God! I've been stuck here for ages, I don't know how long - this system's internal clock seems really unreliable - and I wasn't picking up anything on the cameras...

I'm Catherine. What's your name?

[302]

Uh... Henry.

[ he replies even though he thinks he might be talking to a ghost, because he's Henry and he doesn't think that deeply about what he's doing or saying here. It's better than the ghost trying to kill him?! He's sort of peering at the shelves, trying to find out where the voice is coming from, hesitantly moving things around on occasion. ]

... Where are you? I don't, uh, see anything.

[ preparing to uncover something horrific underneath a stack of old papers - he doesn't even know what, but when things like this happen, it hasn't ever surprised him in a pleasant way. ]

i am here for you, cinny-chan

[laeradr]

[ He's taken to exploring the island when things are quiet. Sometimes on foot, sometimes by air, usually in the woods, but sometimes along the coast. Not a terribly exciting task, given many afternoons go by yielding no new information, but it's far preferable to the oddly nerve-wracking tedium of listless evenings with nothing to do.

He hasn't had this much time to himself since he was eight.

So this afternoon, like many others, finds Vangeance making his way through vaguely-familiar scenery, his breath fogging cold before him as he casts about in search of anything unusual, and -- he spots something, for once.

A ... hut? Some sort of shelter. Certainly nothing he expected to find away from the housing district.

There's the quiet rustle of his footsteps as he approaches, his grimoire already out and floating beside him, just in case. But otherwise just trying to figure out exactly what's going on here ... ? ]

van-kun...

[globs]

[ and Cinnabar, as they usually are in the afternoon, is asleep. There are many factors that make them stay awake through the night - habit, anxiety, a desire to minimize damage - but it's still in defiance of their biology, and by the time the sun rises, they're exhausted, in spite of their inclusions hungrily absorbing the light. In the winter, it's even worse, with less light and more overcast skies. They've long become accustomed to the shame of sleeping through the day in a dark corner while their peers work, though, and it's no different here. They can hardly feel the bite of it.

The hut is more specifically some kind of gardening shed, by the looks of it - or, at least, it was one at some point. Now, it looks abandoned, sitting at the edge of the woods a little ways beyond the housing row. A keen eye might be able to tell that it isn't. There's a small pathway recently cleared of leaves and debris in front of it; the windows have spiderwebs in them, but they've been cleared of dust, though it's too dark to see inside.

Most notably, there's a freshly-planted sapling sitting at one of the shed's corners, making a familiar whistling noise. ]

heart fingers at cinnabar

[laeradr]

[ The shack seems to have been recently cleaned, at least, judging by the windows. But it's too dark to see inside. And Vangeance is just about to send a few of his vines creeping under the tiny crack in the door to sense the mana of whatever's inside -- when he's interrupted by a whistling sound. One that he's awfully familiar with.

Of course, it only takes him a moment to step around the shack and spot that sapling, with the wooden birds he'd crafted. And that's all the confirmation he needs.

Cinnabar had seemed awfully cautious about being around other living beings. Of course they'd sequester themselves to something lonely like this, away from others. The thought makes his chest ache for a moment, and Vangeance is all the more glad he'd stopped before invading their privacy. Nobody deserves such an indignity, but especially not someone who already seems to hurt and careful.

So instead, he waits. He's well-accustomed to wiling away the hours in the company of nature; it's something he's found comfort in since early childhood.

By the time Cinnabar finally emerges from their little shack, they might notice a few tiny changes. A few footsteps in the grass near their shack. The sapling with the carved birds seems more lively -- it's sprouted a few more tiny buds, and its leaves are greener and fuller, though the birds are untouched. And there's the flutter of red up in the branches of a tree nearby. Vangeance, nestled up in the branches, gazing off at the darkening sky; a few blackbirds keep him company, but he otherwise seems deep in thought. ]

[globs]

[ it takes an hour or two, but they do emerge eventually. They've always slept fitfully; no doubt trying to sleep through the daylight hours makes it worse. After waking up sporadically here and there, they finally give up on sleeping for the time being, forcing themself to their feet to confront the ordeal of existing once again. For Cinnabar, there's little to do here. Maybe less than there had been back home.

In that sense, the gift from Vangeance has been nice. It's something to do - caring for a plant like that. Their presence will probably kill it off sooner or later, but they've been doing their best to be careful with it, and so far, it seems okay. When they open the door, their shoes in one hand, they turn their head to glance at it, and their expression relaxes the slightest bit, nearing something like a smile, at seeing it looking healthy, before they return their attention to the ground, dumping some excess poison out of their footwear and onto the dirt. They'd fallen asleep wearing them - they're always afraid they'll step on something hard and fracture their leg if they're not on.

The brief peek into their daily doldrums comes to an end when the flash of red catches their eye - and, instantly, their gaze shoots up into the trees, where Vangeance stands out like a sore thumb in that getup of his. Immediately, they stiffen, surprised or defensive - probably both. ]

... What are you doing out here?

infinite cornloop

[heartsteals]

[ Usually, Lupin spends his nights working. It's the reason behind his erratic schedule and frequent catnaps; there are some things that just don't work as well during the daylight hours, and committing crimes is most certainly one of them, if only in terms of pure aesthetic. But there are also nights where he has nothing to do but wait. Being a perfect thief means seizing the perfect opportunity, and that requires a careful plan, knowing what day the guards' schedules will be off just a little, what hour precisely the museum begins to pack up its exhibition. Traditionally, he wasn't a fan of sitting on his hands at home and biding his time. That changed quite dramatically once he had someone to spend that time with - and now, suddenly, the nights off are his favorite.

Unlike the heists, he doesn't really need any elaborate plans with Cairngorm. He delights in surprising them and spoiling them with grandiose gestures as much as he always has - make no mistake - but he's just as happy to spend evenings like this, whiling away the time talking about everything and nothing, like they used to in Chroma, his only goal being to someday succeed in making them laugh.

He hasn't gotten there yet, despite his best efforts. Lucky for him that those shy smiles from Cairngorm aren't as rare as they used to be, then, because they're just as good. And he's even luckier that they're so much lighter and softer than they had been, too, because that means that he can reach out and pull them in close just the way he always wanted to when he saw that bit of actual happiness on their face. Luckiest of all, they don't mind. Lupin might even dare to say that they like his attentions, even if the little grouch would never admit it.

That's how the two of them end up like this time and again. Easy conversation becoming something warmer and gentler, playful. Cairngorm almost in his lap, Lupin's arms around them, hands at their back. His lips on theirs. It feels like it's been ages since that first kiss in the snow. But his heart still races to feel them so close, even now, like he's doing something he shouldn't, still giddy with the knowledge that someone so different could feel the same. That someone so hard could be this soft with him. He's still mad about them, just like he'd said. And that's precisely why he needs to watch himself. It's too easy to get lost in them and their dark eyes and shy affections. Sometimes the only reminder to behave he gets is when his body remembers he needs air. ]

-- It's getting late, [ he murmurs, breaking the kiss that had gone on just a little bit longer than he'd meant and loosening his hold on them that had gotten just a little bit more ardent and desperate than he would have liked. He leans back from them, putting a friendly amount of space between them, and does an impressively good job of mostly quashing the blush burgeoning on his cheeks. ] You're helping Impey and Cardia with the ornithopter early tomorrow morning, aren't you? Skimp on sleep, and you'll wind up hammering your thumb by accident.

[unghost]

[ At their core, they've come to enjoy having free time for what it means in the human world, too. They'd never been too fond of it in the world of gems; having free time in that desolate and open world had always been mundane and boring, especially before they were broken apart from Ghost. It always had given them too much time to think. It was like that in Chroma, too - anytime their hands were idle, their mind would wander too far down the path of what they'd have to when they left, and so on.

But here, in the life they've made for themself in Steel London, there's never a shortage of things for them to do. Wearing new clothes, eating new foods, studying new materials like chemistry and the arts, doing whatever they can to help Lupin on heists... it's been good. The pages of their day to day life are full and teeming, rather than empty, bare, and an utter struggle to fill as they had for so many years before.

That had always been the point, too, of coming here. They wanted to get away from everything that had held them down in the world of gems. Selfishly, perhaps foolishly, they abandoned everything familiar to them to come here, to a world where they'd spend the remainder of their shortened lifespan trying to keep up. But it was all worth it, because they were able to cast away everything that kept them apart from Lupin. That inescapable duty. That cold, heavy body. Like this, they're able to be close to him, experience so much more with him than they would have ever been able to otherwise - and wholly, honestly, its better that way, in their mind.

They only had so much exposure to the way things were between humans in love when they were in Chroma; there were the few other pairs of people in love there, too, and there were storybooks. But when they came to Steel London, they saw it more. Couples down by the river, sneaking more than chaste kisses and laughing when they thought no one was looking. Star-crossed lovers on the stage at the opera house, passionate and almost sensual. Slowly, but surely, they found themself wanting to see themself in that way, becoming greedier, wanting to be affectionate with Lupin the way other humans were with other humans. They're the same now, aren't they? Them being a gem was the only thing that had kept them apart all this time, so with that cast away, there shouldn't be any problems. Whenever they get close, there's a certain pleasurable thrill to it, one they'd like to chase, now that they have the opportunity to and that they've built up the courage to.

But the same thing always happens whenever they feel like they're getting closer to him, closer to having an intimacy with him that they're not even sure they can name. He always draws back from them, somehow or some way, and they can't help but wonder if it's because they'll never match up to what a human should be like. Maybe he doesn't see them the same way he would another human, and that's why they're... different. Or, perhaps, they misunderstand some part of the equation. It's a foreign sort of longing that they feel, afterall, wanting to kiss him and be kissed, wanting to be as close as they can be. What they have had and what they have now never feels like it's enough to quell this wanting.

So, when he breaks away, they sit back on their perch on him, pursing their lips in a hint of displeasure. They keep their eyes down from his. ]

...I am, but I know that's not why you did that just now.

[ They sigh, refreshingly blunt as they always are. He's never so obvious that he flat out tells them to get away - he's way too conscious of their feelings to do something so rash - but they always end up easing down like this. Cairngorm had always accepted it before, out of either 1) actually needing to slow down, or 2) not being fully convinced that he was doing it on purpose. They've taken time to understand themself and their own feelings, between now and all the times before. And now that they have, they'd rather just confront him. ]

Am I bad at this? You can just say it.

[ The delivery is dry, characteristic of their typical brand of humor, but it doesn't really seem like they're fully joking. ]

[heartsteals]

[ to be fair, it was not his smoothest escape, and Cairngorm isn't stupid. Perhaps he should have seen this coming - and to an extent, he did know it would come up eventually. Just not now. And not like this. It's rare that Cairngorm truly catches him off guard, even if they surprise him now and again... but, judging by the expression on his face, they've just done it. For a moment, he's speechless, eyes widening. ]

Are you -- no. No, not at all! Of course not.

[ Lupin manages to get that out, at least. First and foremost is making sure they're not blaming themself for anything going on. Or... not going on. Now he's left to contend with the fact that Cairngorm is -- not satisfied? He knows them well enough to understand they aren't just giving him a hard time here. While they look away, his eyes remained trained on them, trying to read them while also trying to act like his heart didn't just leap into his throat. ]

... The opposite, actually. I can't get enough of you. [ now some of that pink is leaking onto his face. His brow furrows a little, somewhere between troubled and embarrassed. ] We'd be here all night.

[ even saying that much feels like a step into dangerous territory, but they're already standing at the edge of it here. They have a human body, yes, but their heart is still a gem's. He'd never be so selfish as to try and coerce them into anything - he'd made peace with this ages ago, long before they even came to Steel London. He loves them so earnestly that he's happy just to be near them, to spoil them with words and gentle touches; his heart is full enough that he hardly minds the occasional ache from his body. Lupin can't ask for more. But Cairngorm... ]

[unghost]

[ It is a step in dangerous territory - their heart jumps a bit, in secret, when he says that, unable to help themself. It never gets less addicting to feel sought after, to feel desired in some way. Still, they can't meet his eyes, despite color growing in their own features, as well. ]

Not all night.

[ But they wanted a little bit longer than where they're stopping now, is the implication. They're almost pouting when they say it, fidgeting with their own fingers where they're laced behind his neck. They'd felt bold when they immediately brought it up, but confronted with having to talk about or explain their feelings on the topic? If they could, they'd just skip over it. But they have a feeling Lupin wouldn't be satisfied with that from them - he never is. ]

If you keep doing that for my sake, you don't have to. [ Pulling away from them, dodging anytime they might accidentally wade a little further into intimacy. While they don't make any motion to get closer, they finally meet his gaze, expression a carefully crafted neutral. ] But if you're actually worried about not sleeping enough, then...

[ Are they joking, trying to distract from their forward behavior? Or are they serious, trying to be considerate of how he's mentioned the notion of them losing night hours twice? It's really hard to tell - as if they're letting the interpretation be up to him to guide the incoming response and ensuing night. ]

[unfastens]

time to be fussy

for twish

[unfastens]

[ Fate's a funny thing. If it does exist, Bruno thinks he must be its plaything. Only a short handful of weeks ago, he'd taken an order from Polpo to clean up a little mess regarding Leaky-eye Luca. A few days later, he was dead. And a few days after that... he wasn't. Against all odds, he wasn't. His nerves are still thrumming with a dull ache across his body, his flesh tender and sore around the pockmarks of bullet wounds left by Mista, punctures from his fight with Oasis. The garish wound that ended his life is a scab crossing his left side, deep and ugly towards his heart - but not quite reaching it. That was the peculiar thing. There's a faint ringing in his ears, still, and a receding blurriness to his eyes, but he's alive.

Maybe he's fate's plaything, but Giorno and his Stand have become its masters. It's the only way he can rationalize it. The resolve he'd seen in that boy, that day, had been no lie. If any other fifteen-year-old boy suddenly found himself sitting in Passione's throne, he'd scoff - but Giorno's face and heart were hard as steel, and he'd already performed more miracles in a week and change than Bruno had ever seen in his entire life. This is correct, he felt. This is fate. And for once in his life, Bruno stepped back and let someone else take the reins. His body was battered and in need of rest, for one thing. For another, he wasn't the only one of fate's playthings that was somehow left standing when the dust cleared. ]

It should be livable. We can buy whatever else you need when we get there.

[ The sky and sea scroll by outside the window of Bucciarati's car (his actual car, not a rental: a perhaps-flashier-than-expected Maserati), and if one didn't know better, one wouldn't know that he'd had both feet in the grave not too long ago - other than being a bit more covered up than usual to hide his various healing injuries and the slight pallor to his skin, he looks as sharp as ever. To his eyes, Trish looks much the same. But he's smart enough to know that she's carrying most of her injuries on the inside. The urban center of Naples is somewhere beyond the rear window; he's driving now to a smaller town in its outskirts by the sea. One where he owns a property that's soon to be Trish's. ]

How are you feeling? [ he keeps his eyes on the road, and his voice is as measured and serious as ever, but the question's an honest one. He can't help but be worried. That's why he's here, against his better judgement. Technically, he's not associated with Passione at the moment - and, privately, he's concerned there might still be people out there with an eye on Trish. Naturally, he hasn't said either of these things to the girl herself. ]

BRUBO

[figlia_morbida]

[Sure, most of her injuries cut past her flesh, down to her very soul if that's what Spice Girl is, as Diavolo had seen it fit to puncture her abdomen with King Crimson's fist. But Trish isn't looking at the scenery rushing past or Bruno or the sheen of his fancy car's interior décor...instead her eyes are idly tracing the light scar on her wrist. Where Diavolo had separated her hand from her body, specifically.

She turns her arm to follow the ugly thing's full circumference, her lips pursed in a frown. Of course, this was brought on by the sight of Bucciarati's own attire, covering up wounds she knew were there underneath.

She thinks of Narancia, who smiled so broadly when he heard where they were going.

I'll come visit you! I haven't been to the beach in damn near forever, it'll be the best!

It's a weird space to be, where she mourned him deeply, and celebrated when he opened his eyes again only an hour later. She finally had a chance to shed good, happy tears for him, for Bruno, for Abbacchio when they went back to Sardinia for him. She hadn't gotten the chance to cry for her mother, so she did that too. No one could tell what her tears meant, the slow fall of them the same no matter who they were for...they weren't paying attention to her anyway. Mista was dripping snot from how hard he sobbed, almost inconsolable and distracted with joy.

They had everyone who mattered to them back, and there she was, a piece that would never fit. But she was glad for these strangers who brought her safely to the shores of an uncertain future.

She wonders if Narancia will keep that promise then, because as far as she's concerned, they should have parted ways then and there forever, but then she realized she had nowhere to go...and Bruno seemed to have been thinking about that for far longer than she had. It surprised her when he offered...but she'd be an idiot to refuse. She can't stay alone in an apartment she can't pay for, after all. So she'd gathered her meager belongings, photos especially, and now here they are.

There's no response to Bruno's initial statement, and a longer, measured silence at his question.

How does she feel?

When she thinks about it...she just feels numb from head to toe. She had felt so many things so strongly for such a long time that fear and anger and sadness and righteousness had all burned white-hot simultaneously, scorching to her very core and leaving nothing behind.

Trish lifts her head from her spot on the passenger's side, looking Bruno up and down for a moment. She leans back in her seat, her hands in her lap, her expression impassive as she blithely states:]

...I feel about as sore as you look right now.

[Like a bruise pooling under skin.

Bruno was alive, sure, but not recovered, and for as sharp as his eyes looked, the rest of him sang a very different tune.]

[unfastens]

[ a curt response is about what he was expecting; the comment directed at him wasn't, apparently, and his brow furrows, eyes darting her way just briefly. ]

... Either you're lying, or I should be offended.

[ and he knows when people are lying, so it's not that!! He thinks he looks fine? Maybe it's more obvious than he realizes - that he's all battered and still getting his bearings. He must be losing his touch. Keeping his troubles safely out of his gang's sight has always been one of his strengths, and the others haven't said anything. If Trish can tell - and Trish isn't even in his gang, not really - then it must be bad. Either that, or she's figured out how to read him in a remarkably short period of time. Considering her quick wit, he can't say that would be too surprising.

Of course, he knows the others are worried for him, too, Abbacchio most particularly; Narancia's just happy he's here, and Mista's just not the type for emotional man-to-man chats, but Abbacchio's like a shark to blood when it comes to sensing his troubles. So far, he's had the discretion to not bring it up. Trish is unique in having both enough healthy teenage disrespect to tell him he looks bad to his face and a position that keeps him from taking her to task for it. Because, really, they should have parted ways forever. He feels faintly guilty that she's sitting here in his car. However, the guilt he'd feel leaving her out on the street with a wallet full of dirty mafia cash and no family to speak of would be worse.

Polpo had always told him he was too soft, picking up every hard-eyed stray with a sob story he came across. Some things don't change. ]

for brumbo... cracks knuckles

[epitaffio]

[He didn't feel much, in his last moments. Well, the body didn't. There was the faint impression of something hard and cold underneath his head, a warm-ish pool expanding beneath him, colder droplets hitting his face. Far more clearly, he felt small, smaller than ever, somehow less than he had ever been before; the sensation was odd, but ultimately, before he went, he was able to put a name to it: crushing loneliness.

What he knew, rather than felt, was that he wouldn't be able to hold on much longer.

When Doppio regains consciousness, his senses have traded places, as far as clarity is concerned. He understands quickly enough that what he feels underneath his hands is sand; he realises, not long afterwards, that what's tickling his ears and weighing down his hair is the gentle tide ebbing in and out. What he's far less sure of is why he was apparently napping with his head turned towards the sea, or how he got here, or... where here is.

He sits up with a grunt, getting his wet hair away from his line of sight.]

How long have I been here...?

[It... wouldn't be the first time he's come back to himself to realise he could have died. He thinks. The thought comes to him slowly, but he's increasingly certain of it. Now, he just needs to... to do...

... Do... what? All he knows - and he has to strain himself to know it, but he does - is that he was waiting for a call, but that's a given. That's hardly something he needs to remember.

When Doppio can't recall where he's been or where he needs to go, a call always comes. It's one of those sure things in life.]

[unfastens]

[ he's less surprised to be here. It's nowhere he's been before - not exactly - but it's a place he's seen before, he thinks. After King Crimson cast him down and Giorno pulled him back up, whenever he closed his eyes for too long, he came here. Of course, when he woke up, he'd hardly remember where he'd been. Now he remembers. The smell of the sea and the sound of the waves are almost familiar. Like home.

This isn't home, though, and Bruno knows he'll never wake up there again.

Unlike before, he has his bearings enough to sit up instead of lay on the beach in a daze and blearily stare at the too-pale sky. A moment ago, he'd been fighting for his life (well, Trish and Giorno and Mista's lives, really, and Fugo, too, even if he wasn't there); despite that, he finds himself feeling oddly calm. He's been ready to die, he supposes. More than that, he has faith that they can succeed without him. His part is over. Now, he just has to do... whatever comes next.

He has no idea what that might be. "Getting into another fight" would certainly not have been his guess, either. But as he pulls himself to his feet, he hears a voice from a ways down the shore - a little too far to close the distance, but very much close enough for him to see and hear who it's coming from. For a moment, he thinks it's Trish and feels his heart start dropping into his shoes. Then he realizes it most assuredly isn't. This person is... ]

... I see you're a liar.

[epitaffio]

[Sometimes, there is no need for Doppio to make assumptions; the call comes before anybody else arrives on the scene, and he's caught up in short order. Sometimes, he has to improvise, do his best to choose between fight or flight (and oh, how it wishes it were flight, or literally anything other than fight, every time), knowing that the choice he makes will likely dictate how much stickier his current predicament will get.

This occasion, he quickly realises, falls under the latter umbrella. He may be disoriented, but he knows Bruno Bucciarati when he sees him, and while he can't be certain he assumes that Bucciarati recognises him as well. The memories are still trickling in - he tracked down Secco, his customary luck kicked in, Bucciarati saved him but he was clearly unwell... If Bucciarati knows who he is, then that must have happened afterwards. Or was he bluffing from the very beginning? Either way, how did he find out? Was it something Doppio did?

It's hard to choose when he can't quite remember what terms they even parted on.]

M... Me?

[Depending on what Bucciarati knows, playing dumb may only make the situation worse, and Doppio doesn't even know what the situation is. He wasn't even near a beach before, was he? No, no, that had been in the morning, but then he got on a plane to--]

But this isn't Rome, [he mutters, genuinely lost.]

hoestar

[comelately]

help me voice test johnny

[cheir]

[ She's just chilling in her wheelchair, left to her own devices for now. She likes moments like these, honestly-- a chance to clear her head, a chance to not have to particularly think about responsibility and the position of leadership.

... But Fiore still doesn't expect the horse, and she blinks when she catches sight of it, tipping her chin up. ]

Oh. Where did you come from?

[comelately]

[ it is a very nice horse, with a sleek white coat, the trademark gray speckles of an appaloosa, and a fitness to her build that suggest she does more than munch on grass all day, although the saddle and bridle she's wearing are probably more obvious evidence of that. Her hearty trot slows to an amble when she spots Fiore, ears flicking to and fro as she eyes the girl with a wary curiosity. Not the friendliest of critters, apparently. But whatever horse girl movie is about to begin here is interrupted by a loud shout from somewhere down the hill. ]

Hey -- Hey! The hell's your problem all of a sudden?!

[ it is coming from a blue, boy-shaped lump currently laying half-collapsed on the ground. Judging by the dirt on his pants and elbows, he got there by accident. The horse huffs loudly, still looking rather unsure. It's only answered by an annoyed groan from Johnny. Evidently, he has no clue there's another human out here. ]

Thought we were past this, but fine, whatever.

[unfastens]

actually i'll make a toplevel for brunbo too. COME AT ME. If you reply with a blank toplevel, I'll think of something!!

[unholey]

[This is insane.]

[Everything that's happened in the past few days happened so quickly that, even just reflecting back on it, Fugo feels dizzy with a sense of whiplash. From the moment Bucciarati informed them-- not consulted, and hasn't that been a real stick up Abbacchio's ass-- about their new teammate, it's just been one bewildering thing after another. Bucciarati inheriting Polpo's position. Being tasked with protecting the Boss's daughter. Going head to head against the Hitman Team. And now, the craziest thing of all--

Betraying the Boss, to protect Trish. Pitting themselves against not just at the shadowy figure at the head of the organization, but the whole of Passione itself. It's not just reckless, it's stupid. The odds are so against them it's almost comical. None of them can live outside of the mob.]

[And, yet...]

[He can't help but think of Trish, struggling to stay conscious, bracing herself on the side of the boat with her injured arm and a white-knuckled grip. I won't let him make me disappear, she spat, a fire burning in her foggy expression. I want to know my origins, no matter what! I refuse to die before finding out! Blood ran down her wrist and between her knuckles. Later, when Fugo and Abbacchio were wiping down the boat in preparation to ditch it, they found the perfect imprint of her fingers on the edge.]

We need to consider the logistics of this. [And so here Fugo is, sitting at a table with Bucciarati. Trish is resting in the turtle, recuperating from everything that happened in the basilica. Abbacchio, Mista, and Narancia are all beating the shit out of some guy. It's tempting to join them, but there are logistics to figure out. Fugo chews on the pad of his thumb, moodily staring at a plate of food he hasn't touched.] Money, supplies, a rotating watch. None of us can operate on adrenaline forever, Bucciarati.

[His stare shifts sharply to his meal companion, to really drive home his point.]

[unfastens]

[ Unusually for Bucciarati, he hasn't commented on Fugo's lack of appetite. His own plate of food is similarly untouched, after all, for reasons he can only assume (hope) are both similar and drastically different. The other members quarreling is vague noise in the back of his head, something to be aware of; if he were honest with himself, he'd admit that something is off, that he's usually sharper than this, and there's a hard-to-describe sort of blurriness to all his senses, but he simply doesn't have the luxury to consider what's happened to him in its entirety. Too much is at stake for him to be worrying about himself. The young man sitting across from him is tangible evidence of that.

He'd both expected resistance and been prepared for the worst-case scenario from the very beginning - that being himself, Giorno and Trish setting off alone to track down the boss. Truthfully, the fact that every last one of them chose to follow him made his heart swell with pride. But he can feel the weight of those four lives keenly, too. Ultimately, yes, it was their choice, freely made, knowing the mortal danger that lay ahead, and rationally, he's resolved to accept whatever may happen to them. That doesn't mean he's not going to try his damned hardest to keep them all safe. ]

We don't need forever. We're finishing this within the week.

[ because if they can't do that, then they've lost for exactly the reasons Fugo's suggesting. If the Boss gets too far ahead of them, they'll never catch him. And the longer they spend chasing him, the longer their tail will get, and the more time he'll have to alert every other squad in Passione to their presence. Hiding from the entire mob on their home turf would quickly become impossible.

They either win against impossible odds in the next few days, or all of them die trying. There are no alternatives. And he's sure that's exactly why Fugo looks so dour. Cool and stern as his voice may be, Bucciarati doesn't blame him one bit. ]

Don't worry about money.