An Offer. Whether You Refuse It Or Not Is Up To You, Really.
Prok
If I could give that wingless butterfly wings…
- Location
- Scotland
YOU DIDN'T SEE THAT
THAT NOTIFICATION WAS A LIE
YOU HALLUCINATED IT BECAUSE OF THE CHEMICALS IN THE WATER
WEATHER BALLOONS
There's little to no information on how DIO actually came about the process of entering Heaven, to the point where I'm pretty much just convinced weird shit went down in that coffin.
Ahem. This update brought to you by this song.
|||
Despite your suspicions, you choose to limp across the road to the old you'regonnaguess man, who only gives a thin smile in appreciation of your decision.
A thin smile which morphs into a concerned frown as he finally seems to realise how bad off you are.
"Jes-uh, wow, you look like shit." He says, catching himself mid-blasphemy.
You're… you're too tired to care right now.
"Yeah. You have a fucking reason for calling me over, or did you just feel like insulting me, old man?" You ask, your patience already wearing thin.
He looks up at you, and you finally take stock of his appearance. His head is entirely bald, the dome almost shiny, the hair apparently having migrated to his beard, wild and matted and almost snow-white. One eye is a deep green, a placid shade, while the other is clouded over with cataracts.
"Hm? Oh, yes, of course. Well…" He looks down, running his tongue, a small, slick, grey thing, over his lips and teeth for a moment. "I'm- sorry, I just realised I have no real idea how to put this… do you know about Hamon?"
You frown, schooling your face not to show the mind-numbing pain it causes oh dear god why-
But yes, you're aware of the sunshine kung-fu. Hell, you know two fuckers who can use it.
"Yeah? I know about Hamon, what about it?"
"And vampires?"
You find your lips curling in disgust despite the pain it puts you through.
Ugh.
You don't... hate them, not like aliens anyway, but still, they creep you the fuck out. You mean, yeah, they're kept in check by those chunky ass collars, and yeah, it's not really their choice, and yeah, you guess being completely immortal to anything that isn't sunlight or Hamon is pretty great, but still.
... It's the- it's the whole 'drinking through their fingers' thing. That shit's just gross.
"Yeah." You say simply, your opinion dripping off the word, the first and final thing you want to say on the subject.
As your immediate response passes, you realise you're still not entirely sure where the old fucker's going with this.
"You know how they come about?" The old man continues his quiz of you.
"Draining people of their blood, everyone knows that." You answer without thinking.
"Wrong." He answers back just as fast. "That's how zombies are made. They're what you see in all those anti-vamp videos, what you hear about in all those stories of mothers becoming vampires to save their kids and eating the poor child themselves… no, the vampire is a much more sophisticated creature."
… Uh… huh.
You don't have time for this. You need to get back home before some other gang comes and decides you're easy pickings.
"Look, old man, yeah, that's interesting and all, but frankly I was expecting more than just a lecture on bloodsuckers. So, really, if that's all you have for me, I'm gonna go and lick my wounds before another gang comes and decides I'm an easy target. Which, I am."
As you turn to limp off, your impromptu lecturer on vampiric stereotypes reaches out a hand, desperation colouring his voice.
"W-wait! There is a reason I called you over here, I just… we shouldn't talk about it in public. There's a small pizzeria around the corner. Just… come with me, hear me out, and I'll buy you a meal for your trouble." He pleads, obviously wanting you to come with him.
You narrow your eye at him. Now he just wants you, the injured 16-year-old, to follow him round the corner, to the pizzeria that's totally there, and 'hear him out.'
We're reaching levels of sketchiness never before seen by mankind.
"No deal."
You once again turn to walk away, and-
"It's about a job! And payment!"
-stop once again.
Job. Payment. The two words that make you perk up a little. Like yeah, nabbing wallets is alright and shit, but actual jobs with actual payment, that's where it's at.
Not to mention it's hardly the average, uh, what's the word... my point is, who convinces a 16-year-old with the promise of a job?
You... guess it couldn't hurt. At worst, he is, again, somewhere in his late 150s. You think you can take him, even as punished as you are. As he gets up, you pull off the identifying rags of the Via Pontano Reds, shoving them into your pockets for safe keeping.
Ten minutes. At worst, you see no pizzeria and walk away. At best, you get a job, a free drink, and a meal. There's not much downside here.
|||
Well, he wasn't lying about the pizzeria, at least. It's a small affair, more a cafe than a restaurant, but still, the wood oven is there, the chef is hard at work making fresh dough, and there's an asari waiting to serve you.
... Uh.
What. Asari. What. Why. Why asari. Why asari here.
No, seriously, why the fuck is there an asari here, in Naples of all places, working as a pizzeria waiter? Waitress, what the fuck ever, why is it here?!
... Fuck it, you're too tired for this shit. The smurfette is here, the smurfette is not going away, so you're just going to assume the smurfette's not a hallucination. You decide, through sheer pain and lack of energy, that you can at least attempt to be civil with it for the half an hour you're gonna be here.
Speaking of, it seems to have noticed the state you're in and is currently striking a balance between staying professional and panicking.
"Table for two, please. And, ah, an icepack for my friend's ankle, if you don't mind." Your soon to be employer says, unconcerned with the flighty alien's sudden panic.
Without speaking, it leads the two of you to a table, silently offering to help take some of the strain off your ankle, which you wave off. Honestly, it's just a little sprain, it's not like it's broken. You take a step-
SWEETBABYJUDASWHATATROCITIESDIDYOUCOMMITINAPASTLIFETODESERVETHISPAIN
... You sigh and throw an arm over the asari's offered back while it helps you to your table. After you sit down, it hovers about, wondering what to do next.
"Get a chair, prop it up off the ground, that's a good lass." The old man instructs it, and it complies, dragging a chair over and gingerly pulling your leg up onto it, wincing as you do. You have to say, it's... more awkward than you expected from an asari. Aren't they meant to be all graceful and shit?
"Ah, can I take your order?" The asari asks in flawless Italian. You're almost impressed until you spot the tiny earpiece and the small patch on its throat, only just visible in the dim light of the restaurant.
A translator.
... Fair enough.
The old man, who for the sake of allowing the phrase 'old man' to retain some iota of meaning, you're now going to call Franco, orders a glass of red wine and a Pizza Margherita, while you order a coffee and the same.
It notes down the order, then rushes off to grab cutlery and, hopefully, an icepack.
"Now. To business? Or would you prefer to wait until that's on ice?" Franco asks, pointing to your ankle.
"No, I'm fine to talk. So, what's this job you want me to do?"
Franco frowns for a moment, sighing deeply.
"It's... complicated. I believe... I believe starting with your payment would be best, actually. First off, 20,000 credits, enough to let you live like royalty here in Napoli, or enough to get you off-planet and to greener pastures. Whichever works."
You feel your jaw drop open.
Tw-twe... twenty thousand credits?
He smiles, finding some amusement in the look on your face. "You heard right. Twenty thousand. And-" He reaches into his rags, letting you see the remnants of a suit underneath, only to pull out a fountain pen sized, hospital-tile white cylinder and gently hold it up for you to see.
"This, my young, injured friend, is one of The Needles." He says.
Without even asking, you can tell that you're meant to say it with capital letters. Which tells you it's important, and... not much else.
"... The what?" You ask unashamedly.
"It's your advance payment."
You make a point of blinking.
"I mean, alright, but what is it?"
He puts his free hand on his chin, frowning for a moment while he finds the words he needs.
"Let's say that everything discovered in the past 30 years here, on Earth, none of that mass effect bollocks, can be classified as 'weird stuff.' Stuff that makes no sense on any logical level. Vampires that drink through their fingers and shoot high-pressure fluid from their eyes? A Tibetan breathing technique that allows people to emulate the power of the sun in order to fight them? All weird stuff. But there's a third thing, a third section of 'weird stuff,' that's been kept secret from the public. This-"
He presses a small button on the side, causing a small shard of dull metal to snap out from a tiny hole in the end, before retreating just as quickly. It's like, uh... c'mon, you've seen them before- that thing diabetics use to test their blood sugars before meals. What are they called?
Wait, the old guy's still speaking. No, Franco. Come on, you picked that name for a reason.
"-is the power of gods, in the shape of a self-sterilising piece of meteoric iron." He says like it answers everything. "Let me tell you a story," he continues, seeing the look on your face, "about Greenland."
He then proceeds to actually answer everything.
He goes on to explain what he means. 10,000 years ago, a meteor crashed in Greenland, one of the most hostile places on the planet, not anymore, mind, but back then it was near inhospitable. Early humans found the meteor and found something beautiful in its jagged edges and their blood, mixed together.
It awoke something in them. A potential found in those who fight to survive, who refuse to give up. Those with a will behind them. It rewarded them with power.
A power he calls a Stand. A vision of the user's soul given form.
In ancient times, the iron was formed into six Arrows, which were discovered by a man named Diavolo and used to create Passione, so on and so forth, we can talk about them later if you must, fast forward to about, oh, 25 years ago, the Systems Alliance finds the meteor, a whole 12 kilos of magical space metal only found due to the melted permafrost, and they then proceeded to figure out what the absolute minimum mass was needed to trigger this awakening, an endeavour that ended in The Needles.
Throughout all this, he's waving your 'advance payment' around like a conductor's baton, ending his story by putting it in the centre of the table.
"You take the job, you get a jab and The Needle itself, to do whatever you want with."
You... don't know what to say. The asari comes back, brandishing a tray with your coffee, Franco's wine, and for some reason a thick slab of chilled meat on it in one hand, and an icepack for your ankle in the other. It sets down the tray, then gently rests your ankle on the pack according to Franco's instructions before offering you the meat.
You look between it and the meat in confusion.
"Ah, the, the chef told me it would help your eye."
You take it from her, thanking her quietly, and press it against your swollen eye.
Ohhh sweet relief.
She smiles, happy that you seem to approve.
Y'know what, this asari's alright by you. She takes the tray and leaves to grab your pizzas.
"You seem somewhat stunned. It's a lot to take in, I understand, so please, by all means, take your time."
Franco takes a sip of his red wine, while you process everything that was just said. By the time your pizzas arrive, you're still not done, so instead, you choose to eat and drink and be merry, ok maybe not that last part, while you think. You grab your knife and fork, silently thankful that the Verdes left you your fingers, and dig into your first hot meal of the day.
Bullshitting you or not, this gets eaten before you leave.
Questions finally coagulate and rise to the surface of your mind as you consume the moist, almost soupy concoction of mozzarella, tomato puree, olive oil and bay leaves in front of you. (Max. 3 Questions.)
[] That's a lot of payment, 20K in credits and a possibly magic needle. You can only wonder what the job is.
[] For all he said on the subject, you don't... really know what having a Stand entails. Maybe you should ask about that.
[] You can't have that kind of power and not use it on yourself. Ask him if he has a Stand.
[] Why a needle? Just based on what little you saw of it, it looks like it had to be chipped off that meteorite. Why not make a knife, or more arrows? Why make something you could lose between floor tiles?
[] Write-in
Also, nipping this in the bud quickly- These are your choices, if you missed the last vote, here's your chance, if you've voted for a character before, either change your vote or don't vote for a character. Anything else gets Vito'd.
[] Diego Brando
-[] Uh, those three moles on your left ear, you guess? You… yeah, you'd call that a birthmark. (Gain trait "Luck Of The Devil.")
[] Gioia Josephina 'JoJo' Brando
-[] Your mother's maiden name was Annasui, not that it matters.
-[] Red hair, female, you'd say you're a touch taller than average. You've got a runner's build: slender, but still got more muscle mass than average.
--[] A big star-shaped one on your shoulder.
THAT NOTIFICATION WAS A LIE
YOU HALLUCINATED IT BECAUSE OF THE CHEMICALS IN THE WATER
WEATHER BALLOONS
I mean, it's been 130 years. Even if it hasn't somehow turned to dust, anyone who knew what to do with it is long dead, and you certainly don't.
There's little to no information on how DIO actually came about the process of entering Heaven, to the point where I'm pretty much just convinced weird shit went down in that coffin.
...
Ahem. This update brought to you by this song.
|||
Despite your suspicions, you choose to limp across the road to the old you'regonnaguess man, who only gives a thin smile in appreciation of your decision.
A thin smile which morphs into a concerned frown as he finally seems to realise how bad off you are.
"Jes-uh, wow, you look like shit." He says, catching himself mid-blasphemy.
You're… you're too tired to care right now.
"Yeah. You have a fucking reason for calling me over, or did you just feel like insulting me, old man?" You ask, your patience already wearing thin.
He looks up at you, and you finally take stock of his appearance. His head is entirely bald, the dome almost shiny, the hair apparently having migrated to his beard, wild and matted and almost snow-white. One eye is a deep green, a placid shade, while the other is clouded over with cataracts.
"Hm? Oh, yes, of course. Well…" He looks down, running his tongue, a small, slick, grey thing, over his lips and teeth for a moment. "I'm- sorry, I just realised I have no real idea how to put this… do you know about Hamon?"
You frown, schooling your face not to show the mind-numbing pain it causes oh dear god why-
But yes, you're aware of the sunshine kung-fu. Hell, you know two fuckers who can use it.
"Yeah? I know about Hamon, what about it?"
"And vampires?"
You find your lips curling in disgust despite the pain it puts you through.
Ugh.
You don't... hate them, not like aliens anyway, but still, they creep you the fuck out. You mean, yeah, they're kept in check by those chunky ass collars, and yeah, it's not really their choice, and yeah, you guess being completely immortal to anything that isn't sunlight or Hamon is pretty great, but still.
... It's the- it's the whole 'drinking through their fingers' thing. That shit's just gross.
"Yeah." You say simply, your opinion dripping off the word, the first and final thing you want to say on the subject.
As your immediate response passes, you realise you're still not entirely sure where the old fucker's going with this.
"You know how they come about?" The old man continues his quiz of you.
"Draining people of their blood, everyone knows that." You answer without thinking.
"Wrong." He answers back just as fast. "That's how zombies are made. They're what you see in all those anti-vamp videos, what you hear about in all those stories of mothers becoming vampires to save their kids and eating the poor child themselves… no, the vampire is a much more sophisticated creature."
… Uh… huh.
You don't have time for this. You need to get back home before some other gang comes and decides you're easy pickings.
"Look, old man, yeah, that's interesting and all, but frankly I was expecting more than just a lecture on bloodsuckers. So, really, if that's all you have for me, I'm gonna go and lick my wounds before another gang comes and decides I'm an easy target. Which, I am."
As you turn to limp off, your impromptu lecturer on vampiric stereotypes reaches out a hand, desperation colouring his voice.
"W-wait! There is a reason I called you over here, I just… we shouldn't talk about it in public. There's a small pizzeria around the corner. Just… come with me, hear me out, and I'll buy you a meal for your trouble." He pleads, obviously wanting you to come with him.
You narrow your eye at him. Now he just wants you, the injured 16-year-old, to follow him round the corner, to the pizzeria that's totally there, and 'hear him out.'
We're reaching levels of sketchiness never before seen by mankind.
"No deal."
You once again turn to walk away, and-
"It's about a job! And payment!"
-stop once again.
Job. Payment. The two words that make you perk up a little. Like yeah, nabbing wallets is alright and shit, but actual jobs with actual payment, that's where it's at.
Not to mention it's hardly the average, uh, what's the word... my point is, who convinces a 16-year-old with the promise of a job?
You... guess it couldn't hurt. At worst, he is, again, somewhere in his late 150s. You think you can take him, even as punished as you are. As he gets up, you pull off the identifying rags of the Via Pontano Reds, shoving them into your pockets for safe keeping.
Ten minutes. At worst, you see no pizzeria and walk away. At best, you get a job, a free drink, and a meal. There's not much downside here.
|||
Well, he wasn't lying about the pizzeria, at least. It's a small affair, more a cafe than a restaurant, but still, the wood oven is there, the chef is hard at work making fresh dough, and there's an asari waiting to serve you.
... Uh.
What. Asari. What. Why. Why asari. Why asari here.
No, seriously, why the fuck is there an asari here, in Naples of all places, working as a pizzeria waiter? Waitress, what the fuck ever, why is it here?!
... Fuck it, you're too tired for this shit. The smurfette is here, the smurfette is not going away, so you're just going to assume the smurfette's not a hallucination. You decide, through sheer pain and lack of energy, that you can at least attempt to be civil with it for the half an hour you're gonna be here.
Speaking of, it seems to have noticed the state you're in and is currently striking a balance between staying professional and panicking.
"Table for two, please. And, ah, an icepack for my friend's ankle, if you don't mind." Your soon to be employer says, unconcerned with the flighty alien's sudden panic.
Without speaking, it leads the two of you to a table, silently offering to help take some of the strain off your ankle, which you wave off. Honestly, it's just a little sprain, it's not like it's broken. You take a step-
SWEETBABYJUDASWHATATROCITIESDIDYOUCOMMITINAPASTLIFETODESERVETHISPAIN
... You sigh and throw an arm over the asari's offered back while it helps you to your table. After you sit down, it hovers about, wondering what to do next.
"Get a chair, prop it up off the ground, that's a good lass." The old man instructs it, and it complies, dragging a chair over and gingerly pulling your leg up onto it, wincing as you do. You have to say, it's... more awkward than you expected from an asari. Aren't they meant to be all graceful and shit?
"Ah, can I take your order?" The asari asks in flawless Italian. You're almost impressed until you spot the tiny earpiece and the small patch on its throat, only just visible in the dim light of the restaurant.
A translator.
... Fair enough.
The old man, who for the sake of allowing the phrase 'old man' to retain some iota of meaning, you're now going to call Franco, orders a glass of red wine and a Pizza Margherita, while you order a coffee and the same.
It notes down the order, then rushes off to grab cutlery and, hopefully, an icepack.
"Now. To business? Or would you prefer to wait until that's on ice?" Franco asks, pointing to your ankle.
"No, I'm fine to talk. So, what's this job you want me to do?"
Franco frowns for a moment, sighing deeply.
"It's... complicated. I believe... I believe starting with your payment would be best, actually. First off, 20,000 credits, enough to let you live like royalty here in Napoli, or enough to get you off-planet and to greener pastures. Whichever works."
You feel your jaw drop open.
Tw-twe... twenty thousand credits?
He smiles, finding some amusement in the look on your face. "You heard right. Twenty thousand. And-" He reaches into his rags, letting you see the remnants of a suit underneath, only to pull out a fountain pen sized, hospital-tile white cylinder and gently hold it up for you to see.
"This, my young, injured friend, is one of The Needles." He says.
Without even asking, you can tell that you're meant to say it with capital letters. Which tells you it's important, and... not much else.
"... The what?" You ask unashamedly.
"It's your advance payment."
You make a point of blinking.
"I mean, alright, but what is it?"
He puts his free hand on his chin, frowning for a moment while he finds the words he needs.
"Let's say that everything discovered in the past 30 years here, on Earth, none of that mass effect bollocks, can be classified as 'weird stuff.' Stuff that makes no sense on any logical level. Vampires that drink through their fingers and shoot high-pressure fluid from their eyes? A Tibetan breathing technique that allows people to emulate the power of the sun in order to fight them? All weird stuff. But there's a third thing, a third section of 'weird stuff,' that's been kept secret from the public. This-"
He presses a small button on the side, causing a small shard of dull metal to snap out from a tiny hole in the end, before retreating just as quickly. It's like, uh... c'mon, you've seen them before- that thing diabetics use to test their blood sugars before meals. What are they called?
Wait, the old guy's still speaking. No, Franco. Come on, you picked that name for a reason.
"-is the power of gods, in the shape of a self-sterilising piece of meteoric iron." He says like it answers everything. "Let me tell you a story," he continues, seeing the look on your face, "about Greenland."
He then proceeds to actually answer everything.
He goes on to explain what he means. 10,000 years ago, a meteor crashed in Greenland, one of the most hostile places on the planet, not anymore, mind, but back then it was near inhospitable. Early humans found the meteor and found something beautiful in its jagged edges and their blood, mixed together.
It awoke something in them. A potential found in those who fight to survive, who refuse to give up. Those with a will behind them. It rewarded them with power.
A power he calls a Stand. A vision of the user's soul given form.
In ancient times, the iron was formed into six Arrows, which were discovered by a man named Diavolo and used to create Passione, so on and so forth, we can talk about them later if you must, fast forward to about, oh, 25 years ago, the Systems Alliance finds the meteor, a whole 12 kilos of magical space metal only found due to the melted permafrost, and they then proceeded to figure out what the absolute minimum mass was needed to trigger this awakening, an endeavour that ended in The Needles.
Throughout all this, he's waving your 'advance payment' around like a conductor's baton, ending his story by putting it in the centre of the table.
"You take the job, you get a jab and The Needle itself, to do whatever you want with."
You... don't know what to say. The asari comes back, brandishing a tray with your coffee, Franco's wine, and for some reason a thick slab of chilled meat on it in one hand, and an icepack for your ankle in the other. It sets down the tray, then gently rests your ankle on the pack according to Franco's instructions before offering you the meat.
You look between it and the meat in confusion.
"Ah, the, the chef told me it would help your eye."
You take it from her, thanking her quietly, and press it against your swollen eye.
Ohhh sweet relief.
She smiles, happy that you seem to approve.
Y'know what, this asari's alright by you. She takes the tray and leaves to grab your pizzas.
"You seem somewhat stunned. It's a lot to take in, I understand, so please, by all means, take your time."
Franco takes a sip of his red wine, while you process everything that was just said. By the time your pizzas arrive, you're still not done, so instead, you choose to eat and drink and be merry, ok maybe not that last part, while you think. You grab your knife and fork, silently thankful that the Verdes left you your fingers, and dig into your first hot meal of the day.
Bullshitting you or not, this gets eaten before you leave.
Questions finally coagulate and rise to the surface of your mind as you consume the moist, almost soupy concoction of mozzarella, tomato puree, olive oil and bay leaves in front of you. (Max. 3 Questions.)
[] That's a lot of payment, 20K in credits and a possibly magic needle. You can only wonder what the job is.
[] For all he said on the subject, you don't... really know what having a Stand entails. Maybe you should ask about that.
[] You can't have that kind of power and not use it on yourself. Ask him if he has a Stand.
[] Why a needle? Just based on what little you saw of it, it looks like it had to be chipped off that meteorite. Why not make a knife, or more arrows? Why make something you could lose between floor tiles?
[] Write-in
Also, nipping this in the bud quickly- These are your choices, if you missed the last vote, here's your chance, if you've voted for a character before, either change your vote or don't vote for a character. Anything else gets Vito'd.
[] Diego Brando
-[] Uh, those three moles on your left ear, you guess? You… yeah, you'd call that a birthmark. (Gain trait "Luck Of The Devil.")
[] Gioia Josephina 'JoJo' Brando
-[] Your mother's maiden name was Annasui, not that it matters.
-[] Red hair, female, you'd say you're a touch taller than average. You've got a runner's build: slender, but still got more muscle mass than average.
--[] A big star-shaped one on your shoulder.
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