Whither Goest Thou? (JJBA SBR SI)

[FloraRead]

Introduction to the Snow





The night is serene. Waves crash gently on the sides of the beach four hours past sunset.



Cold, yellowish dusk envelops the city outskirts, past the sand and the odd, surviving wild bush.



The final nights before the wicked race begins.



The year is 1890 of the lord. The dark, nearly starless sky with waning moon feels foreboding for some. The wisest of which, were far away from the city where the intercontinental race was going to be held.



The night remains serene, despite the crowds accumulating in the outskirts of the of San Diego, near the very same beach where the waves gently loudly on the sand and the rocks, and where several wooden stalls and stores remained open. Some offered food, others offered little trinkets such as earrings and necklaces. One even offered to have one's picture taken, with the photograph being offered a mere day later.



The most isolated of all those houses and stalls is one recently built close to all the rabble and the masses. One which the smell of recently cut and varnished wood still pronounced itself highly, despite the ever-present smell of faeces and dust brought on by crowds, and lack of proper planning for all the required sanitation.





It certainly wouldn't look as notable as it would have, had it not carried a painted, red sign above one of the beams above its entrance. 'Registration Office' it read sternly in almost identical lettering. Inside, the ambient would similar to that seen in a bank, although far dirtier. A set of wires was built to prevent any major interaction from whoever was attending the counter with the attendees, rising from the counter itself all the way up to the ceiling with a small opening down in the bottom to allow for the exchange of funds. There were no chairs are present in the publicly available area of the office, and the large amount of footprints, both new and old, wet and dry, gave clear evidence towards the place lacking any of the stern regulations that a bank had, despite the constant police presence in the area.



'$43.20' is the entry fee.1​ The salary of entire month, and it's, unsurprisingly, quite a lot of money. Not everyone could afford such a venture, especially for a race as ambitious as the one soon to be taking off those very same beaches. A nation-wide trek, ending all the way in New York. That's why there was a 'Registration Office'. That's also the reason why such a large crowd was camping on the very same beaches: The Steel Ball Run. A race hosted by the one and only Stephen Steele, it carried a wide variety of sponsors: from oil giants such as the morally bankrupt Steelwagon Foundation, to all the way to humble, Mexican business of Barrios Constructions, the cumulative cash victory price was valued in nothing more and nothing less than One million and eight-hundred thousand dollars.2​ It was enough to make just about anyone into millionaire, and just like the sponsors, the participants came from every corner of societies and nearly every country on the planet.



However, some, like the one with the recently shaved head walking alongside the local farmer Rodriguez 'Sugar' Piddy, were harder to place.



Both were approaching the registration office, sure. Rodriguez carried a saddle over his shoulder, and pulled along one of his priced brown horses over with the other. The name of the horse Janis, named by Rodriguez's wife Jane. Janis is a bastardization of Janus, a name of the Roman god of beginnings and passages. In a way, Rodriguez reckoned, the name could be seen as predetermined by destiny: the name was chosen the night the horse, still yet but a foal, fell asleep in the door dividing the kitchen and the dining room.



He remembers that night fondly, despite the mess that his son Evan had made letting the horse inside to rest. How he claimed to have followed him inside, and that he felt bad to bring it back out to his ill-tempered mother. He questions silently to himself, whether or not he has the right to give one of the few reminders that his son was still out there, in the world, to a complete stranger.



The other man, whom could still be considered nothing more than a child, was the odder of the two. Unlike the purposefully short haircut the local farmer besides him kept, his had evidently been recently cut, probably to be sold. Their face, still gentle and unmarked by the sun gives the potential indication that he might have come from a big city, though their facial structure places their origin down South, in one of the Spanish speaking nations. Furthermore, even if they're walking towards the recently built structure, their nervousness is palpable. Gentle hands and facial composition would place him as no more than a child.



What's most notable, however, is their peculiar green jacket, carrying a pattern of foliage that would have taken years to sew on by hand. Even an entire line of Factory workers would have found it hard to make such a piece of clothing. It must surely be worth a lot even without taking into account the silvery aluminum coating of it's insides.



As the younger man finally steps into the office, they stutter something in an accent that's not quite British, but not quite American either.

"I'd uh- I'd like to participate-"



Of course, the stout, short man attending the counter had seen this coming based solely on the large amount of other racers that had done the same thing. Interrupting the younger fellow with a mock of a cough, they begin their reply with a particularly intriguing voice. Squeaky though not high pitched, it would be easily recognizable amongst a crowd unless the attendant had dozens upon dozens of identical twins; which is something that he had, through some form of miracle.

"When the 43 dollars with 20 cents are paid, there will be no-"



"Yeah, I know, I know." The younger lad interrupts, to the chagrin of both the farmer and office worker, already reaching inside of their jacket to pull out the required sum. The beady eyed teller proceeds to shift their stare towards the farmer, still with no stated reason to have followed the younger man all the way here.

"What about you, Mr. Piddy?" Come here to participate?



"Me? Nah, I just came here to give the young feller a horse and make sure he don't cheat on his words. Ain't that right?" He finishes, before both sets of heads turn to face the youngster as they count the cash with an open palm, one at a time before placing each individual coin on the desk. They don't respond to the old farmer's question, submersed in counting each single coin, down to the last of the pennies that made up one whole dollar. One could call it careful. One could also call it 'really fucking slow'. By the time they're done, both individuals have to suppress a sigh of relief, and, as they think fortunately, they're rather fast as their sign their name on the document, pulling the badge and the identification card (reading C-299) just as quickly as the coins were pulled under the divider.



'V. Erdis' the line-like blur of ink reads at the bottom of the page. The section of the document where the name of the participant is written clears this out somewhat: Verdis Quo Williams. Nothing notable unless one knew a little bit of Latin, in which the beginning of the name became eerily similar to a wordplay on the Latin phrase 'Quo vadis?', literally translating to 'Whither goest thou?' or 'Where are you going?' Could this be foretelling the young man's lack of direction, or, rather, is it a sort of a cosmic reminder for anyone that he meets? 'Remember your path' the farmer remembers his mother telling him once. Rodriguez worries that, just like the horse's name that might or might not have turned out to be prophetic, Verdis's name will end up being prophetic, too. He fears that he will lose his way after this is all said and done and there will be no finding himself again.



Maybe, she reckons as the pair leaves the office, this race might indicate a new period in his life but at the cost of no longer knowing where she was going. His grandmother always told him to watch the names of those he worked with, and with the flow of time, he has begun questioning if maybe it was not all quack after all.



"Uhh, sir?" That line breaks the old man's focus, returning him to the present and to the short-haired man, looking down on him with an uncertain expression.



"Don't mind me laddie, just thinking about this whole race thing. First eight places, or you forfeit that jacket of yours, right?" The response is immediate, and it comes in the form of a somewhat nervous nod and a set of pursed lips, followed closely by a hum that perhaps was meant to give some affirmation towards the whole thing.



"Well, make sure to hang this behind the seat as you said you would. While I don't think this will work too much, I'll be willing to take a shot for the old 'Pioneer Spirit', heh." The cowboy seat, the one being carried all the way here on the farmer's shoulders, is dumped on the lanky shoulder of the soon-to-be racer. The young man initially struggles with the weight of the metal and leather seat as it's plopped down but regains his composure quickly enough to grab onto the reins of the large, brown and white animal. The horse, however, shows their displeasure over the apparent change in ownership, huffing in annoyance allowing their teeth to be seen as they're tugged in the direction of the kid.



It's almost as if the animal is trying to stare them down, making them regret their choice to participate in the race.

"Take care of Janis out there, m'kay?" The farmer suppresses a sniff as they fight back the thoughts that this might all be just a terrible, awful mistake. "I'll be expecting her whole when I reach you over at New York, you got that?"





"Don't worry sir, I take care of her better than I would myself." The young man replies, fiddling with the reins and already lost in thought regarding the close future of what this means to him. He fails to pay attention as the old man leaves, and by the time that he waves in the direction where the farmer had vanished, the only one around to see him wave his farewells is the horse itself.



The cross-dressing woman passing as a youngster knows the future, or at least, the widest strides of it.



She knows this is bound to be one of the bloodiest races in history, and not because of accidents.



Knowing this then, why is she participating?



Did she not know the feeling that the night carried with it, a mere three days before the beginning of the race? Did she perhaps ignore her conscience telling her that this was all a big awful mistake. That her life would have been better spent attempting to learn, to better herself and the lives of others? Studying medicine, advocating for equal rights, trying to better the world even when the world itself was set against her?



The answer is, of course, that she does not know. The closest to an answer that she has come up with is 'because she must'. Law calls it "the duty to rescue". Because she knows that something awful will happen, and that many people will die if she does not act, she must do something to prevent it. But this notion, this concept, is nothing more than a mere suggestion to them. It has not a strong enough pull cognitively to make her consider risking her life like this. There may be another cause, since she knows that the man really orchestrating the race possesses an ability that may allow her to get back to her inaccessible home. But again, this hope is tarnished and far fetched. She knows this man is far from trustworthy, that his charisma and friendly disposition are not to be trusted.

The President of the United States is not to be messed with if she desires to live for long.



That is a corpse that is better left unattended to, buried in deep within the dirt or at the bottom of a fathomless marine trench.



So why else, other than because she can, is she competing? She her only book, the insides of her jacket, her own shoes and even her hair just to be able to participate in the race. All artifacts that were worth a rather decent amount due to their rarity or the abnormality of their nature. The shoes had a grip unlike many other found within this time. The stuffing wasn't cotton, but it could keep someone warm with ease. The book was clearly printed, but the press it was done so embedded color into the pages and put drawings of immaculate quality within them; even if it was in a language the buyer could not understand, it because just as valuable as their mother's bible to them. Lastly, her hair, the silky thing which turned to stone when cut off, still moving despite it's grayed color. The wig produced from it will no doubt be rather valuable.



Did this not represent how much it was worth to her? If he was willing to give her mementos away, just to be able to afford this race? What did she have left, after that? Her pants? Her underwear, her jacket? Even her shirt was sold to cough up some last minute rations.



She remains unsure deep into the night, past the moment where the horse is put on the communal stables and past the moment where she sleeps with her hand wrapped around the single-shot that she had bought for cheap, as it was the weapon for self deffence that she could afford.



When sleep finally takes her, the question lingers long after the dreams of normality come and go, and when the weariness shows itself in the next morning.



It will be a question that will haunt her for the following months.



Just why is she racing?

Post-Chapter Notes Originally completed on 10 of June of 2021

I'm not leaving my prior work; I'm taking a break because I am truly stumped. Things had gone off the rails pretty early once I realized certain characters would have reacted differently to what I anticipated, and I kept trying to find a way to stick to the outline without derailing the character's actions too much.

Alas, I failed (but then I succeeded after a nearly month-long hiatus, so it's all good).



If anything, it served me well to do the re-do the outline early instead of waiting several chapters (and months) to do so. The experience will be mighty useful in the future, and while I do see myself making this mistake once again, I'l hopefully handle it with a little more flair than vanishing from the web.

The next chapter (of the Destiny fic) will probably be posted by the end of the week. I'm not a quitter, just slow. ;-;

This work, as one could probably infer from the tags, title, description and such, is a JoJo SI, particularly in the Steel Ball Run universe. While the first chapter might be in the third person, most of the story will be written in first person, excluding interludes and some prequel chapters detailing how the pal arrived to that point.



Footnotes:

1​ This sum is the 1890 worth of 1200 dollars.

2​ This would be 50 million dollars in today's economy, accounting for inflation.

 

[FloraRead]

Moonmadness
Part 1



It's still morning, but not quite noon. Tonight, much like yesterday, or the two days before that, sleep has failed to claim me absolutely. I look upon the recently acquired pocket watch which sits comfortably in the palm of my hand. Ticking the seconds away. I'm still surprised at how cheap it was, a measly ninety cents. It came with a whistle too, matching the same brass colour and taste of the watch itself.

Ten fifty the watch reads. Still early morning, but late enough for breakfast to be considered only if one fancies having lunch late. Not that I found oatmeal and tea exactly filling, but I had breakfast, so I had time to consider what else I would buy off the money I had swindled off a millionaire, and what to say once I finally discovered the sounds of the commotion that might lead me to the one and only executioner from Naples.

I grimace upon remembering what I had given away to even get to this point: the insides of my jacket, my shoes, my bag from college, my shirt, my hair, and my limited edition copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude— my father's birthday present which I had taken borrowed off by bookshelf that evening.

Whatever had caused this owed me big time. I didn't even get to finish reading the damn book before I had to sell it off to even be able to afford paying this race and some basic commodities. The money wouldn't have lasted me more than a month.

Oatmeal, bread, coffee, and some sugar. That's what I bought, and that's what I know I can eat even if I might not enjoy it that much, for the first segment of the race. I also bought some candy and cutlery off the local stores. They were relatively cheap, and it's been some time since I last had traditionally cherry drops and carried around cookingware.



As much as I missed eating them, I'd would have rather not been spirited away to the 1890s to consume them again, even if I was helping a growing business…



After all those purchases, I was left with nothing more and nothing less than twelve dollars and forty-two cents. This first stretch had a forest, and grass growing nearby, so I don't think I'm going to have to spend too much on hay and other horse food. Almost as if noticing me thinking about her they turn to face me is the Horse... Jane Piddy. Such a silly name for an animal, but I had to admit the farmer had picked it well. Looking past my dislike of the animal, 'Jane' was a name that fit the mare quite well.



In one hour, the executioner from Naples, Caesar 'Gyro' Zepelli, and crippled 'Genius Jockey' Johnathan 'Johnny' Joestar would meet outside of the stall. I had plenty of time to kill, and several, minor, troublesome competitors to get rid of. The list of names included, Fritz von Stroheim, Cyborg from the German Empire and the oddly named Mrs. Robbinson, in reality a mister. He is a living insect colony with the abnormal ability to train these flies to do his bidding. I always wondered, was this a Stand? A psychic ability reflecting the nature of his soul? What sort of individual would even give birth to such a power?



These two, much like some others whose names I could not recall, are competitors who are problematic for a single reason: They would attempt to foul the race. Hurting their fellow racers, murdering them, even.



This would not do.




I had first woken up incredibly close to the 'Devil's Palm'. This site, for a lack of a better term, is cursed land. Many who go in don't go out, and alongside my awakening covered in an odd rocky substance I also had a companion. A dead man named Verdis Quo Williams. I stole his name, of course, and some of his money and even his clothes. The dead don't need the things the living need.



I no longer felt any empathy. I could fake it, sure, that's how I sold my clothing, with a sob story and pretending that my dear old, miraculous grandmother, who took magical things out of her sack, had died and vanished one day. That her house, and my belongings, had disappeared. The book that I owned and the clothes on my back were the only miracles I had left of her, and I would give them for a premium in order to make her memory proud.


Usually, this would bother me. I detest lying.


Now? I couldn't care less. I felt this should unnerve me more.



It takes an active effort for me to read the stretched out expression of the mechanical Stroheim as his body is pulled and ground across the wall. Mechanical components moving… in all the wrong directions. Under my shadow the man can't scream. His mechanical limbs only break. Fumes don't move up, and the explosion of the bullets contained within his hand make no sound.



His face, brow pulled back, mouth opened, salty water running down from his face… His head tears and digs into his skull even more as a half-formed sob is turned against him even more…



I think he's in pain, but I cannot place myself mentally in his position to exactly tell as such. It's like poking at at a pet and watching them react.



Eventually, I can feel the second bullet detonate, buried within deep within his mangled, metal hand. The energy, transferred instantly, goes directly to his head.



I tried the stem first, but there was nothing there. So this time, the direction of the explosion and the sound and the force is transmitted to the bridge of his nose, digging deep…



The remains splatter into the wall, off my shadow, and partially, onto my face.



I wipe the grey matter off my face, leaving a red smear behind. Absolutely disgusting. Without any intent, the gears and pulleys and mother mechanisms cease to move, and they fall to the ground, splattering oil and red amongst the alleyway.



This is the loudest sound produced so far, but I have no doubt that it has gone mostly unheard. Scrap Metal clanging and a small, soft squish? By heavens, surely, it must be someone being sloppy in the kitchen.



It's still early for the event I was looking for.



I've got one hour to burn until noon arrives. Sleep can't claim me, so I think it's best to go back to my tent.



==============================

Of course the walk back to the tent couldn't be uneventful.

A figure quickly zooms past, from underneath one of the many tents, and the left pocket of my pants instantly feels less occupied.

The figure, male, is not particularly subtle. But he is fast, and I don't think I can grab him using my hands or trip him with a well-placed leg stride...

In that moment, I decide to use it to stop him. The camp is crowded enough I don't think anyone will notice…

"「Instant Crush」…" Even before I utter those words, the name of the second shadow I have, the foot of the would-be pickpocket slides back as it impacts the ground, as the energy that would have gone into propelling the man forward via mechanical motion and friction finds itself doing the opposite of what it was it was meant to do: approaching the recent target that he stole from.

It's a simple movement, a deviation of the expected force, but it's enough for the would be pickpocket to pummel face-first towards the ground. His hands face a different direction than the one they were placed on. And for all that has happened, their face ends up merely covered in dirt and their nose bleeds profusely. A bright red split, provoked by an impact with a rock, runs down the middle, exposing cartilage…

"W-What???"

"Sorry.. but that money is mine." I know I shouldn't be explaining this to him, but if he reacts like how I expect him to, then… he shouldn't be able to tell anyone else. I didn't want to duel the man… but I dreaded practicing on the wild against people who were more than capable of harming me than he could. He is inconsequential in the larger scale of things; his face is not memorable. His clothing similarly so. If he were to die his body would be dragged away and I would be left with is the experience of taking a life and a scar in my psyche indicating that he existed, at some point or another.

I felt that a past, kinder, less rough version of me wouldn't want to do it, but I knew sooner or later others will show up, and they will try to kill me.

I'd want to familiarize myself with this second shadow of mine even more before that came to pass.

"Y-You tripped me!" The man states, confusing the reason why his eyes are now watery and why his shoulders are scrapped for a far more mundane cause. "T-There ain't no shadow you just tripped me!"

It's obvious to me: it's covering the entire surface which he's sitting on. Is it obvious to him, however?

Can he see it?

I assumed because it was taking a mundane form it would surely be visible to everyone.

Did I assume wrong? Most likely, but it if came at my benefit, I don't think I mind it too much.

"I… did." The lie slips out surprisingly quickly, allowing me to play along and bury my earlier intentions. This man didn't have to die as long as he does not make a ruckus. I hope others will be like him... it'd make things far less annoying that they have any right to be.

"I'll have… I'll have you know…" The man stutters out a half-assed threat.

"What, exactly?" I interrupt, "That you will try to shank me? Steal from me?" That shuts them up good. I guess they didn't expect me to pinpoint who exactly took my money, despite the relative lack of people crowding around. I dislike thieves, I needed the money as much as the next guy, especially since I had no reliable form of income, no job, and no qualifications to apply to any job. "Do you really think you can live for yourself stealing? How about getting a job instead? The local farms are hiring, how about you do that?"

I can feel his fingers squeeze around the bills that had been on the insides of my wallet a moment ago. Just like before, I feel my second self, the flat and formless shape stretch and I reach forwards as the man that attempts to scuttle backwards only seems to be dragged forwards even more as the friction works against him.

I look around… there's no crowd forming, despite the small scuffle. I should have expected as much from the competitor's tents- this is a restricted area after all. Did this mean that this good-for-nothing thief was a competitor too? It embitters me knowing as much- this man should have his own equipment and tools, his own funds. Don't invest what cannot afford to lose I've always known, so if he's stealing…

I snap at him, despite his terrified expression and helpless disposition, tearing the bills from his hands with a quick, assisted pull that works the pressure holding the bills against the man himself, "I'll… take these back- Thank you."

Ten dollars total. I'm still unsure how much buying power it had, but it certainly was good enough for a few day's rations.

The would-be thief is still on the ground. I had not let Instant Crush allow him to move away, it 'redirected' the movements, and energy. That's all it really did, no real strength of its own.

I look at the face I had described as 'unremarkable' not a moment earlier. Every crease, wrinkle and frown of that panicked face. The shaky breaths…



I extend a hand downwards and retracting my stand before my mind catches up with my body. I don't know what I was trying to do before, but I couldn't go around disappearing people. Sooner or later, the police would catch up. I knew Cowboy of Great Renown and Bounty Hunter Mountain Tim would be participating. I don't think I could beat him in a fight.

It's just ten dollars. His life isn't worth that much. Not to me, and I hope that he thinks the same thing.

"Here," I extend my hand further downwards, feigning a friendly tone, "I'll show you somewhere that you could get some cash before the race starts."

The expression turns stunned, then perplexed. The fear is gone but the doubt remains. A hand partially reaches out, and I reach out half-way, pulling him up. "What's your name?"

Silence shortly follows.

"You don't have to say it right now, but I wouldn't want to keep referring to you as mister, don't you agree?"



"A-Ash Wilco." I smile, giving a nod.

"Verdi's Quo Williams. It's a pleasure to meet you, Ash, although I'd certainly wish it was in the race itself." A burst of nervous laughter escapes one mouth, mimicried, and he reaches inside of his pockets, I certainly hope it's nothing on the lines of a knife or a gun… but I'm making sure of it. I know pulled my stand back, but they can't see it, so I just… allow it back to slip over him. It's just a precautionary measure more than anything. I can feel the outline of a switchblade, but maybe he just keeps it in his pocket? I certainly hope he doesn't plan to use it. "Now, Mr Wilco. Mind telling me why you tried to run off with my wallet and threatening me when you tripped?"

"I uh, was robbed in my sleep mister." A bold faced lie, he came unprepared. He hopes this is his chance to get big, doesn't he?

Playing along, I ask, "So… you planned to shy away from that misfortune at me?"

A timid nod is the man's only reply.

"Mind if I ask why?"

"Because uhh, t-that's a r-rich's m-man jacket, M-Mister Williams," they state, holding their hands together and rubbing them nervously. I'm glad he decided to give a second thought to potentially using that knife on me, although I really should know better I assume.

"Drop the mister," I retort back, slightly annoyed. Was it really just my jacket that painted me as an acceptable target for thig guy? I'm not angry, just disappointed, and a bit irritated that I had to pass as a male for this race due to the social norms of the era, "I'm not rich. I just have a nice jacket… that's all."



They nod energetically, no doubt just going along because they can and they fear what I might do to them should I be further displeased. After all, from their perspective, they crawled closer to the guy whom they no doubt planned to steal from in their panic. Perhaps they see it all as a big coincidence. But I genuinely believe that I can make them friendly enough to not talk about the events that transpired earlier today.

"I've still got time," I state carefully focusing on the pronunciation of my words., "before I actually have to attend to something."



There's still a nervous silence permeating the air. A short giggle escapes the man's mouth. Nervous laughter I assume.



"Would you happen to have the card they handed you over to the registration office?" I proceed to ask [inquisitive here]. "I'd be good to see a somewhat familiar face amongst everyone competing, you know?"



"I t-think so- y-yeah! I do h-have with me!" While his response is still tinted with that deep-seated nervousness of earlier, my question (and hopefully my charming smile) seems to have allowed the would-be mugger to relax a little. Reaching beside the switchblade I felt earlier within his pants, he pulls out a card and a badge, he points them in my general direction "S-See? I a-am participating t-too."



"...one of the first?" I ask, examining the card which aptly read A-722 "I mean, first thousand at least. You'd be lined up on one of the front lines."



"Y-Yes!" they respond enthusiastically. While the nervousness may be gone, the stuttering remains. I do my best to ignore it. I had a stuttering uncle and cousins back at home. I could handle a racing partner who stuttered just fine. He may be a would-be pickpocket, and I may forgive him for attempting to run off with ten dollars, but I certainly wasn't going to forget that initial fact.



Who knows? Maybe I could help him with that stuttering of his. I had gone to speech therapy for mumbling after all. Maybe some of the tips I had gotten could help him along.

That is if they don't try to stab me in the back.



I have faith in him, however. He genuinely does not seem to be willing to harm me, even if it's out of fear. Perhaps... just maybe, he'd be a familiar face amongst all the other ones in the race. "Can I expect to see you in two days when the race starts? Establish a meeting spot or something of the sort?"



"U-Uh... yeah I c-can d-do that."



"Righto... Onwards! Towards the candy store!" either my exclamation went over their head, or something else happened because their concerned expression is one I'm sure they shouldn't be having.



"R-Really? W-Why a-are you heading t-there?"



"Yeah, they're hiring anyone regardless of skill, and if you help around for a couple of days, I reckon you could at least get something to munch on the way." I could attest to this personally, even if I had stopped working myself over at the store, in the days leading up to my registration I often helped keeping stock. For my troubles, I got a small bag of sugar, and a couple of cents. Something to sweeten the ever so bland oatmeal. The man managing the store is none other than a kindly old fellow by the name of Jerry Lee Lewis. It was nice seeing him again this morning, even if it was just to buy a jar of cherry drops...



"Plus, you've got quite the hairdo," I remember to add as we leave the tents after some meandering; even if his face is not particularly memorable his hair is something I could remember: brown, straight, and reaching all the way down to his shoulders. Kind of makes me miss my own mess of a hairdo...

"You could always sell it. Just like I did with mine, see?" I brush my hand against my shaven head, the hair pricking against my fingers in a manner that is uniquely hard to describe. As a response, he simply nervously laughs once more in respond to my friendly demeanor.



So it's not all bad. Not all bad after all. Perhaps I could really count on him to be a partner for the race.

---

..................................................​

---

It's early noon. Twelve PM with thirty-two minutes to be exact. Ever since I took Ash to that candy store I've gone to work. After which, I've been waiting in front of the registration office for the race. If I remember correctly, something, in particular, was going to occur today, and as much as I disliked violence, it would allow me to recognize a pair of certain figures amongst all the others who were going to be racing.

A Neapolitan man by the alias of "Gyro Zeppelli". And the crippled jockey going under the name of "Johnny Joestar", referred to by announcers and newspapers as "JoJo".

As far as I knew, my best to get back home was dependent on the body of the 'Messiah'; also known as Saint's Corpse. Whether I liked it or not, I did not know how to traverse the Devil's Palm, despite awakening in such and somehow managing to escape the cursed walking landmark. I also would need copious amounts of aid if I was to remove the Corpse's Heart from the American President: Funny Valentine.

Because unlike what someone should be able to assume from such a figure, they were not just an armchair politician. With his ability to traverse dimensions, he had no doubt performed more than a single political assassination during his career. His ability is perfectly suited to leaving no evidence to be found.

That's why I needed to at least recognize the pair. If I could bypass the president's ability, either by myself or by proxy, I could potentially retrieve the Saint's Heart.

The problem then became how to extract the Saint's Head-

That's why I needed to at least recognize the pair. They alone, I knew, could bypass the immortality granted by Dirty Deeds Done Dirt cheap. That's the name name of the ability that allowed him to transcend death and travel through countless, parallel worlds. In much the same way I had named my ability "Instant Crush," other's had named their own after songs that yet did not exist. "Tomb of the Boom", "20th Century Boy", "Tubular Bells", "Cream Starter", "Hey-Ya". These are all a mere window into the no doubt large collection of abilities that will be scattered through the competitors of the race.



It just so happens that the retrieval of the Saint's Head is tied to one of them. "Ticket to Ride", the power to prevent harm to the user by coincidences and chance.



It's when my thoughts are broken up by the movement of the crowd. From my spot leaning against one of the walls of the establishment, I've once had a clear line of sight to the beach. Unfortunately, that line of sight was now broken by the collection of people now flocking towards the path. Was this the duel? There's only one way to know, and that's to have a clear line of sight to the event that people were flocking to watch and comment on. Based on their mutterings, however…

This is probably it.

I never liked crowds, but I am pretty sure I could not get a higher point of view without invading private property. Amongst the mumbling of the people, the stench of old sweat and grime is particularly striking. I don't like it one bit, but a semi-circle had already naturally formed. It's when I hear one voice, stern, that I realize the urgency of my task.

"Pick it up."

I call out amongst the crowd. I needed to see this, or at least, one of the people who were. I get grimaces, glances, some callouts even. Nobody likes being pushed. I certainly didn't. Even if I could avoid getting pushed back, which is something I could do with merely a whisper, I did not want to attract more attention than I already was doing by sliding forwards in the sea of bodies.

"If you're really going to bother me… pick it up. But, if you do… that'll be the sign."

More shouting, calls for a duel, a man in a wheelchair trying to push himself forwards with far less success due to his condition, and the sheriff and the on-site security, early for reasons unknown to me, makes his way across the

"No fights allowed on this beach!"

I could barely see the confrontation from where I had managed to squeeze myself into. Two figures stand (although to call the kneeling one standing would be a stretch) free from the crowd. Although I can barely see them past the heads of the people in front of me, I knew what they were wearing, and how they were dressed. The taller, paler man, an Italian, is wearing a hat that has had lines cut out across it so; resting on the hat is a set of hockey goggles (Or at least, I so assume). Green eyes that match the green highlights of his purple outfit. A rare color that if one could recognize as the trademark of European royalty, in this case, Neapolitan. However, green is (in my opinion) the far more important color in his outfit.

For even if I could not see it past the bodies of the ones in the front row, I knew that it's the same green in those buttons, that rests within the spherical objects on the sides of his waist: The Steel Balls used in the executions of Neapolitan prisoners. A method using a supernatural phenomenon to dull the nerves and stretch the muscles to allow for a humane death.

Tension rises up in the air. I knew what the Italian, or Neapolitan (for I wasn't sure of the state of the countries in the current time period) had done before: he had made a man --a pickpocket who had promised to annoy him in the race- duel him with a revolver they had taken from one of the police officers who were dragging him away.

I almost miss it. In a fraction of a blink of an eye, the second figure, wearing merchandise that was being sold on the many stalls surrounding the town that was hosting the race, is hit by a spinning, green ball. The same sphere proceeds to bounce back into the Neapolitan man's hand. Many people miss it, but I don't. I know what I'm looking for as I watch in-between people:
The transfer spinning of the green steel ball over to the pickpocket's body, twisting his muscles and skin in such a way, that if he decided to pull the trigger of the firearm… he'd blow his brains out.

"What's going on!? Let me through!"

A high-pitched, young voice shouts through the murmur of the crowd. I do my best to ignore it, preferring to observe the effects of the steel ball on the man's exposed arms.

Around the point of contact, the skin and cloth were wrapping unnaturally, carrying over the spin from the sphere that had returned to the Executioner with a single bounce. His muscles twist and turn unnaturally, but they don't creak, crunch, or twist. They don't sound at all; a nearly perfect transfer of rotational force.

"I'm not a nice guy. Let go of that gun… and see a doctor. Before lunch…"

This warning won't be heeded. I had considered how lucky I was to have met someone who was only robbing out of necessity and not willing to double down on attempting to antagonize me like this man was doing, for three bodies in a single day would be too much to hide.

Perhaps...

"YOU BASTARD!"

I knew what was going to happen next. I avert my eyes, looking away and covering them with my hand, as the would-be-thief attempts to aim the revolver down at the Neapolitan again...

When the gun fires, I know it's not the Neapolitan the one that is hit by the round and blood rains on the ground.



A young lady screams. Or maybe it's a man. Whoever they are, they would seem to be particularly shocked by the turn of events wherever they may be. I am unwilling to see the mangled remains of the man's face, his muscles working against him due to the consequence of the 'Spin' being transferred to the man's arm. Not because I find it disturbing or unnerving, ever since waking up, I don't feel that anymore, but because I need to keep up appearances amongst the crowd.

'If he had dropped that revolver', I think, 'perhaps he wouldn't have died.'

The sheriff finally makes their way around to the front of the crowd. I guess his earlier callings to stop any potential fighting were ignored when the duel had started.

I knew what would follow. The screeching figure dressed in light blue would finally make their way in front of the crowd in order to follow-

"Hey, m-mister!"

I knew that stuttering voice, even if I expected not to see him so quickly after I showed him the way towards the candy store, I barely even expected him to get a job, let alone greet me again with a smile on his face and just after the duel, to boot. "Ash. Did the confectionery already close?"



A timid nod is my sole reply from Ash, and his recently bandaged nose. I need to close this conversation now before I miss out on what's going to happen next.



"Well, what are you waiting for? I thought we were going to stablish a meeting spot in the race, not here." Did something, or someone, prompt him? Why the unfortunate timing. The now almost bald Ash Wilco, with his hair shaved to a fiery-patterned stubble, approaches me with a brimmed hat and a cheerier disposition.



"W-Well you see mister, there's this f-friend I have, r-right?"



I nod, barely paying attention to him,"u-huh."

"A-And, well, they were a-asking," he gesticulates wildly, doing his best to calm his nerves, "W-Well, if this mister is s-so kind, h-how come they d-don't give you their money?"

Of course. People like Ash didn't prompt things themselves, they are too insecure to do anything of their own, "Did you tell your friend off?"

"N-No." He raises a finger as if to interject whatever pissed off response I'd launch at him. "But I d-did ask t-them w-why."

"What did they respond?"

"D-Don't think about it, he said." Ash, useful fool, being played by someone else. Got to fix that before it gets me in trouble, although perhaps disappearing him might be more convenient, "Y-Yes yes that's what he…"


"Whoever doesn't want you to think is never your friend," I interrupt, bluntly. I remember doing a presentation on how cults originated, and how their dogma could brainwash people before I ended up here. It makes me slightly upset to know that even before graduating I already had to apply this knowledge.

No matter this, despite not noticing anyone in particular, whoever this 'friend' was he'd be a fool not to have someone follow Ash here. I'd be getting a visit tonight, I knew.

"W-Why?" He stutters nervously as a response, no doubt believing he had offended me in some way. I could tell by the way that he cowered that he was used to bowing down to people. Was he indebted to the local gangs?

"Because what do you gain from not questioning? Not asking questions?"

"F-Friends?" This response leaves me baffled. I suppress a sigh. I already heard the hollering of the ex-jockey Johnny Joestar demanding to be let though as the crowd dispersed. As much as I'd like to continue the conversation, I needed to end it at the moment.

"No... um, look," I state, already dreading losing the squeaking of the wheelchair as it pushes its way among the crowd "let's discuss this later. You know the soda fountain close to the bank? Meet me there, I'd greatly enjoy continuing the conversation, got it?"

"Yes! I will meet you there."

"See you around!" With this quick farewell, I begin making my way to Gyro Zeppelli, soon to be racer.

I already saw his face. How it looked like one befitting of a fashion model, and his purple clothing being accented by the round, green buttons, resembling those seen on his weapons and tools. Now… I only need to see the face Johnny Joestar.

And as soon as I did that, I would know how to pick them out of crowd. And I would know who I needed to stick close to as to retrieve the Saint's Corpse for my own.

 

[FloraRead]

Chapter 3
Moonmadness: Part 2​

September 25, 1980, the day the race starts, is yet another sleepless night. I just lay in my tent, and stared at the ceiling of it as people snored around me. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. All at the same time, at the same rhythm, with the same tone. Over and over for over for several hours straight. I felt drowsy, but sleep wouldn't take me. I could just hear everyone else snoring. In, out. In, out. In, out. I looked outside my tent to check, and they rose and fell at the same time. Such an odd rhythm, or better described as a hymn. I was the only person moving, and it really felt like everyone else would never wake up again.

By the time I realized something was suprely wrong with this, everyone else returned to taking their breaths at different times. The rhythm became chaotic, unpredictable, natural. I didn't see anyone else waking. Even the guard within his cabin was sleeping before waking up, shaking his head and looking around. The distant sound of a horse and a cripple engaged in some manner of squabble for dominance.

Just as it should have been.

I didn't feel any rested when I got out of my tent and folded it up.

I didn't feel any more rested as I packed everything I needed to be packed and carried it in my back as I walked around.

My bones should have ached a little less than yesterday. Instead, they ached more. I was sluggish as I went to the meeting point I had established with someone yesterday, the time clicking away in my watch. Clicking? No, ticking. It should be ticking. But clicking… click, clikes. Cliques. I could see one right now, composed of races from francophone countries but notably, I didn't hear a single mainland french accent. I passed them by without blinking more than I needed to.

Cliques. They're always a thing in social events. And I already know they're forming. Groups, teams, allegiances Going alone in this race, even with a Stand, is equivalent to suicide. This is why I find myself in the soda fountain sharing the name of the diner beside it owned by the same person: Tom Vega. Thus, Tom's Diner for dining and Tom's Diner for soda drinking are one and the same. They're also known for being the only place on this side of the Rockies to sell Pineapple soda… or so they claim in the sign outside of the window.

Ash Wilco, wearing his well-worn gray jacket and brimmed hat with a tattered cloth attached to the back greets me with a timid wave, sitting by the bar.

He stutters, "Did-Didn't sleep well?"

"Didn't sleep at all," I curtly responded.

He fiddles with the inside of his jacket, before stating the obvious. "T-That's bad."

"Obviously."

He looks hurt. I wouldn't have liked someone to tell me that in the past. I didn't think about that two seconds ago. I should correct myself.

"Sorry. I do not feel well." I respond, feigning exhaustion with a long, drawn out sigh. I checked myself in the black mirror that my phone had become. I definitely have the eye bags to prove something would be wrong with me.

"Shouldn't y-you be trying t-to take a nap?" He suggests, tapping the table to pass the time in absence of anything better to do. "B-Before the race starts?"

"No. I can't sleep. I have things to do." I clumsily wave my hand around dismissively, leaning on the bar to get a better look at Ash's face. "And one of them is why I called you here today. I propose forming an alliance for this race."

"An-An alliance? B-But I th-thought this r-race was individual in terms of scoring?" Confusion worsens the man's stuttering. I know this state won't last forever.

"Our goal is to get to the checkpoints first. The first section of the race is a straightforward sprint. Not so much"

"W-Wait I-I have a m-map." He quickly scrambles outside to his horse and returns with a crumpled, yellowing thing. The map, if it can be called that being dated to 1886, is unfolded onto the tabletop, and he drags a finger from the blobby shape of San Diego to a scribbled dot somewhere over the east. "A-Alright. From here to here, r-right?"

"From San Diego to the church of Santa Maria de Novella," I confirm, "although you Americans often omit the "de" in between 'Maria' and 'Novela'."

"S-Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for." He nods as I continue, "This church borders Arizona, and it's on the outskirts of Paymaster Landing. A good distance to go to church if you live in the nearby towns. That's three-hundred kilometers, at least, if we take all of the roads available."

"K-Kilowhat?"

"Kilometers. Not kilowatts. We're not measuring electricity here, but distance. That'd be around 170 to 180 miles for you." I correct his mistakes without batting an eye. Americans and their odd measurement system…

"Ah, a-alright." He gives a shaky nod, clearly not understanding my distaste for miles.

"Which means if we are to arrive first, we need to cut through terrain." Nervous sweat beats off the man's paling forehead. I try to work my mirror neurons to provide a reason and… my best guess is the ambient temperature? I haven't sweat ever since I arrived here, so that may be it. Leaning on the table, I ask: "tell me, what breed is your horse? How old is it?"

"My pa c-claims it's a Mongolian horse…"

I raise an eyebrow. A mongolian horse? Owned by a random no-one who is most likely an american farmer? That seems unlikely. My judgemental gaze must be rather clear, since he gets defensive immediately.

"I n-never said I b-believed t-that!" He says, waving his palms from side to side, as if to stop my movement, "I-I think it's a c-crossbreed. But she runs real good and for long. H-Heavy M-Metal Drummer is her name. Six years old… she's m-mine and m-mine alone."

"Good name." He nods, smiling.

"W-What's y-your horse?"

"Oh, she's Janis. Janis S. Piddy is her full name. I'm having her borrowed off Rodriguez."

"M-Mister Piddy's Prized h-horse!?" Ash exclaims in shock.

Amused, I ask, "Oh, that's what she is?"

He nods vigorously, "Florida C-Cracker Horse. That's the breed."

Is that an insult? "If you're trying to call me crazy for riding that—"

"No no no! N-Not at all! S-She's an endurance horse. F-Fast too. For a S-Stock horse t-that is." He awkwardly stammers as he fiddles with his fingers. "B-But she's not used to racing. A-Aint practiced for it. And at eight years of age… s-she's a bit o-old for that I'd say."

I feel my eyebrow twitch. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"You're w-welcome!" He beams obliviously. I just roll my eyes.

"That means plenty of rocky terrain as we cut through mountainous terrain. I have never traversed such a horse, so I'm letting you take the lead. Got that, farmboy?"

He shakily nods. It's a lot of responsibility, and I'm assuming it's dawning on him now.

I get off the bar stool and head for the door. "Let's try meeting at the start line ten minutes before the race. Pool our resources. It starts in four hours, right?"

"B-But how will we find one another?" He asks after catching up, forgetting his map on the table.

"Oh, you'll know. C-299 is my racing tag. I know yours. A-722. Three-thousand racers. Three different sections: A, B, C. But we all pass under the same paths on the way to the starting line. Wait for me there. I have to take care of something."

We leave at that. He goes his own way after retrieving his map, and I go to the horse… stables? Rings? I have no clue what they're called. I have the feeling Ash does, given he appears to have been a farm boy of some kind. He goes to the starting line. Anxiety must eat away at him, if he's so skittish all of the time.

There's crowds in the streets. The air smells of dirt, manure, and a collection of other things. Moving through the tides of people is hard. Annoying, sluggish. Especially after another sleepless night. My bones ache, my eyes sting, but I eventually manage to break free as I approach the tents and head off to the stables.

I had followed Gyro Zeppeli yesterday, and kept an eye on Johnny Joestar.

So I knew exactly where they would meet up a measly three hours before the race began.

The cripple wearing blue is trying to get onto the horse he bought ever since last night. The horse is a mean-spirited, untamable Stallion Appaloosa of eleven years of age called Slow Dancer. It switched many owners and shattered the leg of one of them. Slow Dancer is an odd name. Right now, the horse was trying to dance on top of his owner, trying to trample him dead, to little success. Two people watched horrified, and one more with interest. It is this one man which I'm interested in. Purple jacket, green buttons, leather pants, wide brimmed hat with cut out holes. My approach must have been relatively quiet, since his body jumps slightly when I address him

"You're Gyro Zeppelli, correct?"

His posture tenses up, expression almost turning into a snarl, displaying the smallest hints of his metallic teeth as he turns to look at me. "And who may you be?"

"Someone unimportant." I clear that up, leaning on the broken fence upon where the cripple jockey was thrown a moment earlier. "But I have information to be delivered to you."

"Nyo-ho?" His interest piqued, he smiles as he looks down on me. "Do tell."

"You have a bounty on your head." The smile melts away, eyes staring in incomprehension, then anger. "If you know what's good for you, you'll find someone to watch your back. But I suspect you already have your eyes on that cripple jockey over there. He's really not a bad choice."

Annoyance swells within me as he lifts me by my shirt and slams me down within the fence, the other two men turning to look at us two rather than the cripple trying to tame the insane horse. I may get bruised. That'd be counterproductive to my competition in this race. "Listen here, you piece of shit. If this is some sort of–"

"Oyecomova?" That name gets him to stop trying to push me into the ring. "I'm sure the mad bomber is planning to join the race. At the very least, interrupt it, sooner or later."

He lets me go, body posture suggesting something between contemptment and displeasure. Then he smiles, allowing his inscribed teeth to make his emotional state known as he gives two steps away, before turning around and giving a long one back.

"He can't do that, because you know what?" Gyro gives a short spin before making his displeasure very clear by trying to push me over the broken fence again. "He's in ja~il. Jail!"

"He broke out, obviously." I hold onto his shirt. My shadow makes his footing uneven enough that he can't risk twisting my arm off his shirt. "If you don't trust me, ask around. I'm sure someone has seen the albino with the dyed hair roaming around. Better yet: ask someone from Naples."

"If you're wrong–" he pulls me up, fully expecting to push me in for real this time.

"I'm not your 'enemy', Zeppelli." That stops him. My clothes are going to be wrinkled for the start of the race now. Great. Just what I needed. Not like it'll be noticed amongst hundreds of racers. I do my best to even out the wrinkled shirt regardless. "What do I gain from misleading a complete stranger to the horseriding scene not even competing for the money in this race? Weakening a family in a country I haven't visited or care about enough to memorize its capital? Please. I'm doing this because I have this information and nothing better to do, and at the very least I can stand to gain some sort of truce for the race. That clear?"

His composure breaks. He lets me go and picks up his saddle to leave for real as Jonny gets trampled on some more. "Damn it."

"Do you think I was joking about Jojo?"

He pauses. "Who?"

"The cripple you were watching. Genius Jockey Johnny Joestar."

He snorts at the title, but we both turn to look at the man dressed in blue. He's being dragged by the stirrup bound to the horse's saddle as the creature walks slowly around the ring. Blood trails from the cripple Jockey's legs, a piece of wood lodged deep within his right leg. He doesn't feel it, of course. He hasn't felt anything in his legs ever since he was shot in the abdomen a long time ago.

"He would make a good partner, y'know? Nothing to lose, and invested on that thing you did yesterday, so he wouldn't tolerate someone killing you. He's better at reading horses than that star jockey from england. Diego Brando. Of course…" I begin to walk away, " he'd need to figure out a way to get on his horse first, if you don't want to drag him everywhere."

I hear the conversation from afar, relayed by my shadow bouncing sounds off the floor as I hide behind a building.

"Hey! You, cripple!"

"Ngh." A muffled reply which is barely heard as a horse once again tries to trample

"You practically have me figured out, I guess. So if you really want to ride that horse, you just have to use that."

"Use what?"

"The Spin."

Chapter End​

Post-Chapter Notes:

So, updating this yearly, as one does.

I wanted to know if you peeps would be interested in potentially having music to go along with the chapters? Picks from Ennio Morricone's Catalog, Music for an Imaginary Western, and pieces of Soul Beat Replica would be in the mix. Especially since they all deal with westerns and in the case of Soul Beat Replica, is an official piece of Jojo music made for the SBR webpage when it was still a thing.

 

[frog142]

I wouldn't mind having music.
This story is interesting and im excited to see how this goes.

 

[FloraRead]

Chapter 3
(Suggested Listening)

Moonmadness: Part 3​

Fireworks tend to go straight up, then explode. The one marking the start of the race does four loops, threatens to come back down and crash into the crowd, then it explodes.

Immediately, all horses break into a frenetic gallop. A chorus of hooves makes speaking impossible as long as one is in the middle of the pack. Surrounded by sweaty people and trotting beasts from all around. Dust clouds rise, and the crowd pushes in from all ends. I haven't ridden horses much before, but I admit, It does make me slightly irritated. Worry is a non-feeling, even if I knew if I was lightly pushed I was very likely to fall. The horse I've been lent feels the same way, and there's no doubt she doesn't like being pushed around by the other riders. The starting line ran for literal kilometers and now that a pack is forming, galloping all around, the clouds of dirt rising far above the racers and onto the onlooking photographers, hoping to take a winning picture up above from their balloons.

Someone, I don't know who, tries to knock me off my horse while hidden from peering eyes by the galloping crowd. It's a sad coincidence they spontaneously slide off their horse as soon as my shadow falls onto them. If anything, I'll give a small thought to hoping they don't get trampled to death. Then another man, wielding a club, tries to approach me enough to swing at me while hidden from prying eyes. They slip off too, although being "thrown" may be more appropriate to the way the galloping bounces force him to slide off. It's slow, but in spite of this a small crowd of riders form around me, the galloping of motions being rather dizzying.

Weird. They didn't shout that time either. The galloping is loud, but no that loud. Someone should have shouted. People tend to shout when others got injured. I knew this reaction because I, myself, experienced it several times before despite no such feeling striking me now. All of these people, this multitude that formed around me… they won't let me go. Not even the horses without a rider attempt to move away. They're all working as a unit, and as far as I can tell… they're heading away from the track, towards a ravine.

Their eyes may be open, but they're not seeing anything. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. Same rhythm, same heartbeat. Just like last night. They're sleeping. Sleep-walking. Somnambulant.

Shit. I sort of expected to come into attack later in the race, not this early!

The swarm formed around me gallops away from where the other racers are moving. If I don't escape this crowd… I won't be able to meet up with Ash Wilco at the meeting point in time.

The horses have cycled. New riders have made their way into the inner circle, the lone horses breaking off and running away. Janis neighs as the man kicks her and mysteriously falls off his horse for his troubles.

Twenty-four riders left. Whoever is controlling these people must be hiding amongst the crowd of riders. They can't do anything drastic this close to any potential watchers. No guns, but pushing, pulling, kicking are all fair game if I'm stuck in the middle like this. So if I am to live… I need to get out of the crowd, or get close enough to the bleachers so the crowd is forced to disperse in order to avoid accusations of foul play.

Not the best of outcomes, losing such a lead. So I only really have the former choice if I am to score within the first eight places.

So I have to break out of the crowd. Knocking horses down left and right isn't bound to work. They could injure my own horse, and then where would I be?

There's enough of them that I can't look at all of their faces for being slack-jawed. The body posture isn't helping either. And even if it was, there's no guarantee the Stand User, the person controlling these bodies, isn't asleep and controlling their own body too. That's a possibility. Not everyone has abilities like mine, where they happen to be excluded from the effects. If I just knock people off their horses randomly, I'm likely getting penalized for endangering other racers. It hardly matters if they're being hijacked, to an average person it would just look like people mysteriously slipped when approaching me. It wouldn't take a mathematician to discover

Damn it! What do I even do?

I barely manage to avoid a conspicuous shove headed my direction by redirecting the movement to the side lightly. Twenty four… that's less than a five-percent chance if I strike out randomly. Even less if I consider that the user wouldn't attack me himself. Additionally, my time is running out. Not only am I being guided away from the main body of racers and heading towards a cliffside, given the frequency of attacks I can tell my enemy is trying to gauge the range of my own ability.

Wild strategies are discarded in favor of less spectacular, more mundane ones. I redirect a fraction of the force generated from the other horses' galloping towards the dirt. A lateral movement, less meant to make them lose speed and more kick up dirt. Airborne dust, as it turns out, is a great medium for my stand, and enough dirt flies directed at the eyes and ears of my enemies. Another clumsy swing, but this one misses entirely as the pack loses cohesion…

My theory, unsurprisingly, is proven correct. These people may be sleepwalking, but they still need their sensory organs to see, or at the very least, the stand master does. And right now, I've kicked enough dust up and directed it at enough ears of eyes to make any sightline advantage worthless.

Then, freedom. First by a horse-neck's length, then by an entire body I break free from the disoriented crowd. If all goes well, their medical treatment shouldn't be too arduous or lengthy, though I can't see the ones closest to the kicked up storm being able to compete with injured eyes and ears.

I make a point to not discount the involvement of this Enemy until I can get a body I can see with my own two eyes.

Surprisingly, I am not too separated from the pack. Horses and riders still run this far back. I even pass by a fuelless automobile and a person lamenting the poor state of their ostrich. That colours me amused as Janis continues her gallop towards the meeting point.

A bloody ostrich! What did they expect would happen? It's a smaller animal compared to a horse, but one can't ride an ostrich in the same way they ride a horse! Was that man stupid?

At least it wasn't a hippopotamus. I'm not only sure that in this day and age they would be fine with someone riding one of those things, up until it took a bite out of someone.

Regardless, I arrive at the meeting point and stumble across the fact that, yes, telling someone to wait at a conspicuous hill makes other people tend to try and follow. Not only this, but it seems Wilco decided to go on without me. Worst of all: there's a line.

Dammit. If it wasn't for those sleepwalkers, I wouldn't have had to cross the river on horse to save time because the bridge would still be in one piece. I knew who broke it. Gyro Zeppeli. Jackass.

As it turns out: going uphill with a horse is much more difficult than going uphill on foot. Especially when other people have all stolen my bright idea and taken advantage of it due to an inconvenience I couldn't have possibly foreseen! Oh, yeah, I'll just stumble across someone I never knew existed and have them jump me and cause me to potentially lose out on the horse I entered into a sponsorship for. It's very distasteful. It almost makes me want to slip the person with the poncho in front of me for being such a snail.

But no, Verdis, killing people because they annoy you isn't a good look. No matter how much you believe them to be fictional, they still cry and get hurt. You wouldn't have liked this to happen to you? I mean, in the past. Presently I don't think I can get angry. Or sad. Or feel much of anything, really. Much like my sleep schedule, it's just gone.

That's a worrying realization.

The downhill is much smoother, and overtaking fellow racers is a breeze. Just leech off the force of their galloping and add them to your own without accelerating too much to prevent Janis from tripping. Slow them down, and the only thing they can do is watch as the lead slowly grows longer and longer…

I have to make a comeback. I gotta. I recognize this section. That's the abandoned farm, over there, and I can see the race leads from over here. I just have to be enough of a parasite to pull ahead.

Oh, and would you look at that. Seems like Ash is close to tailing the front-running group. Eighteenth or nineteenth place. Didn't think he'd had it in him to place within the top twenty without a constant guiding hand. That should be amusing.

And here is where the two, no, three packs suddenly meet. A downward slope. No crowds on all sides, but the thunderous noise of galloping beasts still makes it hard to hear much of anything. Fortunately, this is also where I thrive the most.

Instant Crush. That's what I named my ability. Anything that steps in my shadow can have its kinetic energy redirected. Naturally, this also allows me some degree of control over my shadow with the exception of my body and any other thing extraordinarily close, such as my clothes. Thus, these grounds are ripe for parasitising off the hard work of more experienced, more capable horse riders.

Locomotion when something tends to move with their own force with relation to the ground makes use of Newton's third law of motion. I just hijacked this to a degree. Of course, care needs to be taken to not cripple my own horse doing so, or break another horse's legs. Weakly enough to make them slow down, and imperceptibly enough to make my own horse speed up.

Two, four, eight, sixteen, twenty… I'm pulling ahead in leaps and bounds. I may have a chance to fulfill my sponsorship! Not bad for someone who is merely getting ahead by leeching off others' work. For my eighth time horse-riding, I wasn't doing half bad!

"You should know better than to leech off others' work."

Who? When? When did this light-blue wearing jockey catch up to me!? Wait… I recognize them. Those yellow checkers, the orange-blonde hair, athletic build, sharp facial features…

"Diego…" Brando. Also known as Dio, or the God of the Racing Field of England. Probably the best Jockey of this day and age. Just to confirm, I checked out the victory to loss ratio of the favored contestants of this race, and his was close to eighty percent. It's no doubt higher now. Not only did he manage to catch up to me, he's pulling ahead bit by bit.

"No manner of petty tricks will make you pull ahead in a race where skill is at the forefront in any way that matters." He lectures, not bothering to spare me a glance. The disgust in his voice is clear, I don't need to see his face to tell that much, but I do anyway. I sort of wish I didn't. "Do you even know your horse's habits? The best feed for her breed? The injuries she's had? How tired she is? What sort of galloping style does she have?"

I didn't, so I don't bother responding.

He clicks his tongue and pulls ahead. "Useless, useless, useless. Waste of a good horse."

How? He's in my shadow, he— what the hell!? I could always cripple him, just break one of his horse's legs… but I can't risk it, dammit! I can't pull too much energy without risking disqualification, or injuring my horse, or even disabling his future involvement… but I should be pulling ahead regardless with my trick. How is he managing that? When did he figure it out? How is he countering my ability?

And he pulls ahead with what seems like a sudden burst of energy, but there's no effort behind it. It just looks natural.

Other people are noticing him too. The frontrunner at the first section of the race who was forced to start again from behind due to the bridge breaking, yet somehow pulled ahead again. All eyes are looking through me, and looking at him pull ahead from the tailing group. My horse… true to what Diego said, I don't know how tired she is. She's clearly sweating, probably tired, her coat is damp and muscles tense as she gallops. Maybe I should try speaking to her?

Others are doing that. One man just tried that, only to have his corpse collapse from exhaustion and rolls downhill with rider falling with them.

"Listen here. I don't know you, but it's within our mutual interest to arrive first, or as close as possible…" No signs of recognition. Her breaths are audible, in spite of the race and the wind. I don't know how to read horses. I can read cats spectacularly well, humans are a bit trickier. Horses, dogs, and everything else? Not a clue.

So these sounds and expressions and posture mean nothing to me. Regardless, I plead.

"…please. We'll tire everyone out first, just don't collapse on me."

It sounds like a prayer. Definitely feels like one too with the way I'm petting Jan.

Please don't fall. I don't know why I sound so desperate. Don't fall. I need you.

I trail behind the British jockey hoping to catch up. His lead just grows.

Soon, I'll be in between two groups of racers without being able to leech off Diego. I just hope I can maintain my place as I hopefully close the gap to the one person I was meant to meet a long time ago. Ash Wilco. No-name farmer doing his best to try and win just one of the phases of the race for the chance to… do something. With the money. I have no clue what, exactly.

Here it comes. The gap. Diego finally leaves me behind, and his horse seems to break into a faster sprint while not putting any more effort than he was exercising before. It's magical. I'd be mesmerizing if I wasn't forced to improvise on the spot to avoid falling behind.

However… he did call Janis a "good horse". Maybe, if I just put my faith into her, as crazy and optimistic and foolish as that sounds, I'll be able to catch up. No need to use fear of coercion or spurs to get her to go fast. Just… copy what he does when he gets his horse to rush. A light kick, a sharp shout. Like a climber reaching for the last hold in a difficult route, shouting from the exhalation, the life of the competition, could be seen as acceptable.

I just have to hold that thought close. I don't feel that sensation, but maybe, if I can fake it well enough.

Here it goes.

"Hyah?" Nothing.

"Hey-ya?" Still nothing.

"Huzzah?" Nothing once more.

"Go! Just go! We're gonna lose out on the sponsorship!"

That gets her going. It's almost imperceptible, but she gallops at a… it's not smooth. I've certainly had smoother rides, but it's the way that she does it. I'm unsure if I'll be able to replicate it. Finally, I caught up with the person I've been looking forward to speaking to in this entire first leg of this race.

"Y'know, I have no hard feelings towards you."

"M-Mister Williams!" He sputters, breaking off his hard stare towards the finish line. Seems he was in a flow state. No way of taking back my actions now.

"I told you to drop the mister."

"S-Sorry."

"Don't apologize." My tongue clicks in annoyance. Regardless, time to give credit where it is due. "What you did, leaving without me… it was the 'correct' action. If you waited for me, you wouldn't have been able to catch up or even get this close to the front of the race pack. The plan was mine, but your execution was top notch. Really good work."

"Oh, uh, sorry for le—"

"I need to get within the top eight places to keep the horse for the rest of the race," I interrupt, "but you can be fine existing in your current position, no? Eighteenth place… that's four points. If anything, that's already enough to win some of the race's prizes."

"I-I-I gue— w-wait!"

"Great. Thanks." With this confirmation, I leech off Ash, taking the boost to catch up with the following group.

I can see them, the front-runners. They're so close and the church just looms closer and closer… I pass by another racer, then yet another one. A man in a uniform which seems foreign to this country, then a man who seemed to be ripped out of the logo of a Mexican restaurant, then one more wearing all beige but somehow managing to stand out with a curious set of goggles.

Closer, closer. I just have to get to the—!

Finish line!

However, I don't need to hear the announcer shouting my name to realize what place I got.

Twelfth Place.

Dammit.


This is going to be a long walk to New York…

Chapter End​

Post-Chapter Notes:

Whoa, two updates in a year? What's up with this? Dark magic I say.

Anyways, should I use these notes to give small descriptions on stands seen so far? Short descriptions, more Jojolion than Steel Ball Run, but they should paint a good enough picture of the ability regardless. Although depending on the attitudes, I could always include a rework of stand stats and use those instead of what canon uses.