Jojo's Bizarre Adventure: Shadowed Suspicion Chapter 395

[madimpossibledreamer]

They’re called fern palm trees
 

Main Points:
Jojo's Bizarre Adventure/Buffy the Vampire Slayer AU
Chapter Summary: The Speedwagon Foundation is not the only hazardous workplace.
Word Count: 1196
Note: HERE THERE PROBABLY BE BUFFY/JJBA SPOILERS

 

         Mr. Bianchi has gotten used to a lot of things being a driver for Wolfram & Hart. He isn’t directly involved in any of the worst of it, but he knows it’s not too dissimilar from being a driver for the mob. It’s the everyday jobs: the janitor, the driver, the accountant, the everyday people who are the general gears that make the machinery run. Not taking anything personally is how he has to go about this entire thing. To him, it’s just a job, but he knows that’s just painting a pretty face on the monsters. He’s used to not speaking up, to not asking questions. Point A to Point B is his job.
         But he is still a husband with very good life insurance, and as greedy as his employers are, they’re willing to actually shell out the money because it costs less up front. And Mr. Burai appreciates his occasional input. He’s only spoken up before when asked, but this time, he feels like it’s relevant.
         “We could have stayed and helped out. It’s not like your next meeting is in a couple hours.” He doesn’t sound judgmental, just matter-of-fact. He doesn’t interrupt, given that his passengers are entirely silent, and in fact it’s mostly a way to stay awake as the desert rolls by in contrasting monotone. It’s not just dunes; it’s largely rocky, slightly hilly, even, but the only difference between the rocks is their varying sizes. He hasn’t really spotted anything alive in hours, coming back from Mexico, though at least there the occasional cactus, bird, or other plant had changed things up a bit more. Hell, there must have been rain at some point recently, because he’d even spotted some flowers along the way and made a point to remember to tell his daughter; she’d get a kick out of it.
         Unfortunately, that care isn’t appreciated by Mr. Destar. He has a few regulars, but Mr. Destar is new and doesn’t know him. “Be careful with that bleeding heart. It is so much work to get blood out of upholstery.”
         “Mr. Destar, check your cynicism before it chokes you,” Mr. Burai counters quickly and turns toward Mr. Bianchi. “This isn’t due to your daughter, is it?”
         Mr. Bianchi smiles. He appreciates the compassionate reminder to keep his personal life separate from his work—or, in this case, vice versa. “No, sir. I just happen to read the paper every morning. It’s part of my routine; I wake up at 5 A.M. sharp, have a coffee, and read the paper, rain or shine. I try to do it even when I’m not at home.”
         Mr. Destar fidgets and looks like he wants to interrupt, but refrains from doing so.
         “And what did the newspaper tell you, Mr. Bianchi?” Mr. Burai, at least, is following the thread, even if he doesn’t see the point just yet. Mr. Bianchi’s getting there.
         The kinda info that matters, really. “Well, Wolfram & Hart, sir. It’s been the same, East Coast to West, Mexico even. Public opinion’s shifting. I know what we do and all, and how we do it, but it’s not a good look, sir, not a good look at all. Image means a lot in this business. I mean, we might be the so-called bad guys, but we wear suits. Public relations means the sharks always gotta be swimming below the water, not above the surface. A shark would die, if it tried that. All I’m saying is, missing girl, two high-ranking lawyers from the firm stop to help look, that’s the kind of headline that looks good, get me?”
         “I do indeed, Mr. Bianchi. Sadly, we can’t change what has already happened, but we’ll look at our public relations in the future.” Mr. Burai, as usual, is reasonable about the whole thing.
         Mr. Destar just sighs, dropping the attitude to explain why he was so antsy. “I prefer New York. There’s a better aura there. It’s not like I can afford to turn down such a high-paying client, but I hate these trips to Mexico.”
         “Careful, Mr. Destar. We aren’t paid to ask these kinds of questions, and there are certain secrets the world holds that are best not explored,” Mr. Burai warns, slightly sharper than he’d been with Mr. Bianchi, probably because he knows Mr. Bianchi actually listens to his well-meaning warnings.
         “So, what, I can’t even say our client gives me the shivers? What kind of consequences do you think—” he begins, when there’s a bump that shakes the whole car. “Don’t tell me this is a curse!” he yells, but Mr. Bianchi puts on the breaks as quickly as he’s able. He’s not going to try to stop immediately; at this speed, seatbelts or no seatbelts, things would go badly. But the lump in the driver’s throat says this is very, very familiar.
         “Mr. Bianchi?” Mr. Burai asks, summoning yet more of his famous calm to get him through the situation.
         “That, sirs, was us running over something. I’ve hit a deer before; not at these speeds, or I would’ve gotten more than whiplash.” He pulls over, and glances back, and his worst fears are confirmed. “That’s also just the kind of headline you want less of, sirs.”
         “Is that a body? Did we just run over someone?” Mr. Destar demands, vaguely hysterical at this point.
         “Give me the phone. We have to report this.” Mr. Burai insists, drumming his fingers on the briefcase in front of him. “Technically, the worst we can be convicted of is manslaughter, if that person was not already dead. It’s not as if we placed them there, and it’s easy enough to turn this into a case of maniacs attempting to frame the innocent, but Mr. Bianchi is also correct. This is not a good look.”
         “I’m not pleading guilty no matter what the firm tells me, I’m saying this right now—if anything, it’s on Mr. Bianchi for not noticing the body in the road…” Mr. Destar’s protests die, and Mr. Bianchi follows his gaze to see a group of people emerging from behind rock formations and these weird almost palm trees, seemingly outta nowhere. They shoulda been able to see them coming, shoulda had some kind of warning, but the whole thing starts to feel like a wild nightmare. The car won’t even start as they start to silently surround the car. Not that Mr. Bianchi would want to run any of them over to escape, but even if he’s slow and careful, surely they’d get outta the way?
         “There’s a person back there—you gotta call an ambulance; they might still be alive,” Mr. Bianchi pleads, but they don’t respond, and suddenly Mr. Bianchi is sure they’re the ones that put the body there, as what, some kinda trap?
         They just silently tap on the windows with their entire palms, pulling on the car doors, rocking the car, and Mr. Bianchi feels quite suddenly that this isn’t fair. The one time in his life he tries to do the right thing, and look at where it gets him? Pretty much the only upside is the life insurance policy.