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madimpossibledreamerMain Points:
Jojo's Bizarre Adventure/Buffy the Vampire Slayer AU
Chapter Summary: We start to learn why Jotaro was amused about the Slaypire's base of choice...
Word Count: 965
Rating: Teen
Note: HERE THERE PROBABLY BE BUFFY/JJBA SPOILERS.
Jojo's Bizarre Adventure/Buffy the Vampire Slayer AU
Chapter Summary: We start to learn why Jotaro was amused about the Slaypire's base of choice...
Word Count: 965
Rating: Teen
Note: HERE THERE PROBABLY BE BUFFY/JJBA SPOILERS.
The song finishes, and there’s some polite clapping and cheering. The band puts away their instruments, bowing and saying “Grazie” to their loyal fans. A man stammers and presses a crumpled piece of paper into the trombone player’s hands, and the other musicians tease her good-naturedly. She smiles, no matter that it rankles, for they mean no harm, after all.
She stuffs it haphazardly into a pocket—it’d do no good to show too much interest in it, after all—and waves, heading off the stage. She wants to duck into an alley at the first chance she gets to read the message, but notices the three males, reeking of alcohol, who had appeared for the past three weeks only to stare hungrily at her. They’d nearly been thrown out of the restaurant because they hadn’t bought anything, not even alcohol (which was odd, considering how they smelled), and hadn’t even contributed to the fund paying the fledgling jazz band.
She growls. The Boss is understanding, but not that understanding. Even if he understands a small detour to take out the trash in Napoli, the delay may well be problematic. Still, it’s not like she has a choice—their pace has picked up.
She ducks down a side alley. She’ll look at the message after she takes care of these morons, who apparently haven’t gotten the message that this is not a town in which they can do whatever they like and expect no punishment in return. The Boss at the very least was rather displeased at the tip from the police, saying that women’s bodies had been found, and if not for whatever oddity was troubling Giovanna so much that most of the operatives had to be dispatched elsewhere, they would have found themselves dead by now.
Thinking of that, perhaps he’ll be less displeased about the less than prompt action to the note, especially when he receives the police photos of the crime scene, later.
She hears a creepy chuckle from behind her. “Taken a wrong turn, there? Perhaps we can help?”
She turns, and she’s wearing a merciless, matching grin, chuckling in a way that makes the own man’s surety falter. “All I had to do was play a little music like the Pied Piper, and here you come trailing after me, lost little lambs.” She steps forward a little, just so that the long, trailing scar on her cheek is prominent. “I’ve got a message for you, stronzo. The Passione doesn’t approve of your activity of choice.”
“From what I hear, the Passione’s got it hands full, and given the fact that they sent a girl to do a man’s job after almost a month of our lovely stay here, that was no exaggeration. Napoli has so many beautiful girls, and they all scream so beautifully.” The other two start advancing, and she shakes her head.
“Backstreet Boy!” she calls, and blue streams of what look like musical staffs flow together and weave into the shape of a panther with a skull for a head. Of course, these idiots, who don’t have a Stand, can’t see it, don’t know the doom that is coming.
“This cagna’s crazy,” one of them states uncertainly, but one of the advancing ones falters.
“What’s that music? Can’t you hear it?” he asks, holding one hand to his head, the other almost dropping the knife.
“That, my new friend,” she states ironically, grin growing predatory, “…is your song. It was your mistake to spend so much time watching me. I got to hear your music. I’m just playing it back for you, but I’m a jazz musician. I can’t resist a little improvisation of my own.”
The panther gestures with his head, and like a puppet the man swings around, out of control. His companions stare at him as he blocks the way. “What are you doing?”
As much as she’d love to hear them scream, she can only play for one at a time, and that would take time. Time she doesn’t have, not with work to do. So instead she just allows Backstreet Boy to leap forward with one great surge of energy, tearing into one man’s throat, while her improvised friend stabs his knife through his fellow criminal’s eye. Her puppet’s screaming, but there’s not much he can do to fight against the music, not when it’s a part of his very soul. His cries are cut short when he slits his own throat with the knife.
As much as ghostly sockets and empty bones can, Backstreet Boy glances up, a smirk marred not at all by the blood dripping from fangs. With a thought and a short burst of a song unique to her Stand alone, he fades back into a blue score and then is gone from view.
She carefully (disdainfully) steps over the bodies, the spreading blood, taking care not to step in any of it. From what she can tell, the bloodbath missed her, and if she had to go and change because some monsters attacked her and got blood on her clothes when she still had things to do in public, well. She would be held up even more, and she doesn’t even know the urgency of the instructions.
As she exits the alley and carefully wanders away from the scene, she unfolds the paper. 11:05 exactly, the Cimitero Delle Fontanelle, auction, ARROW—OBTAIN AT ANY COST, call the usual taxi, which will have what you need
She swears and instantly brings out her telefonino, calling immediately. If she hurries, she’ll only be a few minutes late. Thanks to the tracking, the taxi should already have been on its way, but it’s common courtesy (and protocol) to acknowledge it. “Sì, this is Grappa, and I’ve received the instructions…”
She stuffs it haphazardly into a pocket—it’d do no good to show too much interest in it, after all—and waves, heading off the stage. She wants to duck into an alley at the first chance she gets to read the message, but notices the three males, reeking of alcohol, who had appeared for the past three weeks only to stare hungrily at her. They’d nearly been thrown out of the restaurant because they hadn’t bought anything, not even alcohol (which was odd, considering how they smelled), and hadn’t even contributed to the fund paying the fledgling jazz band.
She growls. The Boss is understanding, but not that understanding. Even if he understands a small detour to take out the trash in Napoli, the delay may well be problematic. Still, it’s not like she has a choice—their pace has picked up.
She ducks down a side alley. She’ll look at the message after she takes care of these morons, who apparently haven’t gotten the message that this is not a town in which they can do whatever they like and expect no punishment in return. The Boss at the very least was rather displeased at the tip from the police, saying that women’s bodies had been found, and if not for whatever oddity was troubling Giovanna so much that most of the operatives had to be dispatched elsewhere, they would have found themselves dead by now.
Thinking of that, perhaps he’ll be less displeased about the less than prompt action to the note, especially when he receives the police photos of the crime scene, later.
She hears a creepy chuckle from behind her. “Taken a wrong turn, there? Perhaps we can help?”
She turns, and she’s wearing a merciless, matching grin, chuckling in a way that makes the own man’s surety falter. “All I had to do was play a little music like the Pied Piper, and here you come trailing after me, lost little lambs.” She steps forward a little, just so that the long, trailing scar on her cheek is prominent. “I’ve got a message for you, stronzo. The Passione doesn’t approve of your activity of choice.”
“From what I hear, the Passione’s got it hands full, and given the fact that they sent a girl to do a man’s job after almost a month of our lovely stay here, that was no exaggeration. Napoli has so many beautiful girls, and they all scream so beautifully.” The other two start advancing, and she shakes her head.
“Backstreet Boy!” she calls, and blue streams of what look like musical staffs flow together and weave into the shape of a panther with a skull for a head. Of course, these idiots, who don’t have a Stand, can’t see it, don’t know the doom that is coming.
“This cagna’s crazy,” one of them states uncertainly, but one of the advancing ones falters.
“What’s that music? Can’t you hear it?” he asks, holding one hand to his head, the other almost dropping the knife.
“That, my new friend,” she states ironically, grin growing predatory, “…is your song. It was your mistake to spend so much time watching me. I got to hear your music. I’m just playing it back for you, but I’m a jazz musician. I can’t resist a little improvisation of my own.”
The panther gestures with his head, and like a puppet the man swings around, out of control. His companions stare at him as he blocks the way. “What are you doing?”
As much as she’d love to hear them scream, she can only play for one at a time, and that would take time. Time she doesn’t have, not with work to do. So instead she just allows Backstreet Boy to leap forward with one great surge of energy, tearing into one man’s throat, while her improvised friend stabs his knife through his fellow criminal’s eye. Her puppet’s screaming, but there’s not much he can do to fight against the music, not when it’s a part of his very soul. His cries are cut short when he slits his own throat with the knife.
As much as ghostly sockets and empty bones can, Backstreet Boy glances up, a smirk marred not at all by the blood dripping from fangs. With a thought and a short burst of a song unique to her Stand alone, he fades back into a blue score and then is gone from view.
She carefully (disdainfully) steps over the bodies, the spreading blood, taking care not to step in any of it. From what she can tell, the bloodbath missed her, and if she had to go and change because some monsters attacked her and got blood on her clothes when she still had things to do in public, well. She would be held up even more, and she doesn’t even know the urgency of the instructions.
As she exits the alley and carefully wanders away from the scene, she unfolds the paper. 11:05 exactly, the Cimitero Delle Fontanelle, auction, ARROW—OBTAIN AT ANY COST, call the usual taxi, which will have what you need
She swears and instantly brings out her telefonino, calling immediately. If she hurries, she’ll only be a few minutes late. Thanks to the tracking, the taxi should already have been on its way, but it’s common courtesy (and protocol) to acknowledge it. “Sì, this is Grappa, and I’ve received the instructions…”