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madimpossibledreamerNext two Jojo's posts will be recaps for very good reasons (namely: a) internship next two weeks and b) it's been so long I'm forgetting things so that's probably true for all of you too). With this chapter, though, other than recaps Volume V is officially done. Woah.
(also looking forward to green day/oasis fight so much. haven't seen the episode yet but i know it's obviously gureito-daze)
~Dreamer~
Main Points:
Jojo's Bizarre Adventure/Buffy the Vampire Slayer AU
Chapter Summary: Fitz and crew confront the User of London Calling.
Word Count: 1142
Rating: Teen
Note: HERE THERE PROBABLY BE BUFFY/JJBA SPOILERS.
But there’s no emotion attached. It’s an odd thought, but maybe this is how memories feel for robots or AI. They don’t naturally have emotions, or a sense of self, like “I really did this”. Or perhaps it’s like when memories are downloaded, say, in cyberpunk novels. He doesn’t really have the sense that he was really here, and even the guilt he feels is distant, like it doesn’t even really belong to him.
Antonia walks up and slaps him in the face, and even that feels dulled, like he doesn’t quite fit in his own body.
The other clay soldiers seem to be waking up, similarly confused. It has to be even more confusing for them when they don’t know what Stands are.
“I’ll give you a head start. I won’t even tell the others I’ve seen you. I’ll follow Whitney’s wish as far as I’m able. I don’t know why she wanted you to live, but I can grant you this. The next time we meet, though…” Antonia’s voice trails off, her voice trembling a bit with grief and rage, as she kneels to pick up the lifeless body in her arms, “…The next time we meet, it will be as enemies.”
The street feels deserted and silent as she walks away proudly, carrying the body in her arms. It’s not; there are other former soldiers who are waking up, groaning and stirring on the ground. He can see blood here and there—so the effects of Three Days Grace remained.
If they had time, they should stay and heal them. None of the wounds were, thankfully, fatal, but in any other circumstances, Fitz would stay. As it is, they’ve only defeated three of the four Horsemen, and given that they’ve barely survived their fights with the other three, they can’t afford to seek out and take out the final one. They need to find the User now and end it at the source.
“The apartment building was this way,” he tells the others, and sets off at a good pace. Darling’s having trouble keeping up, but then, she’d been wounded. Hadn’t she?
It’s hard to tell what’s real and what isn’t. But there’s a definite emotion he’s feeling—urgency—and he holds onto that for all he’s worth.
There aren’t any living statues on the way, only ones frozen mid-movement in weird places on the streets. It’s a good sign, but it’s happened before. Defeating the other Horsemen had also led to a decrease in living statues in the immediate vicinity, like it was their presence that woke the others.
Darling’s attempting to say something, ask questions perhaps, but he’s not understanding. At least Robin’s just there, a reassuring presence beside him.
She’s standing on top of the building. There’s outside stairs, thankfully, and the takes them two, three at a time, finally skidding to a stop in front of her.
“We’ve defeated three of your Horsemen. It’s over. You’ve lost. Call off your Stand, now.” He has Lotus Juice ready, just in case.
“You’re the first bloke I met I can stand. But then, you’ve seen, haven’t you? The way of the world, and you’re still here. Careful, though. There’s a price on your head.” She takes a step back. “Maybe they’ll all open their f’in eyes, now.”
That has nothing to do with what he just said. It must be relevant in some way. “We can help you,” Fitz tries, holding his hand out for her.
There’s a look in her eyes he can’t quite make out—sadness, pain, the weight of the world, regret, apology?
“No one can help me,” she disagrees, and steps backwards off the building, hair flying around her like she’s not falling to her death.
She’s the second person he couldn’t help, the second Stand User to die—no, don’t concentrate on it, that’s probably shock.
He can’t help but stare dazedly at the mangled mass of bone and skin and blood and viscera on the pavement below—definitely shock—
“What do you think you’re doing? Come on, we’ve got to get out; the cops are probably on their way…”
And Darling grabs his arm and starts to tug him towards and down the stairs, simultaneously trying to gently treat him like something fragile (because, he guesses, he kind of is right now) and hurry him as much as she possibly can. Whisper’s holding a few things, but he can’t make sense of them.
He doesn’t realize when they’ve made it to a safehouse, the world still stuck behind that strange unreal filter that he—
He’d like to say he doesn’t recognize it, but that would be a lie. He’s felt this twice before, this feeling of aimlessly drifting through life like a ghost. Once was when his mum died. Once was when Grace died.
He’s seen others die before; acquaintances, people he actually sort of liked, but the risk had always been there and it wasn’t the same. He was already partially braced from it, hardened his heart because nothing mattered anymore.
How does Johan do it, he wonders? The man had faced so much, according to his stories lost so many, and yet he still keeps his heart open, ready for more pain. Is it bravery, or stupidity, to have your heart so open like that? And yet—
It’s what draws people to him. He’d been jealous, but how can he be upset with others for recognizing the same greatness Xander held within himself—
He stands abruptly, upon seeing the paper on the table. His reading speed is high—a pleasant side effect of so much practice—and skimming it isn’t a challenge at all—a receipt from the sale of a statue from Courtney Love. Handwritten, but he’s strained his eyes staring at more difficult handwriting in the past—Grace’s hadn’t been that good, either.
Darling had been trimming his hair. The clay, fortunately, was no longer living, and most of it had merely vanished in the sunlight, but a little had clung in his hair, necessitating a haircut. She hadn’t been expecting the sudden movement, so her next cut accidentally takes off a little too much. “Mr. Speedwagon,” she scolds, but at the moment, he doesn’t care. Because staring up at him is a name branded on his very soul with the hate he bears.
The one who had paid for the statue. The insistence of Courtney Love that no one could help her. The buyer had a part in her death.
Gordon Sarde.
(also looking forward to green day/oasis fight so much. haven't seen the episode yet but i know it's obviously gureito-daze)
~Dreamer~
Main Points:
Jojo's Bizarre Adventure/Buffy the Vampire Slayer AU
Chapter Summary: Fitz and crew confront the User of London Calling.
Word Count: 1142
Rating: Teen
Note: HERE THERE PROBABLY BE BUFFY/JJBA SPOILERS.
When Fitz comes to, he’s missing a segment of memories. He has facts in his head, like the fact that the Stand was defeated, like the woman was dead, and her name was Whitney (though neither she nor Antonia ever fully introduced themselves). He’d apparently contributed to her death as a mindless clay soldier.
But there’s no emotion attached. It’s an odd thought, but maybe this is how memories feel for robots or AI. They don’t naturally have emotions, or a sense of self, like “I really did this”. Or perhaps it’s like when memories are downloaded, say, in cyberpunk novels. He doesn’t really have the sense that he was really here, and even the guilt he feels is distant, like it doesn’t even really belong to him.
Antonia walks up and slaps him in the face, and even that feels dulled, like he doesn’t quite fit in his own body.
The other clay soldiers seem to be waking up, similarly confused. It has to be even more confusing for them when they don’t know what Stands are.
“I’ll give you a head start. I won’t even tell the others I’ve seen you. I’ll follow Whitney’s wish as far as I’m able. I don’t know why she wanted you to live, but I can grant you this. The next time we meet, though…” Antonia’s voice trails off, her voice trembling a bit with grief and rage, as she kneels to pick up the lifeless body in her arms, “…The next time we meet, it will be as enemies.”
The street feels deserted and silent as she walks away proudly, carrying the body in her arms. It’s not; there are other former soldiers who are waking up, groaning and stirring on the ground. He can see blood here and there—so the effects of Three Days Grace remained.
If they had time, they should stay and heal them. None of the wounds were, thankfully, fatal, but in any other circumstances, Fitz would stay. As it is, they’ve only defeated three of the four Horsemen, and given that they’ve barely survived their fights with the other three, they can’t afford to seek out and take out the final one. They need to find the User now and end it at the source.
“The apartment building was this way,” he tells the others, and sets off at a good pace. Darling’s having trouble keeping up, but then, she’d been wounded. Hadn’t she?
It’s hard to tell what’s real and what isn’t. But there’s a definite emotion he’s feeling—urgency—and he holds onto that for all he’s worth.
There aren’t any living statues on the way, only ones frozen mid-movement in weird places on the streets. It’s a good sign, but it’s happened before. Defeating the other Horsemen had also led to a decrease in living statues in the immediate vicinity, like it was their presence that woke the others.
Darling’s attempting to say something, ask questions perhaps, but he’s not understanding. At least Robin’s just there, a reassuring presence beside him.
She’s standing on top of the building. There’s outside stairs, thankfully, and the takes them two, three at a time, finally skidding to a stop in front of her.
“We’ve defeated three of your Horsemen. It’s over. You’ve lost. Call off your Stand, now.” He has Lotus Juice ready, just in case.
“You’re the first bloke I met I can stand. But then, you’ve seen, haven’t you? The way of the world, and you’re still here. Careful, though. There’s a price on your head.” She takes a step back. “Maybe they’ll all open their f’in eyes, now.”
That has nothing to do with what he just said. It must be relevant in some way. “We can help you,” Fitz tries, holding his hand out for her.
There’s a look in her eyes he can’t quite make out—sadness, pain, the weight of the world, regret, apology?
“No one can help me,” she disagrees, and steps backwards off the building, hair flying around her like she’s not falling to her death.
She’s the second person he couldn’t help, the second Stand User to die—no, don’t concentrate on it, that’s probably shock.
He can’t help but stare dazedly at the mangled mass of bone and skin and blood and viscera on the pavement below—definitely shock—
“What do you think you’re doing? Come on, we’ve got to get out; the cops are probably on their way…”
And Darling grabs his arm and starts to tug him towards and down the stairs, simultaneously trying to gently treat him like something fragile (because, he guesses, he kind of is right now) and hurry him as much as she possibly can. Whisper’s holding a few things, but he can’t make sense of them.
He doesn’t realize when they’ve made it to a safehouse, the world still stuck behind that strange unreal filter that he—
He’d like to say he doesn’t recognize it, but that would be a lie. He’s felt this twice before, this feeling of aimlessly drifting through life like a ghost. Once was when his mum died. Once was when Grace died.
He’s seen others die before; acquaintances, people he actually sort of liked, but the risk had always been there and it wasn’t the same. He was already partially braced from it, hardened his heart because nothing mattered anymore.
How does Johan do it, he wonders? The man had faced so much, according to his stories lost so many, and yet he still keeps his heart open, ready for more pain. Is it bravery, or stupidity, to have your heart so open like that? And yet—
It’s what draws people to him. He’d been jealous, but how can he be upset with others for recognizing the same greatness Xander held within himself—
He stands abruptly, upon seeing the paper on the table. His reading speed is high—a pleasant side effect of so much practice—and skimming it isn’t a challenge at all—a receipt from the sale of a statue from Courtney Love. Handwritten, but he’s strained his eyes staring at more difficult handwriting in the past—Grace’s hadn’t been that good, either.
Darling had been trimming his hair. The clay, fortunately, was no longer living, and most of it had merely vanished in the sunlight, but a little had clung in his hair, necessitating a haircut. She hadn’t been expecting the sudden movement, so her next cut accidentally takes off a little too much. “Mr. Speedwagon,” she scolds, but at the moment, he doesn’t care. Because staring up at him is a name branded on his very soul with the hate he bears.
The one who had paid for the statue. The insistence of Courtney Love that no one could help her. The buyer had a part in her death.
Gordon Sarde.
