Jojo's Bizarre Adventure: Shadowed Suspicion Omake 10

[madimpossibledreamer]

Main Points:
Jojo's Bizarre Adventure/Buffy the Vampire Slayer AU
Chapter Summary: Just another bad day for the Boss.
Word Count: 775
Rating: Teen
Note: HERE THERE PROBABLY BE BUFFY/JJBA SPOILERS

         “Don’t draw attention to us!” a woman hisses when Diavolo’s consciousness returns to him again.
         He hadn’t really intended to start to stand. It’d been more involuntary than anything. He’d been kneeling, next to others, and next to a desk with pens and fancy-looking paper and fancy-looking architecture, so this is almost certainly a bank heist. It doesn’t look like it’s in Italy, though, which is something—he would be, well. Vaguely perturbed, if this was an operation by a subordinate.
         If Doppio were still here, if he wasn’t alone, Diavolo would gladly let him handle the situation. This is the exact point where his other self would be extremely useful; he’d have acted as the perfect hostage, following every instruction without hesitation, so as to keep his identity safe. He was only safe if no one knew about him.
         But there’s no point, now. Perhaps there’s still some ability to fight his fate, but if there is, he can’t see it. If he did fight, it just hurt more, in the end, or took longer. He still died.
         Perhaps this put others in even more danger. Unfortunate, but that’s their affair, not his. This is not one of those fairy tales where he learns his lesson and earns his eternal rest. This is one of those Greek myths with the poor mortal who dared stand against the gods and was forever punished for their hubris. In all likelihood, it won’t even have much of an effect on them. Most times, he wasn’t even killed because someone knew who he was, as if that’s another aspect of the never-ending purgatory, that he can, in some way, retain his oh-so-precious anonymity, even in death, that his own actions are, as Giorno had repeated during their battle, futile, that he’s not important enough for the bastard kid to track down and kill with his own two hands. Of course, the possibility exists that not even Gold Experience Requiem is capable of undoing this, now. Sometimes, his words go unheard. Sometimes, he can still voice them, but they mean nothing, in the end.
         As if to confirm this, he doesn’t even manage to make the decision to stand up further and draw attention to himself, get this over with. His involuntary motion is enough.
         “You were warned!” a voice yells, and there’s a gunshot. A gut wound. Painful, and slow, lovely. If he’s lucky, he’ll pass out, and will be granted a reprieve, at least for a little while.
         “You weren’t supposed to actually kill them, dumbass! You’ve left evidence behind!” another voice yells, there’s no more shots, and suddenly there’s a painful pressure trying to stop the bleeding. Yes, that’s why it’s easier just to use his Stand and leave. It’s better only to take the killing blow when you’re sure you can do so without it being traced to you.
         “Stay with me. Don’t die!” How long has it been since he’s had anything like compassion directed toward him? How long has it been since he cared? Surely Doppio had cared, at one point, but had Diavolo actually given a thought as to what others’ opinions were of him one way or another, other than how such things could be used against them? It becomes harder and harder to remember anything other than dying. He’s already lost track of the number of times, and of every single death. The first couple, those he remembers, back when he was still unaware that this is his everlasting punishment from Gold Experience Requiem. There’s a slap on his face, irritating. If he had the strength left to call King Crimson, he’d consider using it on the man for interrupting what little peace he manages to get, these days.
         He pries open his eyes, barely. A barista, still in uniform. The apron must be what he’s using to try to stem the bleeding, however unsuccessfully. Blond, but with a relatively normal haircut. This isn’t Giorno, the bastard. “You’re wasting your time.”
         “Don’t think like that.” Irritatingly cheerful, though. “My name’s Charles. What’s yours?” It’s not going to matter. Diavolo can almost guarantee he’s not actually leaving a body behind every time he dies, or some organization would have tracked him down for study by this point, and likewise it’s unlikely anyone remembers having found his body before, for the same reason.
         Still, old habits die hard. “Doppio,” he offers, coughing a little as the movement pulls at the wound.
         The reasonable robber, from the sound of things, comes over to have a word with his would-be savior, though actually catching the words is becoming difficult. He passes out partway through.