He didn't know where he was. Screaming filled his eardrums, a terrifying static he couldn't escape from. Broken glass, belt whips, drunken yells, TV static, it all invaded his ears. His eyes were filled with a similar static, and it was inescapable.
"Worthless brat!"
"Go back to Japan, weirdo!"
"Waste of space!"
Endless words filtered through his ears—were they even real? He tripped as he scrambled backwards against something. His mind was moving so fast, everything was jumbled together in an overwhelming mass of information. He couldn't remember where he was, or why he was there. Questions were bad, questions would hurt—that's what the fear in his head told him. Haruno Shiobana, his old self, that's what he was taught.
Don't make people angry. Don't question things. Blend in. Don't make a sound. Do as you're told. Deal with any consequences.
Follow these instructions, and the pain will be minimal.
Why was this happening? Why now? Usually when he had a breakdown, it was by himself, isolated in the dark of his room. It didn't happen often, only when things got to be too much. He could usually handle it by himself anyways. He saw no need to bother anyone else on the team.
But this was different. So, so different.
This time, he could not only hear things, but he could feel them.
Hands were grabbing him, holding him against the wall, yelling into his ear. A brief scent of alcohol wafted against his nose as someone's breath rolled across his face, uninvited.
It only dragged up more bad memories.
He still didn't know where he was currently at. Was he back at the house, with that awful man he was forced to call a step-father? Did he never escape? Was he in the middle of another beating, the ones that kept him up all night, praying against a possible encore? The ones that left him trembling in fear, just at the thought?—The ones that made him flinch in dreadful remembrance anytime a glass shattered? The possibility broke him even further. He strained against the grip, disobeying.
No, nononono—please. Please. I'll be good, I promise. Don't hit me, please, I'll stay out of the way, please just make it sto—
Uh oh. The grip tightened even further, the alcohol-scented breath growing more aggressive against his face.
It's because he was begging. Begging was against the rules, he knew that—and now he was about to be punished further.
More screaming. Perhaps some of it was his own? He didn't know. He didn't care. He was too scared to care.
The panic in his head caused his entire body to pulse, his blood racing. His chest heaved up and down, his struggling gasps only adding to the static currently persisting in his eardrums.
He was just so, utterly terrified . No pain had come yet, but it was inevitable. He felt it coming, he deserved the pain. He wasn't being obedient.
The fear was too strong, overriding Haruno's unspoken rules. He needed to get out of here, get far away, and make the fear stop. The fear was killing him. Was that possible? To die from fear?
He would rather die from pain than from fear, he concluded. Pain always eventually faded, but this fear? He was afraid it would last forever. He needed to get away. He ceased his yells (was he yelling?), saving his breath for a different loud exclamation.
"Gold Experience!"
A surge of power buzzed through his skin, a soft hum in the back of his mind temporarily shielding him from the fear. He felt the golden Stand erupt from his body, tightly grasping the offending hands holding him against the wall. Gold Experience lashed out in front of him, protecting its user. He was still too panicked to see properly— everything being a hazy blur—but he was sure that the previous grip on his body had been released.
Chest still racing, he ran away from the wall. Screams followed him, chasing him, trying to return to him. He wouldn't let them.
He was stopped abruptly when someone tightly embraced him, restraining his movement once more. He thrashed and thrashed, refusing to be dragged back into fear. Back into the grasp. The horrible screams found their way back into his ear regardless.
"G̴i̶o̷r̸n̸o̴!̶"
Not again. Please not again. Don't take me back. Leave me alone—get off me! Get off get off get off! Make it s tOP! I̸̪̝͕͛ͅ'̷̨̙͙̜̈m̷͉̃̇ ̸̧̨̛̮̜̋̾́ś̴̱͕̍̒ö̶͇̯́͌̒ ̶͎̺̰͐̋s̸̬̻͓͋͂͗͠c̸͇̦̱̯̐̊̀̀a̴̭͊ŗ̵̧͈̒̾͌e̸͇̰̰̜̓͗ḓ̷͖̋̀̅
A quick blow to his head, and he sunk into the darkness.
—
Mista was sooo sick of enemy Stand users.
It was a bright, Saturday morning, when he suddenly received a surprise call from Bucciarati. As it turned out, he (along with a content Giorno and a reluctant Abbacchio) got assigned a mission from the Capo himself. How nice .
He couldn't complain—surprise missions came with the job. An occupational hazard, in a way. It was better to take care of threats sooner rather than later. It still didn't make it any less irritating , though.
(He was just grumpy that Narancia got to stay home and hog the TV.)
Apparently, some jackass developed a stand after a brief fuckup on Black Sabbath's part.
Collateral damage of Polpo's Stand was always a possibility, the damn thing went after anyone who saw the lighter being relit, for God's sake. There's actually been a few times where unfortunate souls found themselves caught in the crossfire, but survived and developed a Stand of their own.
Those cases were a while ago, when Polpo was still alive—before Bucciarati and his team overthrew Diavolo.
Because of that, it was a mighty shock when Bucciarati caught word of another straggler.
Apparently the jackass had been unintentionally using his stand to manipulate others to his advantage. His Stand could alter its victim's emotional states, and he'd use it to benefit himself. He manipulated his boss to reward him a higher position in his work. This was one of the main red-flags that led to the current situation, as he used a greater demonstration of controlling his powers, now intentionally using them for wrongdoing. The other was a previously-unrelated suicide, of a girl. As it turns out, it was his ex. The bastard had used his Stand to emotionally manipulate the girl into suicide.
Mista, Abbacchio, and Giorno currently had the man cornered in a large alley. He cowered against the wall, the gangsters slowly advancing.
"Just give up already," Abbacchio huffed, "We've dealt with others like you before. You aren't special."
"O-Oh yeah? D-Don't sound so confident, asshole. I'm not going anywhere. You can't force me." The cornered suspect backed himself further against the wall. He briefly scanned each of his opponents, before summoning his Stand.
"You may be confident now, but how long will that last? I can take you down easier than you think."
Mista whipped his pistol out from his side, taking aim. His finger rested on the trigger, prepared to shoot without hesitation.
"Don't try it—as my buddy said," Mista nodded to Abbacchio, who scoffed, "We've dealt with people like you before. Your Stand seems to be the short-range type. Even if it's fast, my bullets are faster. Try anything, and you'll find one of my bullets in your head." Mista intimidated.
Giorno stepped forward, the golden teen speaking smoothly, adding to the verbal showdown.
"You're inexperienced with your powers when it comes to Stand-on-Stand combat. Surrender now, and we won't have to hurt you."
The man continued to ramble, despite the threats.
"You really are the confident one, aren't you? Yes, you are...I can feel it." The man hummed at Mista, ignoring Giorno, and refusing to surrender. "Yes, I can feel each of you—The strength of your emotional state. I know which of you is the most vulnerable, just as a mother knows which of her children is lying. How interesting." The man seemed to be losing it, shaking against the wall. His words betrayed his demeanor.
Abbacchio glared. "Quit talking tough. We're out of your range. However, you're well within the range of Mr. Triggerhappy here, so if I were you, I'd st—"
"—it's you, isn't it? Hmm, the blond one is hard to ignore, but you…." The man talked to himself, seemingly unstable.
"Mista, he's becoming incoherent. Shoot him bef—"
"Yes, yes! It's you! You'll have to do for now." The enemy Stand's hand began to glow—
"Stop! If you attack, we won't hesitate—!"
"—Shoot him Mista! He's gonna—!"
"—Abbacchio—!"
Bang
Bang
…
…
…
Abbacchio woke up slowly, ears ringing, dizzy against the ground.
What happened?
He vaguely remembered the sound of a gunshot, another different...yet similar sound, and a flash of white traveling towards him. Before he could blink, Giorno had screamed his name, pushing him into the wall. His head smacked against the brick before collapsing on the floor, where he had just woken up. Abbacchio groaned.
"...damn brat, what was t-that for?" He said more shakily than he prefered, while picking himself up. He heard another groan from beside him.
" Ugh ….Pistols? What happened?" The groggy voice asked. Mista.
Abbacchio lended a hand, helping the unsteady gunslinger up. Neither of them were badly injured. They looked back to where the enemy previously stood, now nothing but a lead-filled corpse, slumped against the wall. Mista sighed.
"Well, I guess he wanted to go out with a bang. What is it with enemy Stand Users always having to be so obnoxious —"
"—Giorno?" Abbacchio interrupted.
Mista tensed, his eyes following Abbacchio's voice.
The blond teenager was slumped on the ground slightly behind them, shivering violently. He was gasping loudly, attempting to pull himself up.
"Giorno!" They both called, running up to him. He flinched violently at the call, now standing shakily in his feet, scrambling away from them slightly.
They slowly approached Giorno as he continued to flinch away, mumbling to himself in panic.
"No, nonononono—"
Abbacchio was confused. The stupid kid wouldn't stop fidgeting away from them, but he also kept acting as if he couldn't hear them either. Frustration seeped into his tone.
"Oi brat! Calm down! What the hell is wrong with you?"
Wrong thing to say.
Giorno's pupils turned impossibly small, sweat shining on his face, as he stumbled backwards once more, sprinting along the wall of the alley—away from them.
What the hell?
Something was clearly wrong. Giorno visibly ran with no goal in mind, only scrambling to get away from the other two gangsters and their voices. His strides were sloppy and shaky, only fueled by fear, easily allowing Abbacchio to catch up to Giorno and pin him against the wall by his wrists.
A sharp inhale of breath came from the shivering teen as he weakly strained against Abbacchio's grip. Mista caught up to the two, looking between them with confusion.
"What the hell is wrong with him?...Did he get hit by the—"
"— Yes , but that's not important. Forget the details, we need to calm him down." Abbacchio strained as Giorno continued to thrash from the grip. The enemy stand was able to compromise one of them after all.
Abbacchio held Giorno steady, trying to get his attention.
"Giorno! Wake the hell up! It's us!"
Mista bit his lip, before contributing to the effort.
"C'mon man, snap out of it! This isn't you!—"
Giorno continued to gasp and shake, weakly straining against the grip holding him down. He mumbled incoherently, avoiding their eyes, as if they were a rabid animal bound to snap.
This whole situation just felt wrong. Giorno never acted like this, not even close.
"—No, nononono—please. Please. I'll be good, I promise. Don't hit me, please, I'll stay out of the way, please just make it sto—"
What the hell? Where was thiscoming from?
"Giorno! We're not gonna hurt you, but you need to calm down!"
Abbacchio tried to have his eyes meet Giorno's, but the terrified teenager avoided his gaze like the plague. He only strained harder with each loud word out of Abbacchio's mouth.
Mista got closer too. He put a hand on Giorno's shoulder, refusing to give up on the teen. Trying not to panic himself, he forced his volume loud enough for Giorno to hear him, despite whatever nonsense the Stand ability was doing to his head.
"Giorno! I know you're there bud, please listen to us! It's the Stand! It's messing with you! Snap out of it!"
Giorno stilled for just a quick moment. He stopped mumbling and begging, saving his breath. Mista and Abbacchio nearly sighed in relief, slightly loosening their grip, before Giorno drew in a large breath.
"Gold Experience!"
Suddenly, the golden Stand erupted out of the terrified gangster, a protective aura surrounding it. The shining figure grabbed their wrists before lashing out violently, striking both Abbacchio and Mista, knocking them back onto the hard ground of the alley.
Pain striked it's way across Abbacchio's chest, right where Gold Experience savagely rammed its foot against him in a defensive charge. He cursed, pushing himself back up as he heard Giorno's rushing footsteps moving towards the exit of the alley.
Mista recovered quickly. Having only been touching Giorno's shoulder, Gold Experience had sparingly pushed him away blindly, saving him from the main brunt of the assault. Hauling himself to his feet, Mista hastily chased after Giorno, quickly catching up to him.
Finally closing the distance between them, Mista launched himself onto the hyperventilating blond, wrapping his arms around Giorno's torso. Giorno continued his pitiful attempts at escape, wrestling weakly against the fleshy restraints.
"Giorno! It's me, Mista!"
Giorno still couldn't hear him.
The boy only whimpered in fear between heavily labored breaths, his expression so afraid that Mista feared his heart might stop from the stress.
Abbacchio ran up to them both, catching up relatively quickly, observing the situation. His stomach grew heavy from the uncharacteristic words falling from Giorno's mouth.
"Not again. Please not again. Don't take me back. Leave me alone—get off me! Get off get off get off! Make it stop! Please—"
Tears were streaming down Giorno's face, a sight so utterly wrong that neither of them could bear to watch anymore.
"Abbacchio, what the hell do we do?! He won't stop!" Mista screamed. He felt Giorno's shaking sobs through his chest, wet tears falling to the ground.
Abbacchio but his lip, just as clueless. The golden brat looked so utterly broken, sobbing and begging, as he pitifully fought against Mista's bear-hug.
" please pleaSE I CAN'T TAKE IT! MAKE IT ST—"
Abbacchio delivered a harsh blow across Giorno's jaw, the teen instantly going limp against Mista's hold. His breath unwillingly evened out, forgotten tears drying against his cheeks.
"What the hell…" Mista whispered. He didn't argue against Abbacchio's violent method, just glad that he didn't have to feel Giorno's broken sobs against his chest anymore. Giorno unconsciously sunk farther into Mista's hold, deeply asleep from the quick blow. An awkward, deafening silence filled the alley, until Abbacchio broke it.
"He pushed me. He pushed me out of the way—the enemy Stand shot a beam. We thought it was a close-range Stand who's ability activated by touch, but that was wrong. The Stand activated its power by shooting a beam. Giorno pushed me out of the line of fire, taking the hit himself." He revealed quietly.
Oh yeah. Mista forgot. This all happened because of the damn enemy Stand. Giorno had been emotionally compromised by the attack intended for Abbacchio. And now they were here with the depressing aftermath. He spoke carefully, as if being too loud would cause everything to crumble.
"But the guy is dead right? I filled him with bullets at the same time he fired his ability." So why was Giorno still affected? went unspoken.
"The ability must wear off on its own then. Giorno will remain compromised until the time runs out for the effect. Regardless—we need to get to Bucciarati at the rest-house. We'll sort things out from there." Abbacchio concluded.
"...Alright." Mista agreed, processing the situation. He shifted Giorno carefully in his arms, before walking with Abbacchio towards the exit of the alley.