He slammed the door shut behind him, leaned against it and took a few moment to catch his breath. He had run all the way back to his flat, not bothering with the lift and instead taking all twelve flights of stairs. To say he was tired was an understatement. Adrenaline and terror was his motivator to keep running all that way. It hadn't been made any easier by the gaping wound in his right hand.
He looked down at it. He could see right through to the floor beneath him. The moment he realised that he felt dizzy. Perhaps it was exhaustion from all that running, or perhaps the shock. Most likely it was blood loss. The wound was still seeping, with drops leaving red marks on the grey carpet. It hadn't stopped at all since he'd been attacked. It had taken him ten minutes of not stop running, not including the time it took to climb all those flights of stairs. He would have gone to the hospital if the rioters hadn't been in his way. He had no choice but to head back to his flat and try to patch it up there.
Jory was not by any definition a doctor, but he understood enough about first aid to know that he had to cover the wound with something clean that would absorb the blood and stop it becoming infected. The best he could manage was a couple of makeshift bandages made out of several layers of toilet roll, held together by sellotape and safety pins. He'd used a damp towel to soothe the wound first. He could already feel the flesh of his palm burning. Within an hour his hand felt as if it was aflame. He feared that he might have to have it amputated. The moment the rioting was over and the streets were clear he would go and see a doctor.
Until then he was stuck in his flat. He had no plans to go back outside, not after that experience. He was still quite shaken up by it. Paranoia filled his mind. Most people don't get attacked by rabid homeless men with golden arrows on their person. He would be going over that experience with a therapist for some time, he was sure. What if that man had tried to follow him? Was there a chance that he had been able to keep up with him, even though he'd run through many alleyways and streets, narrowly avoided traffic, pushed through crowds of people? He had to try and stay calm, he knew that. Panicking wouldn't help. Letting paranoia set in wouldn't help. He had to be realistic. That man couldn't possibly have followed him.
Even if he'd wanted to leave the flat, his legs were exhausted. The last time he'd run that far that fast was during his sixth form sports day. He'd never been a talented long distance runner, but when his life was in danger he'd found the strength to keep going. Right now he needed to lie down, to rest his legs and his wounded hand and hope that nothing else happened to him for a while.
He made his way across the room, kicking aside beer cans and packets of crisps that he was yet to throw away. Several piles of dirty plates, bowls and cutlery lay on a counter near the kitchen sink, in a small cooking space not far from the front door. The other end of the single room flat had a foldout bed with a ruffled blanket and flattened pillows. Between that was a ragged sofa, a stained coffee table and a silver box TV set. His dad wouldn't have approved of his living space or lifestyle, but he wasn't here to judge him anymore.
Jory sprawled out onto the sofa, placing his head on a cushion. Something hard creaked under it. He felt around with his good hand and pulled out a small wooden picture frame. Inside was a photograph of Jory as a child. Stood beside him were his parents; his adoring yet pious mother, and his intelligent yet absent father. He must have been about seven years old when that photo was taken. He was smiling happily, the three of them in swimsuits and standing on a beach. He couldn't quite remember where they had gone for that holiday, though he was pretty certain it was somewhere in England. The waves were quite tall and approaching them quickly from behind. Someone else had been holding the camera for them, a stranger probably. It made Jory feel nostalgic, not quite sad though. He didn't have the fondest memories of his parents, but at times he'd enjoyed their company. Even his judgemental father, when he was around, had given him some good memories. He put the photo back in its place, face up on the coffee table. He wasn't sure why it had been under the cushion. Perhaps he'd hidden it there in a drunken stupor, not wanting to look at their faces any longer.
With nothing else to do but try and distract himself from the pain in his hand, he switched on the TV and watched the evening news. The first article was on the rioting, appropriately enough. There was plenty of footage of the scene unfolding, with riot police keeping back the angry masses. Some dipshit had defaced a statue of Winston Churchill, god knows why. The prime minister had even made a statement about the matter. 'An absolute disgrace' was putting it lightly. After that Jory stopped paying attention, not really paying any attention to the other headlines. Oustide the sliding glass door to the external balcony, the sun was descending slowly from its peak. His hand was still thudding with pain, but his tiredness was thankfully starting to dull the burning sensation. He let himself sleep for a few hours, feeling able to relax now that he was safe in his own personal space, his one room flat.
A few hours later, he awoke to a heavy knocking on the door.
Jory sat up with lightning reflexes. Considering his recent experience, he had every reason to be jumpy. Immediately paranoid thoughts shot through his minds, fears that the hobo had followed him, had come after him to finish him off. His hand was still thudding with pain, but that wasn't at the forefront of his mind anymore.
He waited for a few seconds. The knocking continued, getting louder with each strike. Someone outside was desperate to get in. That gave Jory all the more reason not to open it. But the longer the knocking persisted, the more he couldn't ignore it. Eventually he had to give in.
Outside the sun had almost set. He barely noticed the change in light levels. He stood up, quickly grabbed a knife from the kitchen, and approached the door. He made sure to keep the weapon behind his back, in case the person knocking wasn't looking for trouble. He didn't need to scare them off, or have them call the police thinking he was planning to hurt them. There was no window on the door, but there was a small peephole. In his paranoid, anxious, terrified state, he made the choice to check who was outside that way before opening the door and possibly letting them in. He placed an eye to the glass and peered through.
No one was there.
Jory stepped back, puzzled. "What...?" He muttered. He looked back through the glass.
Still nothing. Nobody was there. The knocking had stopped now.
Another thing to leave Jory confused. Was one of the local kids playing a prank on him? They hadn't done that before. Most of the other residents on his floor tended to ignore him and his home, not out of any negative reason, simply because they didn't know him or care about him. He couldn't blame the, either.
He was about to turn around and go back to his sofa, when the knocking started again. Jory made a full one-hundred and eighty degree turn on his toes, startled by the sudden sound. It had started up again so unexpectedly. There had been no one outside. No one could have reached his door from wherever they were hiding that quickly.
"What's going on?" He growled, tired of the stress, the anxiety and the interruptions. He wanted to be alone, away from other people. He needed his space. He needed to rest his hand. Whoever this person was, he would tell them to go away.
He peered through the peephole once more. The glass was starting to fog up, but he could still clearly see through it.
Nobody was there.
Jory gritted his teeth, feeling a shooting pain spread up his right arm. This was the last thing he needed.
"I don't need this right now!"
He reached for the door handle, planning to have a nice shouting match at whoever it was that was playing games with him. He couldn't take these stupid pranks right now. He would give them – whoever they were – a piece of his mind.
And then the door exploded!
It wasn't just throw open... it was shattered into pieces!
Jory was throw backwards across the room, chunks of metal and wood sailing past him and into the far wall. It had been like a bomb going off, though there was no bang other than the sound of the door shattering. The force of the blast was strong enough to throw him off his feet. He landed against the sofa, knocking it over onto its back. His head hit the side of the foldout bed, making his mind spin. Everything was suddenly in chaos, with no apparent cause for the destruction.
Pale smoke filled the room, remnants of wood and dust raining down all around. Jory coughed and spluttered. His hand stung like mad, but now his lungs, his chest and his head were aching too. He tried to sit up, the room around him filling with this mist. At first he'd though it was remnants of the door now atomized into a cloud. But there was far too much of it. He could taste water when he breathed.
"Water vapour?" He muttered, utterly puzzled by what was happening. He could feel the room getting hotter with each second. As the droplets in the air settled upon his skin he could feel them burning up and evaporating again, leaving behind red blotches. "No... steam!" He tried to wipe the droplets off, but it was a fruitless task. More and more rained down around him, not cooling despite the colder air that had been in the room before.
A sudden heavy footstep snapped his attention towards the doorway. A man was there, stepping through the bent doorframe. In the mist he was only a silhouette, though his distorted figure appeared large looming. Jory immediately felt dread and paranoia return. This wasn't the hobo. This man was much taller and far more muscular. But he could tell, just by the man's stance, that he was in serious danger.
The figure stepped into the room, the mist seeming to make a path for them, revealing their shape. Indeed this man was not the hobo. He was well shaven, clean and far too muscular to be the homeless man who had attacked him. As he approached, he pulled out a worn down cricket bat from behind his back and swung it into the TV. The screen imploded, sparking and spraying shards of glass everywhere. As he did it, he cackled.
Jory backed away, pushing himself up against the pull-out bed. He still had the knife, and he held it out in front of him in some hope that it would make the man think twice. He had no plan to use it, and hoped that his attacker wouldn't push him to.
With cricket bat in hand, the large man approached, kicking aside the coffee table and throwing the photograph into the nearest wall. She swung the bat around threateningly, striking at nearby obstacles, some of which shattered with the force. Then he reached Jory, and rested the bat upon his right shoulder. He smiled down at him... and started laughing.
"So, you're the new blood?" He looked disappointed. "Blimey, Sting, ya picked a real pussy this time."
Jory stared at him in terror. So much was happening, so much that he didn't understand.
"What do you want?" He asked in a pleading voice.
The man laughed again. "Want? I want you, ya dunce!" He bellowed. "I don't come kickin' down most people's doors, ya know! Ya got chosen, son!"
His head was still spinning from the blast and the impact, but these nonsense statements were only making that symptom more acute. He recalled the hobo shouting something about joining his family, but Jory had assumed he was mad. What was going on anymore? Hobos were stabbing him with golden arrows and body builders were smashing through his front door.
"I don't understand?"
The man rubbed his face with his empty hand, seemingly bothered by Jory's lack of comprehension. "Good grief, you're thick ain't ya!" He pointed the cricket bat at Jory's head. "That wound on yer hand. My good pal gave that too ya earlier t'day. He picked you out. You're part of our fam now, son!"
"Your fam..." Jory rubbed his head.
"Family!" The man shouted at him.
What was he talking about? Jory already had a family. His mother and... at one point his father.
The man suddenly lunged out with his free hand, his massive fingers threatening to grip around Jory's injured arm like a group of boas.
"Stay away from me!" Jory screamed. He threw himself away from the man, towards the glass door that opened onto the balcony. The large fingers missed him by an inch, but the arm kept moving. It took a hold of Jory's leg and dragged him back across the room. The steam cloud was getting thicker again. Jory kicked at the hand, but his shoes weren't leaving any mark behind. The man hardly seemed to notice the strikes.
"Stop that!" The man snapped at him, tugging on Jory's ankle and dragging him harshly across the carpet. "That''ll do ya no good! Like it or not, you're comin' with me. There's someone wants to meet ya."
But Jory didn't want to go with him. He didn't want to be kidnapped by this stranger. He didn't want to meet whoever it was waiting to meet him.
"No!" He screamed. With his left hand he swung the knife around and sliced the back of the man's gripping hand.
He exclaimed in pain, as blood rose out of the wound. His fingers lost their grip, and instantly Jory slipped free. He would have run for the front door, but this man was blocking his way. The only direction he could go was towards the balcony. He slid the glass door open and ran out. He was twelve storeys above the ground, with little space between him and the metal railing. Steam spewed through the open doorway, dissipating into the open air. At least that wouldn't be bothering him anymore. But he still had his attacker to worry about.
The man was walking towards the doorway, swinging his bat around in both hands.
"Ya bastard! That fuckin' hurt!"
He struck the glass panels, shattering them and throwing glass everywhere. Shards sailed out past Jory's head, raining down onto the street below. A few screams went out.
Jory had his back to the metal railing. Behind him was the open air and twenty metres below that was solid tarmac. If he were to fall, he would most certainly die... but when compared to the fate this man probably had planned for him.
He began climbing the metal, placing his rear onto it and trying to spin his legs over. If he was going to die, he would rather it be his choice as to how. It wouldn't be a pretty way to go, but he dreaded to think what this man might do to him. He would only be falling for a few seconds, and then it would be over. Comparing that to the possibility of prolonged torture and abuse... the choice was easy.
He jumped...
...and a hand grabbed him from behind.
He had barely begun to fall before his neck was suddenly being strangled. He couldn't see the arm that had him, but its hold was far tighter and far firmer than the man's had been.
"Now, don't go doin' anythin' stupid like that." The voice of his attacker stated with terrifying calmness. "I need ya alive."
Jory was turned around to face his attacker, feeling the fingers around his throat grip ever-so-slightly tighter. He was lifted away from the railing, above the floor of the balcony by about half a foot. He looked down at the man, desperately gasping for air and trying to grab the arm that had a hold of him. His fingers couldn't find it, no matter how hard he searched.
Then he felt the area of his neck that was being gripped, and realised something impossible.
Neither of his attacker's hands were touching him. One of them was holding the cricket bat, but the other hung unused at his side. Nothing was holding him... and yet he was being strangled.
The man's grin was massive, malicious and full of yellow teeth. "D'ya see now, son. I ain't no normal man. I am X, the beginnin' and the end. Ya can't escape me. Ya can't escape yer fate. You've got two choices now." Something invisible pulled Jory closer to his attacker's face. "Ya can either come with me... or ya can die!"
His empty hand lashed out, grabbing Jory's injured palm. Immediately he winced and tried to scream as the pain shot through him, but his throat was too crushed for the sound to escape it. His mouth opened but no noise escaped it.
The man who had named himself X laughed evilly at his captive's pain. "You really are a weaklin', ain't ya." He squeezed harder on the wound, and Jory writhed and wriggled in pain. "Doubt ya'll be much more than food for the boss. Can't see any other use for ya."
Jory's right had burned and ached and screamed with the pain. The bandages had been ripped off, leaving red marks from the sellotape and exposing the gaping wound the arrow had left. It was still bleeding, and X's further punishment had made it drip more profusely. Whatever parts of it had started to heal were now opening up once more.
Something shimmered beside his attacker.
At first Jory thought he was hallucinating. He couldn't breathe, his brain was losing oxygen. His vision grew fainter with each second.
Then the shimmering became solid, taking on a shape. With the continuous pain shooting up his right arm and the inability to breathe, Jory had every reason to assume that the image was an illusion. With each second though it was growing, becoming visible, becoming solid.
He blinked, and suddenly there was another figure standing in front of him.
He stared at it with wide eyes. It wasn't human. It looked human, but only a little. It had two arms and two legs, a head and a torso, but other than that it was barely human at all. It was naked and almost a foot taller than X was, and somehow much fatter and more muscular as well. Its proportions reached dangerous extents, beyond obese. Its torso was massive, and detailed with round grey warts. It had holes covering its body. When it breathed, air was sucked into these holes, and when it exhaled Jory could see steam being billowed out. So this thing was the cause of the steam then? One of its long, muscular arms was extended, its fat, three fingered hand gripping Jory by the throat. Its squat, wide head had two large, emotionless eyes and a wide, lipless mouth with gritted teeth. Two holes sat as nostrils between the eyes, inhaling air and exhaling steam just like the others. And if all of these physical abnormalities weren't enough to convince Jory this thing wasn't human, its skin was a pale turquoise shade.
X followed his gaze, and laughed joyously.
"You can see him now?" He exclaimed triumphantly. "Finally, you're wakin' up! I knew ya were strong enough to awaken! Not long now 'til yer own friend shows up."
Jory had no idea what he meant by that. Who would come to save him? His parents wouldn't he didn't really have any friends, certainly none who would come to check on him, or be concerned if he went missing. He had no one to be worried for him. He would die here, at the hands of this madman and his inhuman companion, and no one would care.
He was starting to lose consciousness. With every second his eyelids grew heavier. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. Slowly reality was fading away into blackness.
He wasn't completely sure what happened next. He knew something was happening. He could hear shouting, movement. He could hear X below something, followed by an inhuman grunt.
And then suddenly the grip on his throat was broken... and he was falling!
He opened his eyes. The sky was above him and get further away with each second. The air roared around him. Something gripped the back of his shirt and pulled him downwards. He tried to roll over, but the grip on his back wouldn't let him. He could only stare upwards at the dusk sky.
Finally, with the grip on his throat gone, he was able to let out a horrific, bellowing scream.
Then he landed.
It wasn't anywhere near as messy as it should have been. They said that a human body splattered when it struck the ground after reaching terminal velocity. There wasn't as much as a slight speck of blood anywhere on the ground. He'd been taught that the dead didn't feel anything once they had passed on, but his throat still ached and his hand was still aflame.
Then it struck him. He wasn't actually dead.
By some miracle he had survived the fall, landing on both feet on the side opposite side of the street. The building in which his flat was located was in front of him. He looked up towards the twelfth floor. On the balcony he could see X and his friend peering down at him, shouting expletives and curses.
"Ya bastard! He's mine!"
Jory realised quickly that the large man was not actually shouting at him. He was shouting at someone else. The question was then brought up about who it was that had grabbed him. Jory was about to turn around and find out, when suddenly he was pulled backwards across the street.
He yelped in surprise, his legs trying to struggle but unable to stop him from moving. He was dragged by the back of his collar across the pavement, into an alleyway. Immediately the paranoia and anxiety rose. Had the hobo come back for him? Where was he being taken? He struggled harder and harder, but to no avail.
"Come on!" A new voice said. It wasn't the voice of the hobo, not full of malice or joyous evil. The most noticeable thing about it was the accent. This person was Irish. He also sounded concerned, afraid and motivated. He didn't sound anywhere as malicious as X or the hobo had. In fact he sounded trustworthy, not that Jory was at all prepared to put his trust in anyone right now.
He stopped fighting. Even if this person was not actually trying to save him, he was at least getting him away from that maniac with the cricket bat and his bloated, turquoise coloured companion. Together they ran and dragged themselves through alleys and streets, until finally his rescuer stopped by the side of a narrow road.
Jory was still in the grip of... something, so he couldn't turn and see what was happening. He was rather startled by the sound of a motorbike engine starting up.
"What's happening?" Jory cried, still struggling to breath and nowhere close to calming down.
"Just stay quiet, I'll get you out of here." The Irishman told him, trying to speak calmly but evidently rather rattled himself. Jory felt himself being lifted up onto the seat, still facing away from the person who was rescuing him. He could still feel the arm griping him, only now the sensation was around his entire lower body. Something had wrapped around him, binding him and keeping him in place. He struggled for a moment, but immediately the Irishman snapped at him. "Don't do that! I'm trying to save you, you moron!"
"Who are you? Who was that man? What's happening?" Jory blurted out, knowing now that his rescuer was going to talk back.
"Not now!" The man shouted back, as the engine roared and spurred the bike into movement. His voice was almost lost beneath it. "You're safe! Just hang on! I'm getting you out of here!"
Jory couldn't follow what was happening. The blast had left him stunned, and the fall had shaken him up. He had no idea where he was anymore, who it was that was holding him or why any of this was happening. His hand was thudding and burning up. So was his head. His brain felt like it was melting. He tried not to slump forward, and narrowly avoided falling off the bike.
"Nononono!" He felt the hand grabbing him pull him back into his seat, and the driver barely managed to avoid hitting a wall. "Don't you give up on me! Don't you give up just yet! Hold on, lad! Hold on!"
Jory tried to stay awake, but the whiplash and shock had overwhelmed him. His eyes drooped, as streets, roads and people sped past him. He couldn't hold on any longer.
He let his consciousness slipped away.
So a large note for the end of this chapter, about this story and some of the ideas I'm throwing into it.
I want to start by saying that I am not (in any way) an expert on the lore, characters and plots of Jojo's Bizarre Adventure. I know quite a bit, but ultimately not everything. If there are any mistakes on details or facts from the series that I have gotten wrong or not mentioned, then I have no issue with people pointing them out. In fact I welcome this, as it will help me improve. I merely ask that you be respectful about it. Like I said, I'm no expert, so I may easily get a fact wrong without knowing it.
I would also like to clarify that this story, while effectively being a bizarre adventure following a JoJo, isn't going to relate to already existing characters from the series, not even other JoJos. No characters from any of the Parts will be appearing in this story. It is meant to stand by its own as a different adventure following different people, but in a different part of the same world (To clarify further, this story is set in 2000, one year before the events of Golden Wind and one year after Diamond is Unbreakable.) I am, however, going to add my own concepts to this story, as well as rework some original concepts to take them down different routes. Most blatantly, I'm making the main character very different to the usual JoJo protagonists. I understand that a cowardly, anxious, weak individual may not fit the roll of a JoJo, but I have thought that through and I have ideas on how to make that interesting while not straying too far from the usual experience of reading/watching a JoJo Part. Another more obvious example would be the presence of an Arrow. It is mentioned at one point that there are some arrows which are known to exist but no one is sure where they are. There may already be clues to that in the official series, but I wanted to work in the location of one of them into this story, though not as a major part of the plot.
Finally I want to add that, while I have no issue with anyone leaving their character or stand OC's as reviews for this story, I also want to make it clear that I will not be taking suggestions. I already have the stands and characters planned out for this story, and unless I see an idea that I really like and feel may work better, I won't be using any that are suggested to me. If I do like a suggestion, I will make sure to ask the person who sent it for their permission to use it, and credit them in the chapter that character/stand/idea appears. Please don't take offence to this. Like I said, you're welcome to make suggestions. Just don't be upset if I don't use them.
That's all for now. I have other story's I'm working on right now, and I kind of came up with this as a spur-of-the-moment project. I may not end up uploading regularly, but I would like to keep it going. Even if this ends up just being a two chapter short story, I hope all of you enjoyed it for now.
Peace!