14 SETTEMBRE 2000, 16:42
MILANO, ITALIA
BIBLIOTECA PUBBLICO DI MILANO
Fugo sat at the public computer, frowning. Normally he wouldn't be so stressed over a piece of information that more than likely had nothing to do with the mission, but it was bothering him since it related to understanding their newfound allies.
Viviana Lombardi awoke her Stand during a virological disaster five years ago.
Diego Lombardi, Domenico De Luca, and Helena Sabbatini all gained their Stands around the same time.
Viviana Lombardi, Domenico De Luca, Margherita Genovese, and Helena Sabbatini all went to grad school together. Given how it is that they all evidently know each other and how close their friendships seem to be, it's logical to assume that they were all pursuing similar degrees and likely had classes together. That being said, it's more than likely that they were all involved in that incident somehow.
That's the only thing that I can think of to justify Sabbatini's behaviour during our first fight. I mean, most people don't figure out Purple Haze's abilities until just before I off them. Helena Sabbatini recognised the virus for what it was on sight and had a full-blown panic attack right afterwards.
She also mentioned that something bad had happened while she was in grad school. Something that she didn't want to think about. Or reminisce.
Just what the hell was this disaster, anyway?
He wouldn't normally think of invading someone's privacy over something like this, but it was really stressing him out for some reason.
Fugo typed the following keywords into the search bar, pressing "enter" afterwards: "Disastro virologico del 1995".
There were very few results. Fugo glanced through all of them. There was nothing of note that he saw; just some limited coverage blurbs from various news outlets stating that a freak accident had taken place in Greenland but nobody had wanted to elaborate on what had happened so there wasn't a lot that could be reported on in the first place. The last search result, which ended up being an article from the BBC that was written in English, didn't seem to hold back or sugarcoat things: "ITALIAN GRADUATE SCHOOL EXPEDITION MEETS WITH BIZARRE TRAGEDY, HANDFUL OF SURVIVORS."
Huh. The ginger clicked on the hyperlink, eyes widening.
Fugo scrolled through the news article, blood chilling as he read on in horror.
By Hanna McGuire. Updated 21-1-1996, 09:47 BST
MILAN, ITALY-What had started out as a study abroad trip ended in chaos, mystery, and grief as an unknown pathogen claimed the lives of 59 graduate students from the University of Milan.
Not much is known regarding the full extent of the virological disaster in Cape York, Greenland. Two sections of a graduate-level herpetology class travelled to the headland to study local fauna, departing Milan on 1 November 1995 CET. Out of the 72 persons travelling from Italy's second-largest city, only 13 were able to make it back alive. Seven local wildlife researchers, all of whom were Danish and/or Greenland nationals, also lost their lives under bizarre circumstances. The ordeal lasted just over 2 months, and, following a 14-day quarantine in the Greenlandic capital of Nuuk, the survivors were able to return to Italy on the morning of 20 January 1996 CET. We can infer that the experience was ghastly, and is shrouded in a level of mystery similar to phenomena such as the Bermuda Triangle or the tombs of King Tutankhamun.
Biology Professor Antonella Izzi, 41, director of the University of Milan's Environmental Studies programme, is among the 13 survivors. We have reached out to her for comment, and she has provided the BBC with this statement:
"Right now, we are just glad to be alive. Everyone's families have been notified. I grieve with my students. I mourn those whom we have lost. But if you want to do a full-blown interview, I must respectfully decline for the sake of personal decency and the protection of those who lived to tell the tale."
Two international students were also among the survivors: a German national, and a Spanish national, both of whom have asked to remain anonymous. All students who survived declined requests to comment.
A Greenland national associated with this incident has been arrested and charged with 72 counts of gross criminal negligence, 79 counts of intentional endangerment of human life, 72 counts of money laundering, 59 counts of involuntary manslaughter (criminal-negligence), 79 counts of ethics violations, 7 counts of first-degree murder, one count of felony criminal misconduct, one count of resisting arrest, and three counts of felony assault against an officer of the law. His lawyers have requested that he remain anonymous, citing fear of retaliation from the students' families. He is being prosecuted to the maximum extent of the law in his home country, though the governments of Denmark, Italy, Germany, and Spain have requested extradition, as has an international tribunal from the United Nations headquarters in Geneva. If convicted, he faces the death penalty.
Legal scholars have also speculated that this act could fall in the category of "Crimes Against Humanity" due to the intent for harm present when knowingly exposing Izzi and her students to the virus against their will.
A source from the Speedwagon Foundation has told the BBC that the international scientific community has decided not to allow further incursions to the incident site, citing a previous incident in that area in 1978 and likening it to the mysterious plagues found when unearthing ancient Egyptian tombs rumoured to be cursed.
Hanna McGuire, Foreign Correspondent, BBC Glasgow.
Fugo gulped. No wonder Sabbatini reacted the way she did after seeing Purple Haze's virus. This is...this is unspeakable. He turned to the gangster nearby, cold sweat dripping down his shoulders. "Hey, Abbacchio? You're gonna want to see this."
The goth walked over to the computer. "What is it?"
"I decided to do a little bit of research on that virological disaster Bucciarati mentioned," Fugo whispered, pale.
Abbacchio read through the article, eyes widening. "Oh my God."
Fugo nodded. "We know that there are at least four survivors here in the city, assuming Professoressa Izzi is still teaching at the University of Milan," he remarked. "And two of them we know for certain are Stand users."
Abbacchio raised an eyebrow. "And you think Sabbatini, De Luca, and the Lombardi's awoke their Stands because of this incident?"
"That's the only logical explanation," Fugo responded. "Viviana Lombardi, Helena Sabbatini, Margherita Genovese, and Domenico De Luca all went to grad school together. There was an incident five years ago that the latter three all apparently refused to talk about. And the timing of this atrocity aligns with Polpo's information to a T." He sighed. "I wish we knew more about what happened."
"Maybe it's better that we don't," Abbacchio rebuked, voice lowering. "Viviana Lombardi's brother was involved with Passione. My guess is that there was very limited coverage of the disaster partially because of that reason."
"That, and nobody wanted to say anything."
"Like I said, Fugo, there are some things we're better off not knowing. This appears to be one of them." Abbacchio sighed. "This article may be public knowledge, but there's no telling how much Bucciarati knows or is allowed to know. We should keep this to ourselves."
Fugo nodded slowly, proceeding to clear the browser history. As much as he wanted to say otherwise, he didn't know how high up in Passione this information went. Bucciarati would probably want them to tread carefully and in secrecy. "Very well."
Abbacchio blinked. "I found the reference section. With any luck, there should be a Hungarian-Italian dictionary in there somewhere."
Fugo stood, walking to the front desk to return the computer pass to the librarian on duty. He returned to the spot where Abbacchio was waiting for him, pausing in front of the goth. "Let's go."
Abbacchio nodded. The gangsters took the lift to the third storey, proceeding to the reference section.
"Let's see," Abbacchio said, perusing the language dictionaries. "English-Italian...Mandarin-Italian…Japanese-Italian...Korean-Italian...Spanish-Italian...ah, here we go." He pulled a large Hungarian-Italian dictionary out of the shelf.
"Perfect," Fugo said approvingly. "Let's get this started."
They took their seats inside a nearby study room. Fugo pulled out a couple of notebooks and pens from his bag, passing one set to the goth.
"All right, Abbacchio," Fugo said. "Let's see that note."
Abbacchio pulled it out of his pocket, unfolding it for the both of them to look at.
Találd meg az embert, aki képes visszajátszás a múltat. Nem kell felfedezni az igazságot. Távolítsa el minden szükséges eszközzel.
Abbacchio frowned. "What the fuck does this even mean?"
Fugo gave him a deadpan look. "You do know that's why we're here, right?"
Abbacchio rolled his eyes. "I know that, obviously. It's just a postulation right now because it looks like absolute fucking gibberish from this angle. I'm not a linguist, for crying out loud."
"Neither am I. But here we are." He frowned. "You take the first sentence. I'll take the second. We'll both work on the third."
"Sounds good."
Fugo jotted down the first sentence, followed by a vertical diagram of each word in it.
Találd meg az embert, aki képes visszajátszás a múltat.
Találd →
Meg →
Az →
Embert →
Aki →
Képes →
Visszajátszás →
A →
Múltat→
Fugo opened the dictionary, attempting to focus. Flashbacks of his fight against Terminal Frost invaded his mind, along with Sabbatini's panic attack. The BBC article soon followed, the chilling words seared into his brain.
An unknown pathogen claimed the lives of 59 graduate students.
...the intent for harm present when knowingly exposing Izzi and her students to the virus against their will...
We can infer that the experience was ghastly.
Ghastly…
And then his mind flashed back again to Sabbatini's response to comments about her not-so-legal artistic coping mechanism.
Some bad stuff happened while I was in grad school a few years back. I'd rather not have to think about it.
Fugo put his hands in his hair. I can't. Fucking. Focus. Nausea, anguish, and horror threatened to choke him.
I have to get out of here.
He stood, glancing at Abbacchio. "I'm gonna go see if there's a Hungarian textbook," he lied. "We don't know what kind of verb conjugations will be involved."
Abbacchio didn't look up from his notes. "Okay."
Fugo exited the study room, closing the door behind him, desperate to contain all of his feelings in a mask. He couldn't afford to look weak. Not now. It was a few minutes before he was able to locate the men's toilets, and he opened the door to the restroom.
It was empty.
Mercifully.
Fugo leaned over the sink, dry heaving. What he'd read...oh, God, that was horrific. He was grateful that the webpages he'd looked at had contained no photos whatsoever, because he probably would have puked on the spot.
After it became apparent that nothing was going to come up, Fugo relieved himself before looking back up at his reflection in the mirror.
It looked broken. Horrified. Sickened.
And for good reason.
Fugo finished up at the faucet, shutting the water off before running his hands under an air dryer.
But he couldn't bring himself to leave.
He was angry, angry at a situation that had occurred half a decade earlier. For some reason, he felt guilt run through him, knowing that he and his Stand were the cause of an innocent (okay, not so innocent) woman's renewed psychological pain.
"I didn't know," he told his reflection, voice breaking. "Cazzo, this is...this is seriously fucked up."
Fugo backed up against the wall, breaking down into tears as he slid down to the floor. What he'd read about...that was cruel, crueler than anything he could have imagined Sabbatini and the others having gone through. He wondered how many of the thirteen survivors had returned with their sanity, if any. They all surely had scars, and some he knew for certain had returned with Stands.
But still..
Nobody wanted to talk about it. It was reality straight out of something akin to a horror story.
And far worse to think about.
"What kind of sick psycho does that to people?" Fugo whispered between sobs. "It's completely unethical!"
Knowingly exposing a group of graduate students to a killer virus, without their consent? And for what? A chance to swindle them and leave them to die and act as though nothing happened?
God, it makes me want to vomit.
He understood now. Not just about what happened to Sabbatini, Genovese, De Luca, and the Lombardi's, but also about what Abbacchio had said about there being some things that they were better off knowing.
And as much as he hated to admit it, he was right.
He was so fucking right.
Fugo didn't know how long he'd stayed a sobbing mess on the floor, but it felt like forever before the door started to open and shut again. It was a public restroom after all; he should really get going. He got to his feet, coming face-to-face…
...with himself.
Rather, a Moody Blues version of himself.
Vaffanculo, Abbacchio.
Fugo straightened, glaring at the goth. "I didn't ask for you to follow me in here!" he snarled.
Please, go away. Just go away.
But, while Moody Blues complied with that silent request, his user did not. Abbacchio leaned against the bathroom door, arms folded. "You were gone for half an hour, Fugo."
Fugo's eyes narrowed. "Your point?"
Please, Abbacchio. Just leave. I don't want you to see me like this.
Abbacchio's eyes blazed. "My point? I was worried about you, idiota! I tried texting you, but you weren't answering. You weren't over by the reference section, and unless it's hidden really well, it usually doesn't take thirty minutes to find a goddamn textbook!"
"So what?" Fugo hissed, voice laced with venom. "You had Moody Blues look for me instead, when all else failed? Do you have any idea how asinine of a plan that was, especially given what we told you last night?"
Abbacchio looked as though he was going to blow his top. "Listen to me, you brat," he snapped, pointing an index finger in the teenager's direction. "Like I told Bucciarati last night, I am not going to hide. I'm gonna fight. If you don't like that, too bad, you have to suck it up and deal with it."
"Was that all you told Bucciarati last night?" Fugo sneered.
Abbacchio's face went red even under all of the goth makeup. "Shut. The fuck. Up."
Just the way he reacted...I guess Mista might be onto something after all.
Fugo sighed. "Look. I appreciate you being concerned and all, but you don't have to be here. I'm fine. Really."
The way his voice trembled and broke seemed to tell both gangsters otherwise.
Abbacchio's expression went neutral. Fugo closed his eyes, attempting to steel himself. Like it or not, he just couldn't bring himself to talk about it. He opened them a moment later, finding a resigned expression on the goth's face.
"Do you just want to call it quits for today?" Abbacchio asked seriously.
Fugo nodded, still numb. "Yeah," he admitted. There was no way in hell he was going to be able to focus for a while.
Abbacchio put the dictionary back up on the shelf. The two gangsters gathered up their stuff, silently exiting the library, haunted looks on both of their reflections in the doors' windows.
Fugo exhaled heavily upon feeling the cool breeze touch his skin. He looked up at the partly cloudy sky, feeling another tear sliding down his face.
I understand you now, Helena Sabbatini.
I know what happened. Abbacchio and I both do.
But I'm really starting to wish we didn't.