Battaglia 146: So shall thou feed on Death, that feeds on men


The thing about Purple Haze was that it, itself, was not dangerous.

Just like with any other weapon, it was how it was used that made it so. That, and who it was used by.

And it wasn't Purple Haze that was particularly dangerous, but Fugo himself.

When he'd gotten his Stand, Fugo had been at the lowest point of his life. He'd been prepared to eventually die on the streets with no one around him and nothing to his name and all because he'd refused to be complacent.

Up until that point, all his life, he'd been living for other people's sake. Used by his parents to bring more prestige and power to the Fugo name. Used by his brothers to escape their cruel-hearted parents. Used by his 'friends' to make themselves seem better. And then nearly used by his own professor as nothing more than what? A toy to pass the time? Could you even really call that living anymore?

Like a carbonated soda that rattled and rattled around endlessly, the rage within him built. It built and built and built until it exploded outwards with the creation of his Stand. With the creation of his own anger and fury and pain built into a single body.

The first time he'd summoned it, seen it outside of a singular glimpse when Black Sabbath disappeared back into the lighter, and it had towered over him, hissing and growling and oozing drool like some sort of monster, he'd been paralyzed with fear. He hadn't screamed, refused to do so, but this… this thing had come from him? He hadn't wanted to believe it.

Purple Haze had liked him. Fugo had not liked it.

He could say that it was because it was violent, because it was unstable and unpredictable, because it was ugly and marred and dirty and he didn't need a Stand like that. But for as violent as Purple Haze was, Fugo was worse. With each unstable step, Fugo himself worried and questioned and doubted. With each unpredictable scream, Fugo's temper changed faster. And when he looked in the mirror, he wasn't any cleaner than Haze was. At least Haze wasn't covered in the blood of all the lives it ended. Because Fugo never used Haze during his assassinations.

Fugo could say that it was because he hated Purple Haze, but he knew it was because it reminded him of who he was.

But with each step he had walked beside Bucciarati, Fugo had found himself wondering if that was really all he was. When his capo would turn and smile at him and praise him for his work and his determination, a feeling long-rejected by the blond boy would start bubbling up in his heart. When he was beside Bucciarati, it felt like he was walking in the light for the first time.

Turning his back on that light… was he a fool? He must have been. A righteous fool too set in his ways to turn his back on any former ideals, on the rigidity he clung to to bring shape and structure into his otherwise too-distorted world.

Fugo knew he hadn't been wrong.

But he hadn't been right either.

And it wasn't too late. Maybe that had really been the only mistake he'd made along the way. Believing that he couldn't change. That he was everything he'd ever be. That life was static, when he'd always been taught that it was a dynamic force twisting and turning and branching off with every choice you made.

For every distorted branch on his path, a new leaf was formed.

It wasn't too late. It never had been. If he didn't understand, he could learn. And Fugo had always been good at that.


He only had a few seconds before Castagna could react, and those precious few seconds would determine everything.

As Purple Haze charged at Bucciarati, Fugo flashed a single signal with his left hand, so quick and indistinct that anyone else would've missed it, but Bucciarati had worked with him for years. There was no way he would. His capo's eyes widened in a fraction of a second and then he was gone, falling backwards into the zipper that Sticky Fingers yanked him into.

It was fast enough that Castagna couldn't notice the slight change in trajectory when Haze planted its foot square on the ground where Bucciarati had been a millisecond earlier, its fist slamming into the dry ground. A slight twist of the fist to the right sent a shower of twigs, dead leaves, and dirt flying towards Castagna, who had to step away coughing in the ensuing cloud of dust and debris. Just in case Bucciarati couldn't get far enough with just one leap. Fugo couldn't take any chances.

A quick scan revealed that Bucciarati had yet to reappear, and Fugo hoped that it was because he'd gone to where he'd left Mista, temporarily out of harm's way. Castagna looked around impatiently as he rubbed at his eyes.

"You missed." He sounded peeved, tears forming in the corners of his plum-colored eyes. Fugo walked towards him, looking around as well. He truly was still looking for Bucciarati, but not for the reason Castagna thought.

"It happens," Fugo forced out, knowing how suspicious it would be if he didn't reply. His fist curled around the butterfly knife in his pants pocket, the one that Narancia had given him for Christmas months earlier. He'd never thought he'd need to use it, but held onto it anyway. How ironic, he thought, that all it took for it to come in handy was for him to betray the very person who'd given it to him.

Now, if he could just get close enough, just a single second would be all it took.

Castagna hummed agreeably, crossing his arms over his chest as he scowled. "I suppose I'll have to hunt him down."

"I believe you agreed to allow me."

"Oh, of course, I don't mean to encroach, Signor Fugo!" Castagna's face twisted into a grin as he turned towards him, clasping his hands together. "I am simply concerned over your ability, that is all!"

"My abilities are as powerful as yours, if not more. You don't need to worry about that."

"Ah, yes, well, I didn't quite mean that." Fugo frowned in confusion as Castagna's grin turned into an expression of pity. "Perhaps I was not clear."

A sharp twinge exploded in his stomach and Fugo gasped in pain, hand flying to his right side to feel blood pulsing out of the fresh wound with every beat of his heart. When he looked down, he saw that his own knife was embedded in his side, his familiar scarred fingers clutching the hilt.

"You shall be dead before the chance arises again."

Whipping up to stare at Castagna in horror, Fugo vaulted backwards as the man stepped forward. The tell-tale cloud of his Stand was slowly creeping out of the man's body and into the ground, rising up every place Fugo stepped.

Shit. He'd been careless.

He'd thought that Violet Hill could only affect one person at a time; he could see now that he was wrong. At the very least, there was more to it than that. And seeing as he hadn't been surrounded by the Stand since their talk…

"Exposure," he realized a gasp. "You never needed to attack me; I was already infected. Like a-"

"A carrier!" Castagna clapped his hands as he advanced. "Bravo, Signor Fugo, you truly are a learned man! If only you had not forfeited my allegiance like a fool. I pity the loss of a soul such as yours, but God has deemed your present fate unworthy."

"'God, God, God,' you're such a fucking dumbass! Do you ever think for yourself?!" Fugo cursed with a low growl. His patience for this man was gone, and instead of backing away, he charged. Fugo may have been a calculating man, but he had no qualms with charging headlong into a fight if that's what it took.

Castagna looked surprised for a split second before he muttered something that sounded like Latin under his breath and Fugo felt his left leg twist beneath him. 'Fucking showoff,' he thought angrily, knowing full well that was just for show, and that Castagna needed no words to contorl his Stand.

Still, that action, that loss of control, was what he'd been waiting for and as he fell forwards, his hand now freed from the Stand's manipulation, he pulled the blood-covered knife from his side and used the momentum to send it shooting through the air. As he ducked his head to roll into his fall, he heard a shocked grunt of pain and knew he'd found his mark.

"I see." So it hadn't been enough. When Fugo looked up, he saw Castagna clutching at his right shoulder, a deep gash gouging a hole in the soft flesh with his knife embedded in a tree a few meters back. "You forced me to use Violet Hill so you could remove the knife. Clever, but it won't work again, Signor Fugo."

"It only had to work once," he growled back, staggering to his feet. This pain was nothing. If his arms refused to listen, he'd use his legs. If his legs wouldn't work, he'd drag himself if he had to. And if nothing moved anymore, he'd use Haze to move for him.

It took him years to realize, but he knew now: as long as he had Haze by his side, he could distort a new path.