Mista opened his eyes to an ear-splitting scream.
It sounded more like a roar than a cry, like a wounded animal drawing in its last breath to unleash one final, indignant condemnation to the world that brought its cruel hand of fate down upon the creature.
He recognized the voice and leapt to his feet in an instant, sprinting in the direction the shriek had come.
Around him, the world seemed to be shifting. Footprints appeared beneath his own before he'd even stepped there, rubble and debris cascaded down seemingly from thin air, bodies littered the ground, dropping like flies from nothing at all. In the gray storm raging above him, the wind whipped so fiercely across his face that he had to squint so he could even see ahead of him.
There couldn't possibly be this many people here. The ruins had been completely empty, no tourists or locals in sight when he'd arrived with Bucciarati. And why did time seem to be stopping and starting? He couldn't even tell it was most of the time, but there was the feeling of being in the wrong place, of missing a few seconds when his memories just jumped ahead from where they'd left off.
What had Bucciarati said about the Boss? That his Stand distorted time? Something like that. At the time, Mista hadn't thought it would've mattered; he wasn't the one who was gonna need to know this shit, he'd just have to follow the others. Now he wished he'd paid more attention.
"Mista, where're we going?" That was Five's voice, small and scared and looking at him like he was running towards the end of the world. Who knows, maybe he was.
He didn't answer, couldn't when there was another scream and suddenly he was pitching forwards, toppling to the ground as he stumbled over something soft.
With a groan, he rolled to his side, rubbing his shoulder as he looked into dull blue eyes.
Vomit bubbled up into the back of his throat before he could swallow it back down, spilling out onto the blood-stained ground as flies buzzed around the lifeless corpse. Dark rust-colored blood fell out of a hole that went straight through his capo's chest, intestines spilling onto the dirt and yellow-green pus oozing from the rotting flesh. Bucciarati's eyes, eyes that Mista was so used to being pierced through by, now stared back at him with a bitter expression of utter defeat.
This couldn't be happening. How long had he been out? How had all of this not woken him sooner? How much time had passed since Fugo- Fugo.
He couldn't see the blond anywhere. Of all the corpses littering the ground, not a single one held that familiar green suit with the hideous holes or the spiky golden hair that suddenly looked a little less gold after Mista met Giorno.
Giorno, who Mista knew couldn't possibly be here, whose voice he heard anyway. Who had been screaming just a few moments ago, even though Mista had never heard the blond scream once in the few days he'd known him.
As he turned around, Mista saw a flash of red, a footprint in the dirt before him, the kick of rocks to his left and the sound of cracking and then there was blood.
So much blood, more than he'd ever seen before. How could that much blood possibly be in his own body?
He was falling, eyes dark and mouth filled with the tang of iron, as he heard that awful, awful scream of pain and regret and loss and-
"Mista!"
-and his eyes opened again and saw a wide, blue sky above him with not a single gray cloud or wisp of fog in sight.
"Mista, are you alright?!"
The worried voice came from his left and he squinted in the sunlight, head throbbing as he turned to see Bucciarati kneeling at his side with his face pinched in concern. Piercing blue eyes. Thank God.
"Fine," he grunted in response, hauling himself into a seated position as he rubbed the blurred lines of the nightmare from his face. Leave it to Fugo to knock him out and give him one'a the worst dreams in his whole fucking life.
Speaking of the blond, part of Mista was surprised that Fugo had actually left him alive. He had chickened out at the last possible second, had thought of Narancia and how he would've waited and cried by himself if Mista had killed Fugo so he wouldn't seem weak, and Mista just hadn't been able to bring himself to do it. Not to Narancia.
But he was still alive too, which meant that Fugo had changed his mind as well. At least long enough to let him live. Surely that had a deeper meaning than Mista could really tell, a lot of Fugo's actions seemed to, but he didn't know what. Fugo had always been inexplicable.
"Where's Fugo?" he asked, not seeing the boy anywhere around them.
Bucciarati's brows furrowed and his eyes darkened a shade as he murmured, "Back there with Castagna, I believe."
"You beat them both?" It was kinda insulting, but Mista couldn't help the slight disbelief in his voice. Bucciarati was strong, of course he was, but two-on-one was never good odds no matter how strong your Stand was, and Bucciarati had seemed strange lately. Like something was off.
"…No." That wasn't the answer he'd been expecting. His confusion must've been obvious because Bucciarati clarified, "Fugo told me to go."
"And- and you just listened?!" As much as Mista wanted to believe that Fugo really might be on their side, he couldn't risk that, couldn't risk all of their lives just like that. He was shocked that Bucciarati had.
"His eyes were different, Mista," Bucciarati explained as if it was the simplest thing in the world, and for him, it probably was. "Their resolve was… new. Whether that means he will fight us both next, I don't know, but he must come to his own terms with it. I owe him at least that."
"You don't owe anyone jack shit," Mista pointed out, still irritated that Fugo was even making them go through all this in the first place. He didn't get why the blond couldn't betray Passione; it's not like his loyalties were with the group. At least, he hadn't thought they were, but maybe he didn't know Fugo as well as he thought he did. "Is he fighting that weirdo then?"
"I don't know." The capo frowned softly, clearly thinking about something that he apparently wasn't going to tell Mista. Well that just fucking figures. "But Fugo is strong. He will be waiting for us either way."
"Yeah, sure," Mista grumbled, wincing as he attempted to stretch his arms over his shoulder. Right. Fractured. Just like his fucking ribs. "Don't suppose you can zip up what you can't see?"
Bucciarati shot him a look and Mista sighed as he took the man's outstretched hand and got to his feet. "Right, that's what I thought. How long was I out?"
"Five minutes at most? I had to send Sticky Fingers to retrieve my limbs first, so I found you just a minute or two ago," Bucciarati replied, a sly smile crossing his face as he added, "Once I was sure you were breathing and that your life wasn't in danger, I woke you."
"So that's why my head fucking hurts," Mista grumbled. Not that he could blame Bucciarati for beating him awake, he knew he slept like the dead. Not really wanting to know what the capo meant by 'retrieve his limbs,' Mista settled with saying, "I don't hear any fighting, so guess we better go check on that fucker, yeah?"
Bucciarati nodded and as he turned to walk towards where he'd left the two enemies, Mista couldn't help but notice the strange hole in his side. The one from his own bullet. It wasn't right, something was very, very wrong, but he didn't understand and he didn't want to. Tearing his eyes away from the 'wound,' Mista forced himself to clear those thoughts from his head as he followed his capo.
