Mandorla Panciera stood next to the faded red barn, watching the crop duster take off shakily into the sky and eventually even out as it sped off through the air. A twisted grin spread across his face as he scratched his goatee.
"And I thought that traitor Bucciarati was supposed to be smart," he crowed as he stalked back into the barn, feet splashing in a puddle of blood that was left near the inside of the doorway. A few meters above him, a corpse was strung up from a hook hanging in the rafters, limbs half-decayed and eaten away as blood and liquified flesh and muscle dripped down onto the slaughtered cows that littered the structure.
"They didn't even pull out their Stands to check if I could see them," he said to himself as he pulled out his flip phone to begin scrolling through his contacts to find the right one. "Not that I, the wisest man in Passione, wasn't prepared for that. The Boss could only entrust this mission to me, after all; I have splendid acting skills. Isn't that right?"
He looked up at the face of the farmer hanging above him, a calm expression on his lifeless body, as if he hadn't even noticed when he died. "I'm just that good," Mandorla agreed with himself with a firm nod.
"They don't stand a chance against my automatic Stand, Fake Plastic Trees. It will chase them until they're all dead."
"Oh Mista, how come I never noticed how handsome you were before?"
Giorno's soft, lilting voice whispered in Mista's ear sent shivers down the gunman's spine. He grinned as he gripped Giorno's slim waist tighter, bending to nuzzle his head into the blond's nape as he said, "Naw, it's no big deal. You're way hotter."
"Nonsense," the blond replied, pulling back to look into Mista's eyes and wow, were Giorno's eyes super gorgeous. They looked like fucking emeralds or some shit and they seemed to glisten seductively, if that was even possible. "You remind me of an Adonis. Have you heard of him, from Greek mythology? My own Adonis…"
"Adonis, huh? Now that don't sound too bad."
Giorno smiled, the corners of his lips perking up and the edges of his green, green eyes crinkling as they flitted down to eye Mista's lips. The blond moved closer, grinding against Mista's hips as he edged across his lap. Mista stifled a groan as Giorno's hands moved to lace up underneath his hat, digging into his hair as they pulled his head up to meet Giorno's.
Aw yeah, this was it, Mista didn't think anything in the world could be better than this right about now, and damn, if Giorno didn't do something soon, he'd have to take matters into his own hands as the blond's breath against his neck elicited an enticed moan.
Mista put a hand on the back of Giorno's head, pulling the blond those last few centimeters and-
"Mista, wake up!"
The gunman's eyes flew open as a sleepy snort escaped the back of his throat, jolting up in the awkward, cramped seat to look around frantically.
"Was the yelling truly necessary, Fugo?"
That was Bucciarati's voice and Mista blinked blearily at the other two men in the tiny space with him, finally remembering what was going on. Did he doze off? He must've, but damn, that dream was-
A dream.
Fuck.
"Fugo, dammit, what the fuck?!" he yelled angrily, glaring daggers at the younger boy. "Why the fuck did you wake me up, Giorno almost-!" He caught himself before he could say anymore, feelings his cheeks heat up as he caught Fugo's leering gaze.
"Oh? Giorno almost what now?" He sounded way too fucking pleased with himself and damn, if he could do it without killing them all, Mista would fucking shoot him right then and there.
"Nothing," he growled, crossing his arms over his chest angrily with a huff. He also casually crossed one leg over the other, willing the likely conspicuous evidence of what he had been dreaming about to go down and disappear already, dammit.
"My apologies, Mista, but we're nearly to Sardegnia," Bucciarati explained. "I wanted you to be awake for the landing."
"Damn, it's already been that long?"
"Only about two hours, but it's not a very long flight. Seeing as we've taken a private aircraft, the usual flight is much shorter since there are no other stops."
Mista nodded, straightening up enough to try to peer through the window without getting in Bucciarati's way too much. They were still over the ocean, but he thought he could see land way far off in front of them if he squinted. Something else caught his eye though, and as he looked back to see what it was, he nearly bolted out of his seat.
"What the fuck?!" he shrieked in terrified confusion.
"I was wondering when he'd notice it," Fugo drawled, and Mista swivelled to stare in shock.
"Why the fuck are you two so damn calm?! There's some weird kind of ooze thing on the goddamn wings and you two are just fine?!"
There, on the wings of the crop duster, was what looked like a layer of thick green ooze that covered a large part of the left wingspan. It was more concentrated in some places, and in others, there were little pointy tips, sort of like mountaintops, that looked like they were stretching up to the upper half of the wing. It wasn't moving, though, and when he looked closer, he saw that in some places, it looked like it was frozen solid.
"It's a Stand," Fugo said, sounding way too bored for the words he was saying. "I suppose it's from the 'farmer' who gave us the plane." He used air quotes around the word, and Bucciarati laughed softly.
"Indeed," the capo agreed. "I had suspected as much when he introduced himself to me as Panciera. The name itself sounded quite familiar. In fact, there's a man in Passione who supposedly has close connections to the Boss with the same last name."
"What?!" Mista cried in shock. "Why take the damn plane, then?!"
"You see, the man in Passion has quite the reputation," Bucciarati continued, completely unfazed by Mista's ever-growing panic. "His Stand is powerful and automatic. It would be nearly impossible to defeat, if used properly. However, Panciera himself is rumored to be quite impressive as well."
"Impressively stupid," Fugo interjected.
"Yes, well, it just goes to show what kind of position money can buy," Bucciarati smirked to himself.
"Will one of you please tell me what the fuck you mean?" Mista was starting to get pissed with how they were just ignoring him.
"That's Mandorla Panciera's Stand," Fugo said. "Or like half of it at this point. Probably less. Panciera bought his position in Passione. It was sheer luck that he managed to get a Stand from Polpo, and even worse luck that it was a good one. For him. To put it simply, he's a sadistic idiot who has no clue how to use a Stand or how to gauge its weakness. He defeated himself when he sent it into the air after us."
"Huh? Wait, how? How the hell did I sleep through this?"
"We didn't see any point in waking you," Bucciarati answered. "There was no fighting necessary on our part."
"He's snoring, Bucciarati. You sure I can't smack him?"
"Just let him sleep, Fugo. I'm sure you understand that today has been stressful." Bucciarati's eyes softened as he added, "For all of us."
Fugo rolled his eyes but didn't say anything, wincing at the way his stomach pulled painfully when he crossed his arms. The dull throb in his chest hadn't died down for awhile now and was gradually getting worse with each passing hour. The sooner they got to Giorno, the better- assuming the blond would fix him.
That had been a thought Fugo had kept to himself. The idea that perhaps their healer wouldn't feel quite so willing to assist this time. Not that Fugo would blame him. But he didn't see the point in voicing his fears to Mista and Bucciarati. They wouldn't get it.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he rested his head on his chin and stared at the window, trying to ignore the pain that radiated through his entire body.
Thankfully, there hadn't been any need to try to ignore it when the sight of the wings of the plane caught his attention.
They hadn't been paying much attention, as the wings were situated behind them and Bucciarati had to keep focused on the path ahead of them. But now that Fugo was looking, he could see what appeared to be a strange green ooze that was vaguely human-shaped crawling across the wings.
"Bucciarati!" he yelled frantically, jolting upright as Haze appeared beside him.
"Fugo?! What's going on?!" Bucciarati's voice held a heavily-veiled message within it, but Fugo heard it all the same and winced internally.
"Outside, on the wings! An enemy Stand!" He pretended like it didn't hurt that Bucciarati initially suspected it to be his own treachery and instead focused on the enemy at hand.
"What?!"
"Keep flying! I'll deal with it!"
Fugo did not know how he would deal with this.
Could he send Purple Haze outside the cockpit? Would it be left behind or would it stay right next to him when they were going at this speed? Would the high altitude have an effect on his Stand, and in turn have an effect on him? Was it truly safe to send Haze out there? But what other choice did they have; would Sex Pistols be a better choice? Would the virus be have any effect against slime? Or would the parasites be-
There was a loud cracking noise and Fugo knew he didn't have any more time to think about it.
He mentally prepared himself to thrust Purple Haze outside into the freezing air, to fight the Stand that was- was not moving?
Wait, no, Fugo could've sworn it was moving earlier. It definitely had been; his eyes hadn't been wrong but now it was just… sitting there? Menacingly? Staring at them even though it didn't have a face? And why was its color different than before?
There was another cracking noise and Fugo froze as he suddenly realized what was going on.
He couldn't help but laugh as a splintering noise echoed around the cabin.
"Fugo, what's going on?!" Bucciarati sounded frantic, but Fugo could barely get himself together as he broke down into a fit of guffaws. Fuck, laughing hurt his wounds.
"N-Nothing," he gasped out between laughs. "The Stand, its- its already lost."
"What? How?!"
"The weather," Fugo answered, as ridiculous as it was. Another crack and a large chunk of the Stand slid off the wing off the plane, spiralling downwards out of sight towards the ocean. "Or the temperature, I should say. I don't know what its powers are, but it doesn't matter. I doubt you can see for yourself, as you're flying, but the Stand is made of what appears to be a viscous slime. Whoever sent it after us is a fool."
"I'm afraid I'm not following."
"It froze, Bucciarati. The ooze its made of fully hardened, rendering movement impossible for it. Those cracking noises are pieces of it breaking off and falling into the ocean. It defeated itself by following us into extremely cold air."
"So that's not even the Stand?" Mista echoed in confusion as he eyed the remains of the green goop that was still frozen to the wings of the crop duster. "That's just whatever the fuck is left of it?"
"Yup," Fugo said, settling back into his seat with a wave of his hand. "All thanks to that Panceria guy's lack of a brain. What kind of dumbass doesn't bother to know the limits of his own Stand? It's pathetic."
"But it's good luck for us," Bucciarati added. "Fighting an automatic Stand while stuck in an airplane over the middle of the ocean… I can only imagine how gruelling that fight could potentially be."
"Yeah, we got a nice, relaxing trip 'cuz of his stupidity," Fugo agreed. "Thank God, I don't know about you two, but I could definitely do with this break."
"I still think you two shoulda woke me up," Mista grumbled. Sure, he may've been sleeping, but he didn't like missing out on any of the action. Especially when it turned into some kind of inside joke that he didn't know about.
"But then you couldn't have dreamed of Giorno," Fugo said innocently. "Although I'm not sure I want to know what you were making him do inside that twisted head of yours."
"Y'know, I don't care that we're in the middle of the fucking sky, I will shoot you Fugo, I swear to God I'll do it."
Bucciarati groaned sufferingly but Mista noticed that the capo was smiling as he and Fugo continued to bicker. Guess the team mom couldn't bring himself to break up his squabbling kids' fights every time.
And honestly? Mista was fine with that.
Fake Plastic Trees: defeated.
Mandoral Panciera: blissfully unaware.
