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Vento Aureo SBR AU: Golden Blood

Chapter 8: Promessa di Sangue

It was all quiet when the sun rose on the lonely alleyway. A man wearing dirty and patchy clothing idly walking down the streets of Little Italy, kicking a rock that he found on the ground for a few feet before turning into the lonely alleyway. Being a homeless person in New York is a disdainful, but ultimately mundane lifestyle, so the homeless take their time looking for trouble in order to spice up their life, whether it is drugs, or harassing the locals, or breaking and entering with no malice. This poor bastard has been thinking about doing some devious stuff that won't get him the noose.

Unexpectedly his foot got caught on something large, and heavy, causing him to stumble forward, staggering a few steps before collapsing completely onto the ground, face first. He looked around a bit to see if there was anyone else in the alley, laughing at him for this embarrassing moment. He sighed in relief seeing as there was no one else there. Standing up he brushed the dirt off of his brown, tattered sweater, however, as he did he felt something warm, wet smear onto his hands. Blood.

He looked at his hands, seeing as they were caked in a sleek, crimson hue; he gasped loudly as he recoiled, only to trip backwards over the heavy mound. He scampered backwards away from the mound as he soon discovered that it was, in fact, a human corpse. The Homeless Man gagged, covering his mouth with his bloody hands just to taste the iron and smell the copper. He was so tempted to run out until he noticed how sharply dressed the dead man was. Fine tailored clothing only worn by the rich and by mafioso. Despite the ghastliness of the man's death, blood loss from a severed hand and more blood coming from his chest as he laid flat on the ground, The Homeless Man smiled at the opportunity to find any riches on the corpse.

He immediately reached for the shiny band clamped around the man's severed wrist, pulling it slightly to try to slide it off his arm, only to realize how tight it was on his wrist. He put more strength into his heaves when suddenly his wrist was grabbed by the, whom he once presumed, dead man. The Homeless Man was about to yelp in fright when a blade cut deeply into his throat, severing the trachea and vocal cords, silencing him immediately.

Caligula dropped the blade as the Homeless Man fell over, clutching his throat as he began suffocating in his own blood. He tried pushing himself up with both hands, only to fall back, face first into the pavement, as he forgot he was missing his right hand. His mouth felt dried and tasted like a mixture of rat poison and his own blood. Pain flared everywhere in his body, but in his chest it felt much more like a blade made out of fire is stuck between his ribs. He does his best to raise himself, sitting on his knees. Using his left hand, he opened his button up shirt by ripping it open to reveal a plate that's tainted by the surrounding blood.

It worked… Caligula said as he began to gag on his own blood. I was able to stop the bleeding using [Death Magnetic] right before I passed out… He looked at the red stump of his missing hand, admiring the tight band that acted as a tourniquet. I am definitely not getting my right arm back… That's for certain.

Caligula stood up, trying his best to ignore all the blood rushing to his head, making it hard to breath and stay conscious. He stumbled out of the alley to try and get as far away from the corpse of the homeless man as humanly possible. He stayed clear of the busy streets and kept to the abandoned backstreets of Little Italy.

He stopped by a metal trash can by a building, looking around to see if anyone was present to hear or witness what he was about to do. He turned back to the surprisingly clean trash can before whispering to himself. "[Death Magnetic]..."

The Wired Bodied stand manifested behind him, raising up its left arm as its right was severed just like its user. It slammed its fist down onto the lid of the trash can, making a loud crunching sound; as a pulse of electricity went through the metal trash can it began to warp and crunch in on itself, eventually making a semi-cylindrical shape with 5, 3 component appendages. He attached the warped trash can lid onto the improvised metal tourniquet, using the gravitational pull to move the appendages, smiling to himself as the movements felt smooth. Using his stand, he had just created a prosthetic arm, and using [Death Magnetic]'s magnetic manipulation constantly, he can use it as if it were a normal limb.

While he inspected his masterpiece, a police officer who heard the noise of the trash can lid loudly cave in on its own magnetism walked up to him.

"Hey, stop bangning on the trash can, you damn dirty hobo. Yer going to wake the whole block!" Caligula froze, refusing to turn around. However, as he tried to apologies to the cop his voice came out as nothing more than a hoarse whisper, inaudible to the cop. "Hey, don't ignore me!"

The cop forcefully turned Caligula around to yell into his face, however before the cop could his voice got caught in his throat and his blood ran cold as he noticed the state of Caligula. His face was dirty, and covered in a reddish-brown stain, his shirt was unbuttoned and ruined; dirty, torn and stained, his entire chest was exposed, caked in blood and a metal sheet seemed to be embedded into his skin. The cop's face contorted into confusion, to terror.

"What the fuck?" The Cop was able to choke out before Caligula's metal fist smashed into his orbital bone, crushing it, and knocking the cop out cold.

Here is the fact of the day: There was no way in hell that Caligula was allowed to show his face to Passione again.

His one job in the organization was to defend the upcoming Donna with his life, and seeing as he failed to do even that, he knows damn well that if he ever tried to resurface in any way shape or form, he will be killed on sight by a Passione assassin. Not that he couldn't stand his own against any Passione assassin, he did, after all, have one of the most powerful stands in the organization, behind Lady Madonna herself, he presumed. At the moment, however, he was in no condition to fight. Not only did he feel incredibly weak after losing so much blood the night before, but he is also still incredibly shell shocked by the sheer power of the mysterious [Blood Royale]... Something about that stand made his heart begin to pound hard, his sweat to run cold and made his stomach do rapid flips.

Right now, Caligula's main goal is to lay low and recover before he can go back out and look for Pattie. Because he knew that she was still out there, alive. He just prayed that she is in safe hands.

There was one place that he knew where any member of Passione would not think to look for him, an abandoned, rundown apartment complex in one of the few condemned neighborhoods in the entirety of Manhattan, East Harlem, his childhood home before his father was killed, before he became the killer he became today. He entered the very apartment he lived in before everything went to shit.

The walls were stained with many mysterious brown markings, in the corners where the carpet meets the walls, there was mushrooms growing. Looking up he noticed that the roof had multiple orange markings, indicating water damage. The wooden furniture was either falling apart or covered in an impregnable layer of dust. Caligula sighed to himself. Such a far cry from how he lived in the Madonna Estate, luxurious lofts, unfathomably large beds, couches, and mats; fine dining every day despite him preferring to buy something off the streets. He didn't complain right now, now was time to plan.

After treating the wounds on his chest with medical supplies he stole from a pharmacy and cleaning some furniture best he could, he sat down on an uncomfortable, rusted metal lawn chair looking down at a blank piece of paper and a pencil.

He picked up the pencil with his left hand (he didn't need to learn to write using his left hand as he was left hand dominant already) and, without hesitation, or qualm, he began writing.

As of now, God truly has abandoned us. A demon, unlike seen in the rotten streets of New York attacked me, and my sister of bond, almost killing me, and forcing me to send her away for her own safety. As of now, Patrizia Madonna's whereabouts are out of my realm of knowledge, but there is a feeling deep inside of me that she is still alive. Still out there waiting for me to find her. I promised her nothing as I was uncertain if I myself was able to survive the attack, but now that my continued existence is guaranteed, I will now make an unbreakable promise forged in blood, that I, Caligula Risotto, will find my sister whatever it takes, so help me God.

I write to you all today to call upon the Pact of Blood to assist me in my time of need. I welcome you to look for Patrizia Madonna and bring her to me alive to me. I have multiple unspent paychecks from my employment as Patrizia Madonna's bodyguard, and I would like to wager it as a reward to anyone who can successfully complete this task.

She is in her teenage years, with white skin, purple hair, and emerald eyes. If there is someone threatening Patrizia, or if there is someone in your way of securing Patrizia, you have full obligation to attack that person or those persons with intent to kill. I wish you all good luck, and I will join you in the search when I heal entirely.

Signed, Caligula Risotto, March 29, 1907. 12:19 Eastern Standard Time.

Caligula set his pencil to the side, channeling [Death Magnetic]'s Magnetic Field manipulation to cause spikes to protrude on the fingertip of his prosthetic hand, piercing each of his digits in his left hand. He then pressed all four bloody fingers onto the page, marking it with his own blood, forming the unbreakable blood oath and rallying the help of those in the Pact of Blood.

Minutes later, a man knocked on his door. Caligula opened the door to find a man about as tall as Caligula. Wearing a simple, black, long sleeve shirt, with Basic black pants and a black leather motorcycle cap with a red painted chain wrapped above the brim of his hat. His most crowning feature was wearing a full-face mask, one in the shape of a classic Oni Mask, except it had a moving, galaxy like design.

"Caligula Risotto…" The man said with a slight accent.

Kento Nijimura… Caligula nodded in silent respect, unable to respond due to his injuries.

"You look like hammered shit…"

Caligula decided to ignore Kento's remark, handing him a folded piece of paper. Kento looked down at the piece of paper, before grabbing it. He seemed, hesitant. He opens up the letter right in front of Caligula to see its contents. In spite of him wearing a mask, his bod language gave away the fact that Kento was confused, and frankly, concerned; casting his gaze rapidly between the paper he is reading from and Caligula.

He finally kept his focus on the silver haired man in front of him, holding up the paper to eye level.

"You were always one to accept and complete blood requests for free from anyone, Rizz. Now you are asking everyone you have helped for help. You're basically raising an army…"

Caligula nodded at Kento. That's the idea, Kenny.

If you have done nothing but do favors for everyone, no matter how powerful of a position you are in, you are guaranteed to be lent a hand in your most trying time. Kento stayed still, silent for a few moments as he analyzed Caligula. He suddenly exhaled sharply, Caligula couldn't see Kento's emotions, but he has a feeling that the Oni Mask wearer was smirking by the way his chin moved under the mask.

"Very well, Rizz. I'll get this printed out and shared in less than an hour, for the entirety of New York to see…"

As Kento proceeded to walk away, Caligula reached out, mustering the strength to speak, even for a moment.

"Not… Passione…" He wheezed out.

The Oni Mask wearer looked back at him, tilting his head like a curious puppy. "Not Passione?" Caligula nodded his head, causing Kento to nod in return, before completely disappearing from view he walked down the small corridors of the abandoned apartment complex.

In under an hour, Caligula's request was read by almost every member of an organized criminal organization that was not from Passione. A man with cybernetic enhancements read Caligula's note, holding it with his human hand. He looks up to see a girl that looks similar to him braiding his hair. Carefully with his left arm, lift the girl before setting her in front of him.

"Sorry, Rikka. Papa has to help a friend."

Fritz Von Stroheim, German Inventor, Horse Rider, and Illegal Weapons Salesman.

A tall woman read the letter from the confines of a house. He had long black hair, and his skin was a fine tan colored. He had an assortment of knives neatly placed in front of him, all kitchen knives.

"Uh! My friend is in trouble? Uh, poor Caligula-baby. I will help you, deary, if it is the last thing I do!"

A man groaned behind the tall woman. It was a cop, just getting ready for work when was assaulted and knocked out by the woman in his own home. He was trying to stand up from the floor only to be met with a knife lodging into his throat, severing his spine and killing him instantly.

Spilla, Former Tuscany Spy during the Italian Wars, Serial Cop Killer, Sadism Indulgent(?)

An Aristocrat residing in the most expensive penthouse in the entirety of Manhattan Island read the letter, smoking a stogie as his wife and employees typed around him, counting money, debating Oil Prices, and negotiating (read: publicly torturing) competitors. He was an incredibly gruff, semi balding old man with a greying beard wearing a high-quality suit.

He stood up from his desk, which caught the attention of everyone in the room; everyone paused what they were doing to face him, showering the entire penthouse with deafening silence, broken up by the muffled crying of those who tried to compete with him.

"I shall be resolving a personal matter. If I need assistance, I will call upon you." He said in a low, yet powerful voice.

"Yes sir!" Everyone, including his wife responded, before immediately going back to work.

Gianfranco Esposita, Italian Oil Tycoon, and founder of the Gianfranco Petroleum Firm, an Oil Cartel. (Similar to OPEC)

The Covenant even received Caligula's letter. They have never associated with Caligula, it the Italian Stand user sure does not know who the Covenant are. The High Priest reads the Demon Child's writing before passing it off to a man in a black cloak.

"Release him from incarceration, he will do as I say." The High Priest ordered the cloaked man.

"Yes, My Lord…" The Man responded as he scampered off.

"So, it looks like Caligula has finally put himself caught in a scrape… Heh, now it's about damn time that it is my turn to help him…" A man with scraggily orange hair with bifocal glasses said as he tossed the paper across his desk.

He stood up with a stretch and walked out the apartment that he calls home. "Time for me to get Medieval."

Fuoco Congelare, Caligula's drinking friend, former member of Passione, wanted assassin.

Stone Ocean Maximum Security Prison, 20 minutes off the coast of Long Island, Pacific Ocean.

A prison guard whistles cheerfully as he walked down the eerily quiet halls of the Prison. The corridor was lined with thick, metal doors preventing prisoners from seeing the hall, or the outside world, concrete walls so thick that no sound, no voice, no matter how loud won't pass through for prisoners to eavesdrop. Walls so thick, not even a loud bang will be heard, not even one from say… a gun.

The Guard finally came upon a much larger, much heavier steel door. It was more reminiscent of a vault rather than a prison door. Posted in front of the door was another security guard holding a large rifle in his arms, guarding the vault door. Whatever or whoever was inside must be real dangerous due to the amount of precaution that there is when guarding it; not that it mattered to the Guard as his job is just to upend that precaution and release the monster that was inside.

He raised his hand with a smile. "Hey, they told me to come relieve you!"

The other Guard quirked his eyebrow in confusion, before turning to him. "I don't get relieved for the next thirty minu-"

BANG, BANG!

The Guard holding the rifle slumped over dead as two revolver bullets entered his skull.

"Too many questions…" The "Guard" sighed, putting the revolver back into his holster, flipping the dead Guard over to secure the keys to the vault cell.

The 2,000 lb. door opened slowly, so slowly that the "Guard" became impatient and began pushing the door himself so it can speed up the process. As the door fully opened with a loud screech that reverberated off the walls, a man stumbled out of the darkness and looked around the halls of the Super Max prison, before turning his attention to the "Guard" who released him.

"My Lord requested for your release on the condition that you will help us track somebody down… I will give you the information on the boat ride back to New York." Th "Guard" explained to the mysterious prisoner.

The Prisoner looked at the "Guard's" exposed wrist to find a tattoo of the earth with a Star of David plastered in front of it. He slapped the "Guard" across the face before swiftly turning and walking away, causing the "Guard" to stutter and make an offended face. "Hey man, that was rud-"

KABOOM!

The "Guard's" head exploded into a fine red mist, caking the immaculate white walls the more blood. The Prisoner was as white as a sheet, with long dark hair, with blank black eyes.

"Your Lord's brainwashing can be hampered by a decade of perpetual silence…" He said as he walked away from the two corpses, with the eyes of a cuckoo bird following behind him. "God's Will is the only thing I will truly follow…"

Oyecomova, Italian Terrorist, Professional Zeppeli Hater.

Patrizia finally came to.

As the fuzziness in her head began to fade, she heard faint voices speak with the ambience of sizzling food in the background. She finally snapped her eyes open when she heard: "I still can't believe Narancia brought back the little Madonna."

She looked around, finding herself in a well-furnished house, that didn't seem as "high quality" as the Madonna Estate. The couch she laid on felt comfortable, but compared to the ones she is used to, it felt… small… To her left sat a small coffee table with a fruit basket, filled to the brim with apples, oranges, bananas, and grapes.

Suddenly a fair skinned hand with black painted fingernails grabbed an apple from off of the fruit basket, startling Patrizia, causing her to focus her attention to the person who was just out of her view. She locked eyes with a boy with dirty blonde hair going down to his shoulders, waring a green suit jacket with large holes punched on the sleeves, underneath he was wearing a white shirt with its long sleeves rolled up. His inquisitive green eyes stared at her for a second as he chewed on the apple he had just grabbed, and after swallowing his eyes widened.

"Oh shit, Bucciarati, she's awake!" He never took his eyes off of Patrizia.

The idle chatter in the background abruptly stopped, and multiple footsteps can be heard approaching her. Joining the green-eyed boy was an older man with a bowl cut and an unevenly buttoned black and white suit with his pants machine the color scheme. Behind that man was a purple haired person with feminine features and dark purple, business-like clothing wearing a high waisted pencil skirt.

The man put his hand on the boy's shoulder whispering. "Thank you, Fugo."

The green-eyed boy walked out of view, leaving Patrizia alone with two people she doesn't recognize.

"Patrizia Madonna?" The bowl-cut man said in a deep voice. "My name is Bruno Bucciarati, and this is my partner ABBA. We are members of Passione, and we work directly under your mother as Capos of the Little Italy District."

Oh. She internalized the information presented to her. She felt uncomfortable, incredibly so as she felt completely and utterly out of her element. Instead of looking at the usually soft if ridged face of her broth- bodyguard, Caligula, she is looking at the stoic face of a man she does not recognize. However, not once has she felt scared for her life, threatened, if you will. She feels… safe.

"I have contacted your mother and father on what had happened, and they're trying to rush back here as quickly as possi-"

"Where are they now?" Patrizia interrupted harshly.

"… Italy… La Patria…" ABBA said slowly.

"Huff… Of fucking course, they are." Very unlady like of her to say, but she just can't keep her frustration in. They only see her as an heir to the Madonna fortune, and not a daughter. "How long will it take for them to get back?"

"We don't know. Weeks for all we know as there are severe storms preventing ships from exiting the Mediterranean, so they are stuck there…" Bucciarati responded.

The weight of everything sat on Patrizia's shoulders. Caligula being attacked by whatever a stand was, her being knocked out, and now her being marooned in and unknown house.

.

.

.

I just hope Caligula is okay… He will come back to find me…

Her stomach growled so loud that it awoke someone from upstairs. Her ivory-colored face fleshed a deep red in embarrassment, but it didn't occur to her now that she was simply starving.

"You must be hungry." Bucciarati commented without an air of snarkiness that she expected. "ABBA and I made some fresh stew-"

"I want" Patrizia interrupted again in a harsh tone, trying to uphold her tone of hautliness, but the shakiness in her voice betrayed her. "Something from the Trussardi Tratorria…"

A beat.

"As you wish, Miss Madonna." As Bucciarati walked toward a drawer and pulled out some money, gesturing towards the blonde boy, Fugo, who was standing behind Patrizia.

"Fugo, can you go down to the Tratorria and get her… what exactly?"

"Surprise me."

"WAIT!" An unfamiliar voice said from upstairs. Patrizia craned her neck in time to see a dark-skinned boy wearing a black shirt and blue jeans jump over the wooden railings, breaking his fall with a roll, and snatching the money out of Bucciarati's hand and running for the door. "I was the one who brought her here, I should be the one to accommodate her."

"No, Bucciarati, don't let the idiot get through the-" The door slammed loudly as the boy expertly slipped out, much to Fugo's anger. "Door… I cannot wait to find out how the stronzo is going to fuck up this time…"

"Who… Was that?" Patrizia asked.

"Narancia Ghirga… The guys who ran into you on the street." Fugo responded.

Narancia. Like arancia? Oh, there are oranges in the fruit bowl, I can eat those while I wait for him to return. She quickly grabbed an orange, she was surprised at the orange's density, and the fact that it was cold to the touch. Looking closer it was the size of a baseball, with grooves on opposite faces by two large hexagons, almost joined by lines crossing the ball between their corners. "What the hell?"

Fugo laughed haughtily with an edge of anger and bitterness to it. "Won't you look at that… He forgot his fucking steel ball…"

"Steel Ball?" Patrizia quirked an eyebrow.

"Yeah, they're kind of like weapons, usually used for self-defense purposes by me, and Narancia, and my other friend, Mista." Fugo explained, rotating the steel ball around in between his fingers.

"So. Do you guys… like… throw them at people? Seems… like unnecessary work to hurt people."

Fugo glared at her for a second with offence written in his eyes, only to exhale, staying quiet for a moment before speaking, more to himself than anything. "She doesn't know, Panna… She doesn't know."

"Know what?"

"The technique that makes the steel balls so deadly. Spin. A state of rotation that's so close to perfection." Fugo stated as he began tossing the orange-colored steel ball into the air and catching it. "It produces a powerful energy, that can cause serious damage if it rams into so-"

Narancia's hand burst through the door, grabbing the steel ball in midair, quickly retracting before Fugo can rip his arm off. Fugo opened the door, curing loudly, only to close it and just glared blankly at Patrizia.

"You act like his older brother." Patrizia stifled a chuckle behind her hands.

"He is basically my brother… By circumstance of course. And he is older than me, but he is so fucking immature that I have to act as his foil." Fugo sneered, shaking his head, turning his attention back to the purple haired girl. "Do you have siblings?"

"Ah-" Patrizia was half tempted to say she does, but she bit the urge and shook her head.

"You're lucky. You don't have to stress about them getting themselves and you killed every time you are in the same proximity as them." Fugo mused.

Although she didn't get a good look at his face all three times she saw him, Patrizia's mind began to wander back to the dark-skinned boy.

"Tell me about him…" She found herself requesting Fugo.

"Narancia?"

"Yeah him. How'd you two end up meeting each other, what is he like?"

Fugo was apprehensive but shrugged. "If I'm going to talk about Narancia, I am going to have to go to the beginning. He told me some stories about his past before meeting me, and Bucciarati. Fair warning, it is not for the faint of heart."

"I am fine with that."

"Alright Miss Madonna, your choice."

End of Episode 8

(The following are my ideas, and not previously mentioned by vanillaprinces)
Gianfranco Esposita: Named after Giancarlo Ferre, an Italian Fashion Line; also named after Giancarlo Esposito, a Danish-Italian actor