Challenged myself a bit to use only pre-WW2 songs for the stands
The wind was brutally cold, and the Siren had to walk very carefully to avoid an inglorious fall on the ice. That would be a pathetic look for humanity's enemy, wouldn't it?
Well, shivering was still a pretty lame look. She wished she had thicker clothes, but apparently, that wasn't an option. Because looking hot was apparently a mission priority.
(Well, it did seem to have a genuinely disarming effect on some people, but she wasn't sure if that tactical advantage was worth her legs getting frozen together.)
But she had something to do. Someone to test. She had heard that this particular Russky was a little… weird, but you didn't get a Stand without a strong personality, without will.
As if summoned, the woman in question appeared in the distance, that head of blue hair visible even through the snowy wind. Light cruiser Chapayev.
The Siren didn't hesitate. "Sixty-nine!" Perhaps it was a bit strong to call it her stand, but it was the one she had been given for this mission, one that would prove particularly effective in this bitter cold.
It whirled around her, starting as a streamer of water and growing thicker and thicker, growing broad-shouldered and heavy-headed. Vapor and snow turned to water, formed the hooves and horns of a mighty ox. It huffed, and a spray of ice sprung from its mouth.
Yet the real danger was more subtle than that- it came in the water vapor condensing on Chapayev's clothes, freezing and chilling her as she approached. It was a slow, gradual attack, one that anyone who understood the dangers of the cold would recognize. But recognizing a problem and solving it were two very different things.
Still, Chapayev kept coming, managing to move across the slick ground with ease. (Damned Russkies.) What was really shocking was the revolver she was carrying.
"That little peashooter won't work on me, Chapayev." Her stand moved, the water of its body more than enough to slow a bullet.
Regardless, Chapayev lifted her weapon and proclaimed a single word as she fired: "Mazeppa!"
And the world turned on its head as the Siren was sent flying. The landing was rough. When she got up, a trickle of blood was coming down her forehead, near her eye. Sixty-Nine quickly evaporated it, leaving a scab and a crusty trail curving down her face. No time to clean up though, not when Chapayev had kept on coming.
Behind her, her stand loomed, a horse and rider formed not of flesh but moving, shifting rope. Chords of every shape and size and thickness, forming structures almost like muscles. Silver chain glimmered in the horseshoes and in the eyes.
But the bullet hadn't hit. She was certain it hadn't, but she still went flying. What the hell was going on?
She spread her Stand out thinner, turning it into a broad shield between her and Chapayev. No bullets getting through now, thank you very much! Well, they still would, but they should be slowed enough to avoid, especially with the stand helping to warn her.
Through the water, she could see Chapayev… stomping at the ground? Breaking up the ice, maybe? Those heels could probably be used as ice picks. Before she could figure out what the hell her scheme was, Chapayev fired her revolver again.
The bullet was slowed by the barrier of water, enough to let the Siren duck- directly into a spray of ice shards that cut across her face and head. How the hell?
Well, if defense didn't work out that well, there was always offense. She opened with a jet of water, fast enough to knock someone over, and quickly flanked to avoid another one of those ice tricks.
She heard a third gunshot, and her vicious jet of water suddenly turned into a blade. If it wasn't controlled by her Stand, it would have slammed into her with the speed of a bullet.
For a moment, she wondered if she was facing a water expert of some kind. Maybe get a bit loose and say blood counted? That would explain how she got thrown… but wouldn't explain the gunshots.
"Is that the extent of your skill? I had hoped for a better showing."
Bitch. The Siren yanked herself to her feet using Sixty-Nine, ignoring the bone-deep chill the water brought. No time to worry about that.
She fired again and missed, a spray of ice shards somewhere behind the Siren. No matter. She rushed forward, nearly collapsing on the ice as Chapayev pointed her gun behind her and up, about as far from the Siren as she possibly could.
The gun fired a fifth time, and despite missing by a country mile, paint shot up her leg. The Siren collapsed and got a faceful of ice, sliding in front of Chapayev pathetically. Looking up, she saw Chapayev smirking. Smirking! She didn't even bother to point the gun at her!
(Because the fight was all but won. The Siren was immobile at Chapayev's feet.)
In a last, vain attempt, the Siren moved her stand to hit Chapayev. To get her wet, make her miserable in this freezing clime-
She was thrown into the air, racing up with the speed of a bullet. When she came back down, she'd hit the ground with the speed of a bullet.
Meanwhile, Chapayev shivered. Walking back in this weather while even a little wet wasn't a great prospect. Still, the Siren had proved very easy to handle. Chapayev checked her revolver. Six shots gone, one left. That last bullet had such remarkable shock value… but it was a bullet saved. Good husbandry was, as loathe as she was to admit it, more important than a bit of fun during a fight.
A gun wasn't necessary for Mazeppa to work properly- all it needed was something moving, really- but a pistol meant she always had a way to get someone or something moving very quickly.
It also had some interesting utility with its body of rope- it could be downright fun in less urgent situations- but Sirens didn't usually let themselves get taken alive.
Chapayev's Mazeppa shares its name with a song by Liszt and the poem that song was based on, by Byron. It centers on the titular leader of the Cossack hosts, Ivan Mazeppa, and a fictional incident where he was punished for sleeping with a nobleman's wife by being tied to a horse that was left to run wild. Eventually, after a painful ride and an escape from some wolves, Mazeppa is rescued by a Cossack maiden.
The Russian theming is an obvious parallel, along with the idea of being bound and horses. Admittedly, I'm not the biggest Chapayev fan, but things seemed to line up well.
Mazeppa as a stand works by 'binding' objects to other objects. Bullets, people, whatever, suddenly gain the velocity of whatever object they're bound to. This synergizes well with a gun, and could probably work with, say, spit in an emergency.
A different Siren approached a different Stand user.
"One Oh Nine." The Siren muttered, a ghostly shape forming behind her, settling over her like some sort of cloak. Black did not quite seem the right word for it. It didn't seem opaque as much as it looked like a window into… someplace else. Somewhere strange, somewhere where normal color wasn't really a thing.
Still, the Siren carried on. She knew what the stand could do, knew that it should prove a particularly effective counter for her current target. In the distance, she could see two shipgirls skating across the water.
There was a little pipsqueak who seemed to be drowning in her own clothes, and then there was California, impossible to miss in her stainless whites. From what she had been told, trauma and guilt could seriously impact Stand users so maybe she should target the little one… but pricking the brat could create another user?
Protocol was to foster strong users, and maybe the escort had the will for it. Didn't particularly matter. She shot towards them, her stand billowing behind her like some terrible cloak.
The destroyer was more observant than expected. Spotting her out of the furthest corner of her eye, she cried out: "Cali! Behind us, to the right!"
California snapped around, kicking up a spray of foam as a stand took shape behind her. It was short and kind of stumpy- in contrast to the leggy California- and the skin shimmered like gold. Sharp, backward-pointing ears, eyes shimmering like stars.
It moved in front of California, taking a defensive stance. Poor girl, thinking this would be a conventional stand battle…
Her cloak grew longer and thicker, strange smoke flowing off of it. They followed the Siren's will, not the blowing wind, rushing towards California. Where it hit California's dress and skin, they faded away, becoming clear as the air. Impossible to perceive.
California didn't notice. It wasn't painful- why would it be? She simply forgot the flesh and cloth were supposed to be there. The arm fell to her side strangely- forgetting certain muscles were there- but California stayed and fought.
Her stand shot forward, going for a hook that would have decapitated the Siren if she was any slower. California herself followed immediately behind with a kick that left the Siren gasping.
They made a terrifying duo. Was California perhaps a touch slower than her stand? Yeah, but this was her stand, Here I Come, at its weakest. It thrived off of attention, made her stronger with every eye on her. (Well, it was specifically attention, not being seen.) A lonely escort mission was where she was weakest, and an ability that made her difficult to perceive and made her forgettable was a perfect counter.
Still, if this was the boost California got from one person's undivided attention, what would a crowd be like?
(...California wasn't the only one who could forget things.)
California ducked and swerved and avoided and had the gall to laugh while doing it. The Siren struck with her smoke and even made swipes with her cape, occasionally cutting gouges in the stand, but California proved herself well.
(The Siren's fury never built to the point where she aimed for the heart, though. That would be a bit too far, considering the goal was making her stronger through confrontation.)
She didn't even notice Hobby creeping up behind her. It wasn't a failure on the Siren's part… it was the entire point of the enemy stand.
Despite the name, California Here I Come (or simply Here I Come) was not actually California's stand. It was Hobby's. She was a California gal, just like… well, California.
All the deceit and misdirection drove Hobby around the bend, though. She wanted recognition!
When the Siren collapsed, unconscious, California grinned. "Nice job, Hobby."
"Oh, praise me more!"
"I suppose I can, squirt." California grinned.
"Hey!"
"I'll praise you if you help me lift the siren. Heavier than I thought."
Of all the stands the Sirens could use for a mission, Ninety One was particularly notable. Short range, high power, borderline impenetrable defense. It paired particularly well with strong attackers, who could go all out without worrying about silly things like dodging.
At least that was the idea in theory. It required belief, and that made it marvelously flaky. The more you believed it would protect you, the more it did. But if it failed once, the entire thing was a wash.
And now she ran, weaving through the forest and hoping she would hit the shore soon. Faintly, she could hear barking, and it only got closer. Damn it.
She had long since given up on subtlety, using Ninety-One to punch straight through any trees or foliage that got in her way. Occasionally, it tossed a log or rock behind her in a vain attempt to slow her pursuer down, but she knew it was vain.
Eventually, she came to a cliff. Her stand would allow for descent, sure, but she was running low on time, she could hear the barking dog. She turned around to see a brown-haired girl in blue.
"Riu Riu Chiu!" Her hunter– Hunter– cried.
A splendid bird burst into existence behind the destroyer, its plumage as blue as Hunter's coat, feathers as large as blades. It trilled and made a threatening gesture with its bill.
And there went any chance of a soft landing. That thing would shred her if she tried to work her way down the side of the cliff slowly.
"You'll break a leg if you try that drop," Hunter warned her, "And that wouldn't be a hunt at all."
"And what? You'll kill me with that oversized pigeon?"
"Kingfisher. It's a kingfisher." Hunter said. "And they hunt fish, you know."
How would it work up close, in combat? The stand wasn't the usual punching sort. Would it claw and peck, bat at her with the wings? That seemed rather weak, but stands frequently defied rational explanation.
The Siren took a step back. Hunter executed a few probing attacks, ones that Ninety-One could block with ease.
"It's fast." She muttered.
The longer the Siren waited, the more the girl would learn about her stand. Yeah, strengthening and all that, but the general rule of thumb for users was hiding your abilities.
She looked down, and Ninety-One burst into motion, powderizing the rock beneath her and letting the cliff collapse. The Siren yanked herself down with her own stand, vanishing into the dust–
Landing was rough, but she had put a hard rock wall between herself and the destroyer. That gave her time.
At least, she thought it did before that damned bird shot straight through solid stone and directly into her face.
Riu Riu Chiu is an old Spanish nativity song. The title comes from the cry of the kingfisher, and the song describes the birth of Christ and to a lesser extent, the conception of the Virgin Mary, using the image of God holding off a wolf to describe the Immaculate Conception.
Hunter is a protector from a wolf in a different sense.
Omake:
Stand User: San Diego
Stand Name: Jacking It
Stop writing Jojo crossovers or draw 25 cards
There is a logic behind the Siren stand names, just fyi.