Post 2: "Jotaro Kujo Visits the Land of the Lost Horizon", art by debonairbear, fic by siegkircheis

[fandomonymous]

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Palm trees rose from behind the lion that stared at him and cut the horizon in their shapes. One of the two-wheel wagons he'd seen earlier passed by; all he could make out of the rider's mumbling was "tuzz". He mimicked the effort himself, clicked his tongue, and rolled over to the side.

i.

The panhandler had told his story as best he could, eyes opened wide since he thought it made the story all the more interesting: in the souk, right after the call for prayer, after he’d followed the fishermen’s wives into its streets, he was looking at a calendar hung just underneath an awning—15 October, 1937, he'd never forget the date—when he'd suddenly seen a man facing a djinni.
As if he'd stepped on droppings, or walked into the open sewers, or like a child he'd seen years ago, fallen into Yussuf's well, the air reeked, dizzying; he held onto the wall to catch his breath. The curve of the alleyway hid him from their sight. The djinni—it was a European man, tall and dressed in turquoise loose robes, chains of gold hanging from his neck, from his arms, living spectacle of ostentation—smiled with brightly colored lips. The man sweat nervously, like enchanters pretend to when dealing with snakes, and laughed the laugh of a man who knows he's already lost. The creature—it was a man—smiled, kindness seeping from his gestures, hardly cloaking cruelty, and made the beggar want to leave; try asking his legs to move, his body to turn, but he couldn’t, he’d been born to stare at the creature—it was a man, only a man—for the rest of eternity. When he knew himself again, the djinni was gone, the man was alone.

The others had listened, lost interest, and pointed the panhandler and his story to the street fakirs, their incense burners swinging by their sides, people gathered round them, desperate for fantasy.
"It was an illusion," they'd said and walked away. But now it happened again.

Two men—towers of men—blocked the light that reached his eyes, made him think of men who never had to wait in line, never had to ask permission. What he'd felt at night was repeated in opposition: as if he’d stepped on lost banknotes, or walked into a clean bath, or like a child he'd seen years ago embraced by the prettiest italian in the quarter; it was just as discomforting, he thought. The men passed and behind came two more, not as impressive, but marked all the same. Finally a boy, too tall to deserve the title, too sheepish not to, with red hair and round glasses; nothing in him outstanding except all of it.

Behind the boy a dog trailed. It stopped to sniff the panhandler's robes, disinterested, displeased, then left yelping, like he'd found something he wasn't interested in. As soon as it did, the feeling was gone.

"What is it, Iggy?" Noriaki Kakyoin asked looking down at the animal. "Jotaro's legs are too long for you?" he said sizing up the advantage the others had on the dog and him. He noticed a beggar looking at them, sat on the ground next to the laundrymen ironing sheets, so he smiled politely and bowed almost imperceptibly before walking towards the others who stood near the fakirs.

"Is this what you do?" Kakyoin was just in time to hear Polnareff ask.
"Of course not,” Abdul waved a hand in front of him, dispelling ignorant notions, “these people are here to be robbed, not have their fortunes told."
"What are those two doing?" All eyes followed old man Joseph’s hand pointing to a fellow on a bale of hay, a little boy by his side waving a round thick leaf.
"He's being shaved by that man," another man came into view, knife in his hand. "The boy fans to keep flies away. There—"
"Can anyone get their hair cut?" Polnareff interrupted, suddenly eager.
"Hm," the sigh was at least implicit, "yes. Do you want one?"
Joseph chuckled, "I think I want one too."
"I don't," Jotaro mustered with all the annoyance he could convey and walked away.
Kakyoin shrugged; Iggy and him followed the other student into the crowd: there was nothing better to do.

They walked in silence among the crowd until the noises of the market didn’t reach, near the place where camels rested, leaned into water pales children were trying to drink out of as well. A group of beggars spoke to American tourists from their seats on the dusty ground, while others dozed off; one of them, bandage covering his eyes, balanced a cane in his right hand. A water carrier, his large dispenser sticking out from the small crowd, was selling cups of it to some Italians in an urgent tone. Because Iggy chewed on the shoes of some uncommonly martial German tourist—as stern and displeased as all the other uncommonly martial German tourists they’d stumbled upon—thethree of them moved a little farther, where the late noon sun hit the hardest. Kakyoin tripped—Iggy's fault—and Jotaro snickered briefly. For a second, Kakyoin thought himself lucky. He'd resigned himself to silence long ago, and was sure that would again be the case once they returned to Japan and the war forced him, but for a second, while the sun reflected in the lenses of his glasses blinded his vision and the horizon stretched out as far as he could see evaporating into the sky, he thought himself lucky. When he was able to see clearly again he noticed he was exhausted. Maybe they all were. Jotaro didn't look it, of course. Maybe he was, maybe not.

ii.

After Vanilla Ice left the room, Dio took another sip of his wine and returned to the bed. Books scattered, partly hidden by the bedsheets, kept his thoughts from the closeness of his body’s own. Briefly, he thought perhaps Jojo himself, what was left of him, tried helplessly to reach out to his bloodline, but he took the largest of the volumes on the bed in his hands and spilled some drops of red on white and it was gone.

Even if all around him humans acted on impatience, he had time at his disposal. He leaned back on the pillow and was amused with how much grace the body of a woman slid off the bed, weighed down by gravity.
Enrico Pucci had embarked on his trip, leaving behind books and a pair of shoes, tangible markers of faith in Dio and his victory, so there was nothing left to do but wait. To the boy patience seemed useless; meaningless delay of his life's beginning. If it wasn't for the seminar, for their rules, he could be a priest already, he’d stay. Dio had almost forgotten the slow stagnation of time when it meets youth. In classrooms hours are lifetimes, old men don't die fast enough, nights spent at Brook's with a back turned away from the brother there's pretend love, there’s pretend hate for aren't short enough for the next day to come quickly enough. Now those words held no meaning, were nothing in the face of endlessness: this was permanence. Finally, time was at his command.

There was excitement in the wait, however, he noticed opening the book in its perfect middle. He waited like this once before, it seemed. Maybe not.

"So the Joestar already...", he thought the novel read and let it go, gulped down his wine and called on another woman.

iii.

A replica of one of Singer Sargent's watercolors hung in the halls of the Old Winter Palace. Joseph was taken aback by the canals, wondered who was behind it, absentmindedly dragged his fingers through its frame.
"Shit!" he let out when electricity pricked his fingers. "What is wrong with this?"
He turned around to find a woman in loose pants and a jacket, hiding half her face under a hat.
"Don't you know you're not supposed to touch paintings?"
He laughed, "I thought that was only for museums."
"Everywhere." she shook her head, hands in her pockets.
"You never stop learning, huh?"
"Right," she nodded with a smart smirk. "But... You don't look like the type who needs to learn," sounds dragged by her tongue sounded like invitation, secret doors that lead to secret gardens.
His smooth reply, however, was silenced when he noticed a button stuck to his forearm, its surface shining.
"Oh, yes," he said after a moment, distracted by the unmoveable button now held between index and thumb. "I couldn't stop myself."
"Do you favour his works?" at least she seemed not to have noticed anything odd.
"His works?"
"Singer Sargent. The painting."
"Oh," he was about to show recognition, explain what it had evoked without doing so, but a safety pin stuck to his thigh stopped him. "Yes."
"He's rather old fashioned."
"Sure," concentration was lost, friendly tone gone.
"Well," she said in deadpan, "that's enough time. Have fun with my magnets," she said removing her hands from her pockets and out of their white gloves.
"What?" Joseph was about to say when little scraps of metal came flying out of her gloves and went for his arms with enough force to penetrate the first layer of clothes and skin, fabric sticking to newly open wounds.
"Do you still not see?" her patience ran thin and Joseph opened his eyes.
"A stand?"
She doubled up laughing, and pushed the large golden vase that stood on a marble pillar underneath the painting with the tips of her fingers; it flew directly at Joseph's midsection.
"You'd expect this to be solid gold."
The force of the impact knocked the old man to the ground on his back, arms flailing for balance. Her chuckles echoed along with the clang of metal hitting metal: the vase attracted its twin to Joseph's side. She turned to look at the painting. Its metallic frame gave way; with a little help from her hands and the canvas was torn in two, and the frame hit Joseph in the ear, knocked off his hat.

Slowly, pointedly, she walked away. When she reached the staircase at the end of the corridor she noticed the bannister shaking and turned her head to watch him struggle pathetically. "I'd love to stay and chat but I see you're being held up. Bye," a giggle punctuated her exit.

He watched her go: it was nothing like they made it look in movies. He called on his stand but it proved a fruitless struggle; nothing but false hope. Still, falseness was better than nothing.
He focused a repelling ripple on the points of his body where the large objects of metal were stuck. A gripping ripple infused Hermit Purple wrapped itself around the vases, trying to get them to stick to each other.
"I should've kept up with my training, huh?" Focused breathing became harder with age, the caring hands of routine turn soft, disguise urgency with a smile bearing news of a child, of a trip overseas, of another child, of a Heinosuke film—“Hmph,” infusing metal was harder than he remembered, but not impossible; he twisted the frames of two now destroyed paintings into a wrapper that attached the heavy vases and scraps to the sturdy marble column.
"You can't be too disappointed with this masterpiece!"

Knowing the vases would set free in no time, Joseph barged into his room and stepped out onto the balcony: faster than the stairs. He thanked the foresight of English architects and calculated the fall; the metal of the balustrade wouldn’t have time to let loose.
"Mister Joestar!" Abdul who'd been watching the ships noticed him dangling from the balcony. So did the crowd of people to his side; he wasn’t exactly missable.
"Don't worry! I got this!" Joseph said and the force of the balustrade hitting him square in the face knocked him on the ground.
When he reached the place where the Joestar had fallen, Abdul was unable to separate the metal from his friend's body, watched grains of sand moving towards him, and vaguely realized what was off.
"Where's the user?" It was routine already.
"Pretty dame," Joseph said, "long legs, wearing pants, huge hat."

Polnareff, Kakyoin and Jotaro walked to the terrace where Joseph and Abdul were probably already waiting when they ran into a pretty dame with long legs and a huge hat. She bumped Polnareff’s shoulder and apologized with a friendly grin.
“No problem, mademoiselle. Are you alright?”
“Yes, thank you.” She squeezed his forearm, leaned into him imperceptibly, then let go.
“Good. Would yo—”
“Polnareff.”
Both the woman and Polnareff looked at the disgruntled students and nervously did a double take. Polnareff smiled awkwardly and she sweated under her hat.
“I have to go now,” he said finally. “I hope to see you later.”
She smiled, her discomfort gone. “You definitely will.”

There was something good about opposite polarity that he’d learned long ago so when they realized their magnetic fields repelled each other and separated, his mind began to work immediately.
It wasn’t until they saw her again, walking the stairs of the hotel, that he knew how he’d put his foolish plan into work.
Wrapping Hermit Purple around the arms and waist of Abdul, Joseph pulled the two of them together. Two veins across his forehead emphasized his wrinkles, beads of sweat shining in the tips of his beard, and he could almost see a ball of energy between them, trying to separate the two polarities. Once he thought he’d offered enough resistance, he aimed against the stand user and let go.
The sheer stupidity of the plan caught her off guard. She stared at the big man approaching her at inhuman speeds and her only reaction was to frown, twist her face in a scowl. The impact knocked her hat to the ground and threw her body back, the impulse lead her to crash against the wheel of a nearby Tilbury, the footstep ramming into the bone of her arm with a sharp crack, the top of the wheel hitting her nape, rendering her unconscious.
All metal objects attached to Abdul and Joseph’s body dropped to the ground in successive clinking.
At least it was comforting to know idiotic plans like that still worked.

"Maybe something happened to him?" Kakyoin asked, considering how much time had gone by.
"Doubt it," the other student replied, annoyance barely disguised, "I say we eat without them."
Kakyoin shrugged. Polnareff took a sip of his drink and nodded. Nights in Egypt were cold and breezy, more than he remembered. Something about the cold and the amount of Europeans around brought back memories of his father, his stern face speaking of war, the great one, its lack of valour in war, lack of courage, absence of satisfaction in watching others fall, of taking revenge, “but I shook the hand of an Englishman and we shared a drink with a German for Christmas and there's nothing like that elsewhere.” He was wrong; Sherry's death remained, but at least, at least that man didn't. There was no bringing her back—he knew—but no one would bring that scum back either. When he put the glass down again, the knife next to his plate moved an inch towards his hand.
“Drôle.” He took the knife in his hand to examine it, only to find it stuck to his palm. Trying to remove it only resulted in the skin between his thumb and index finger to stretch painfully.
“Jotaro,” he said hurriedly, knowing there could only be one reason for this, “Something’s wrong with the knife.”
Kakyoin and Jotaro watched their friend try to separate the knife from his skin to no avail.
“Let me,” Kakyoin said and tugged on the knife. “It’s stuck.”
“I know,” Polnareff replied. The two of them looked up at Jotaro, as if he held the answer.
Without a word, Jotaro reached out and took the knife in his hand: excessive effort met no resistance and pushed him back into his chair, almost toppled him over. Knife in hand, he scowled at Polnareff.
“I don’t know what happened, it’s fixed now” Polnareff said, turning to Kakyoin for confirmation.
“Give me a break.”
Kakyoin called out to the waiter and Jotaro crossed his arms.

iv.

They reached Cairo before noon and were greeted by police officers chasing tour guides away from the Shepheard Hotel’s entrance. Two women carrying their children straddling their shoulders boredly watched the scene. Minarets and Mamluk domes marked the places where Paris on the Nile was still Cairo and watched over their people: the domino players, the laundrymen, the funeral mourners, the trolley passengers, the donkeys with their baskets heading for the market.
"This is it," Jotaro thought; everyone and everything called out to him, repeated this was it, he'd arrived.
"So," Joseph solemnly echoed his grandson's thoughts. "Do any of you know where Dio's mansion is?"
Dumb smiles on their faces, except for Jotaro, they looked at each other; maybe they’d come up with a plan if they stalled long enough.
“Yes,” Kakyoin suddenly opened his mouth.

He didn’t think he’d have to see it again. Even when he joined the Joestars, the thought didn’t cross his mind; maybe they’d find Dio elsewhere. None of the memories were bleak: aside from the initial repulsion, he didn’t remember minding anything; he might’ve even enjoyed it. That was the worst part.

“This is the way,” he said and they stepped inside, where infinity echoed in muted laments, like shifting sand in the desert.
"This place gives me the creeps," Polnareff said it better.
“What’s that smell?” Joseph pinched his nose, pinkie lifted, and the sight of it made Jotaro scowl.
The architecture itself seemed to guide them, almost as if it shifted from time to time: the entrance was no longer visible after a couple of metres.

Something ancestral, older than anything Dio could’ve lived, exuded from every brick. Maybe he’d chosen the city for this purpose, Abdul thought, he was English after all, exotic locations calls on their desire to tame, to subdue, to organize, to hold ineffable forces down before they destroy everything. Maybe Dio wanted the opposite.

A group of people in various states of undress cowered in a corner and cried out to them. They wore thin robes, long golden chains and bracelets, loose, transparent pants with no shoes. Amongst them, bloodied, soft skinned bodies lay still, indistinguishable from their living counterparts except for the absence of fear from their faces.

“He won’t show himself so easily, not during the day,” Joseph explained, eyeing the group of people with distrust. “Everything here could be a trap.”
Jotaro leaned back on the wall; they were so close he could feel it in his body, he—the wall gave way, as if it taken a step back, and Jotaro lost balance. The position of all walls changed and they were separated. Trapped in a room without exit, Joseph and Kakyoin found themselves with the group of people they’d just met. One of the women grabbed Kakyoin’s pants, pleaded him with half lidded eyes he responded to with nervous discomfort.
“Where’re the others?” Joseph heard Polnareff at a distance.

The Frenchman stood in a dimly lit room—cobwebs hanged from the cornices—with only Iggy, who sniffed the air. One of the thicker cobwebs shook and a man they’d seen before came into view preceded by a loud angry bark.
“Hol Horse, you bastard.”
“I’m glad to see you made it here, Polnareff.”
Iggy barked again, in a different direction.

Back to back, Jotaro and Abdul adjusted their eyes to the light offered by Abdul’s stand’s flames. Disembodied laughter filled the room.
“There’s nothing here,” Abdul said, sweat forming on his upper lip; the flames didn’t move in their search, but laughter echoed against the brocade dividers scattered around.
“I’m so honoured,” a voice boomed out of nowhere, “that I, Vanilla Ice, will be serving my Lord by killing Jotaro.”
“Che,” Jotaro gritted his teeth, but before he could clench his fists, Abdul pulled him back, the end of his school jacket got caught in a succession of holes appearing in the brocades, lamps and walls, eaten into emptiness.
In blindness, Magician’s Red released two ankhs of fire. A grunt—low and muffled—followed a thud. Afterwards, only the sound of the second ankh searching its target remained.

“You can’t hurt me,” the man covered in a viscous substance—his stand most likely—and only his face visible said, “Yellow Temperance abso—”
A claw of sand struck first. Though his expression was of shock, he quickly recovered, wide grin illuminated his face. The flesh on Iggy’s rear left leg burst open, spilling over the walls and Polnareff’s pants. The dog’s cries were punctuated by the stand user’s laughter.
“I told you,” he mocked.
From the cover of bad lighting, Hol Horse seized his opportunity and focused on Polnareff’s distraction.
But Emperor’s shot missed: a man let out a cry on a different room and a gigantic, circular void cut its way through furniture and cobwebs and Hol Horse’s own bullet in a curved path.
“What’s Kenny G doin’? I coulda been killed!” he complained loudly, calling Polnareff’s attention to himself.

The stench of rotten blood—that was the smell—was heavy enough to force food out of a man’s stomach and onto Joseph’s shoes.
“Be careful,” he ordered, then regretted his tone when the man apologized by kneeling in front of him and cleaning his shoes, the rest of them apologized too, as if their lives depended on it. They probably did.
One of the walls spit Jotaro out, his shoulder shoved a woman wearing a Schiapparelli dress and the surprise yanked screams out of the lot of them that were only silenced by Jotaro’s command to shut up.
“The walls are moving,” he said after.
“They’re trying to separate us, you shouldn’t move around too much.”
“If it was that easy, I wouldn’t be here, old man.”

Yellow substance shone on Polnareff’s left hand. He could feel his flesh being eaten, dissolving like foam, a faint bubbling sound accompanying the action. With his right hand, he guided Silver Chariot’s sword to the other man’s eye but the viscous stand protected every inch of its user effortlessly; Polnareff’s skin only made it sturdier. An arrogant laughter could be heard from under the yellow that covered him. He needed to breathe, Polnareff thought, looking down at Iggy with the hopes that somehow the dog’d understand; he needed to breathe so there was an opening.

Again, he found himself in the same room as Abdul and the man who called himself Vanilla Ice. Mohammed Abdul lay on the floor, his brow furrowed and sweaty and though he looked ready for attack, Magician’s Red by his side was missing an arm like his user. Vanilla Ice’s face emerged from inside the stand. In seconds, before he could retreat, Star Platinum planted a succession of punches to his face, knocking out his teeth, forcing him to swallow what felt like litres of his own blood.
“Just a little more,” Abdul mumbled, strained by the pain on his missing limb, “a little more.”

The Fool covered them. Iggy’s rear leg didn’t touch the ground. The two of them exchanged glances and nodded. A veil of sand fanned before Silver Chariot.

Suddenly, a gunshot. To his sides, a wall materialised. Sand fell to the ground, disappeared.

Kakyoin pushed Polnareff out of the way—Hierophant Green received Yellow Temperance’s muck on its arm—and turned confusion into determination: places had shifted, but for what was worth, it didn't matter. The flesh of the arm followed the fabric of the uniform, suddenly breaking apart in a number of tiny pieces.
The sudden appearance of the red haired boy took Rubber Soul by surprise. Whatever minimal growth he gained from the green stand was rendered fruitless when the quick succession of emerald crystals hit his uncovered face and knocked him down, blood pouring out his eyes.
Polnareff turned to face a wall. Iggy was gone.

Fists pounded repeatedly on his face—will it ever stop—Cream had vanished without him knowing. All thoughts turned to Dio, sorrow starting to tint them already—No, he told himself, not yet. Nothing but a child—children cannot defeat the undefeatable—Vanilla himself had assured another child that Dio would not be killed by the hand of a seventeen year old—he had to stand, he had to, anything less than—The pounding stopped. His left eye was too swollen to open—his tongue felt the bloody cavities where holes marked the absence of his teeth—but his right eye finally focused, showed him Jotaro was gone. For once, he thanked the interference.

When the architecture changed, a woman with long blonde hair and a golden belt for all clothes held onto something for safety. Mindlessly, she unsheathed the sword she’d picked up and launched herself towards Kakyoin. He’d been in front of Polnareff and turned to be struck on the shoulder. In an instant, Hierophant Green wrapped itself tightly around her nose and mouth. She waved the sword around blindly, slashing the leg of the man in a silk robe—he screeched—before passing out.
“What happened?” Joseph asked.
“She’s passed out.”
Before another word, a different woman picked up the sword, attacked Joseph this time.
“What is this?” the old man said, barely dodging her lunge. “The sword...?”
The woman turned for another attack, laughing madly.
Her face met one of Star Platinum’s fists: their position had changed again, Vanilla Ice was gone. With his other hand, Star Platinum held the sword’s edge. Blood shone on Jotaro’s palm. Joseph grabbed the woman from behind as his grandson yanked the sword out of her grip and let go of it when the walls changed and he cursed loudly.

Visible to Polnareff once more, Hol Horse stood next to the body, his stand still drawn. It wasn’t him—from the looks of it, it’d been the stand from earlier—but those neat cuts wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for the gun.
A coward's weapon. Whoever it was who invented guns must've been a coward. Iggy was everything but.
His stand beside him, Polnareff moved forward, to Hol Horse. He wished to say something of importance, he prepared speeches for times like these, but all he managed to muster was "no" and "courage".
"Courage? Dead is dead, Polnareff, everything el—" a sword hit Hol Horse’s shoulder and shut him up: it’d gone through and was now backing up to repeat. He swallowed and tasted the sweat on his lips.
The Frenchman gritted his teeth. Dead is dead.

High ceilings didn’t conceal the narrowness of the room. If he stretched his arm in any direction he’d touch a wall. He’d read enough Poirot stories to know where this was headed: there was no surprise, only irritation, when the walls started closing in. He’d also read enough Poirot stories to know the main character always escapes in the nick of time. Star Platinum’s fists pressed to both walls, he hoped for the best.

A screech called out "Abdul!" in the mock French accent of American comedy.
"Don't turn" spoke all impulse in his being but he did. Polnareff’s disembodied head grotesquely emerged from someone else’s neck.
The distraction was all it took.
Magician’s Red’s Crossfire Hurricane shimmered, unfocused, unable to stop the all-devouring void. A gust of wind—that’s what it felt like—passed over Abdul, in front of the false Polnareff, and did away with his body save for the legs.
A sharp cry came in from a distance, removed and extremely close. Inflamed and twisting in pain, the body of Vanilla Ice dropped out of thin air. Once more, the walls shifted. The fire of the body met the last rays of light that day and it was over. The idiot—he had never told Vanilla Ice his name—was the only witness; Polnareff's head still on the back of his neck, he stood still for a moment before bursting into laughter. “Abdul is dead, Ice is dead, I'm the one alive, I've won! Hihihi, and..."

The short man wearing a turban—he was the most dressed—received the sword from the man with the weak stomach before the latter breathed his last. His eyes looked troubled at first, then focused. The walls around them started crumbling, dissolving, as if they were losing strength. That was enough. Hermit Purple’s tendrils held down his hands as Hierophant Green’s twisted his neck. Prompted by the sword, he managed to hurt Joseph and Kakyoin slightly, until it dropped to the ground, bounced and stood still. The entire architecture seemed to melt, finally revealing a structure built by men. Joseph and Kakyoin looked at each other and nodded; the latter started towards Abdul and Jotaro, while Joseph searched for Iggy and Polnareff.

Luckily, his size assured he was used to feeling trapped by tight clothing; the closeness of the walls—just a little more—couldn’t make him lose his cool. Still, a proud smile curled his lips when the walls disappeared and he found himself in a large hallway, but had no time to dwell on it and he ran to where Abdul remained.
"—and Lord Dio will know I was the winner, I killed the Magician!", Jotaro heard when he entered the room. A french head bobbed up and down caught up in the laughter of its creator who celebrated victory, nothing left of the people who should've been there.
"Abdul," Jotaro said almost imperceptibly, clenching his fists. Close behind, like his friend, Kakyoin prepared for the punch when a streak of blood appeared in his uniform.
"Wha—?"
They didn't blink. Not a second, not less, passed but the zombie's throat was slit from side to side.
"Jotaro!" Joseph shouted running towards them.
"I know," the boy growled.

v.

And what happened to the sword, Anubis? We don’t know. Perhaps it is already in Florida.

vi.

By the barracks, Jotaro and Polnareff had found a red Indian Dispatch Tow that must’ve been precious to its owner. Polnareff sat on top of the metal box holding its edges, wondering if Jotaro’s hat would be blown away by the wind, if it’d hit his face when it did. Later, using the stairs of Menilmontant as cover and rest, he’d ponder on the stupid thoughts that plague the mind in times of crisis. He slid, almost fell, whenever Jotaro took a curve, but still he pressed the boy to go faster. Dio was probably already caught up to Joseph and Kakyoin.

Oddly, he didn’t feel exhausted anymore. Kakyoin turned to watch Hierophant Green completely unravelled, hanging from the corbels of one building to the other’s, from the muqarnas of one minaret to the other’s, no inch uncovered, and focused his eyes back on Dio. It was different this time.

After he blinked, he noticed he was impossibly far from where he’d been—every single one of the tendrils cut—and his brain took a moment before letting him know. His glasses—still shattered, he hadn’t had time to fix them—fell apart; he wouldn’t need them anymore. Thoughts of his parents—he hoped for their safety—made him smile: time hadn’t been on his side, not even when he’d briefly known he lived in interesting times he wasn’t made for. And then he realized.

There were humans around, few, one lone figure in the middle of a sahn, others on the streets, their faces illuminated by naked light bulbs, painted orange. None of them saw anything, none of them cared enough for the boy’s failure. It was The Fall of Icarus—Dio’d seen it in Belgium a year ago—the ordinary exists on its own plane, its own failure; the splash is heard but there’s something to plough, somewhere to get to. Later they’ll call it an illusion.

At least one human saw, but he’d seen the other plane. It didn’t take Joseph long to understand, and when he locked eyes with The World—odd how human it looked—he’d figured it out: no time to lose. The World’s fist stopped right before reaching Joseph.

Dio crossed his arms and took a step back. Older than Jojo had ever been. Such a funny sight, someone who looked like Jojo could’ve looked, using the ripple too; he’d learned his lesson, he could stop himself, no rushing in, no giving in to anger; a hundred years didn’t go by in vain. The World separated the bricks of an ablaq building with his fists, sent them to Joseph who fell like Icarus, like Kakyoin, while Dio laughed in composure.

His grandfather fell from the sky. It shouldn’t have been surprising—not to him—but he still called out to the old man in shock. After him, Dio appeared besides his grandpa, grinned in Jotaro’s direction, and leaned over Joseph.

“Jotaro! Leave, his stand can stop time!”

Such Joestar behaviour, Dio laughed, violently jabbed his clawed hand in Joseph’s throat. It only took a drop, the first one, for him to become heady. This was the blood he needed, yes, finally.

“No,” Jotaro grumbled and sent Star Platinum to push Dio away from his grandfather.

“Don’t you Joestars ever give up?” he said calmly. In a way, that was exactly what he’d come to respect—to admire—in Jojo, but it didn’t mean he owed any deference to what Jojo had spawned, there were no bonds. “Fine,” he conceded.

The World materialized before Jotaro, already in a position that looked too much like that of a boxer—the boy would’ve snickered had he not been as furious as he was. Star Platinum—perpetual grin on his face—dealt the first blow, met by the other stand’s fist, matched perfectly; after that it didn’t stop: blow by blow, the hands of the stands—Jotaro’s knuckles started bleeding—met each other over and over, like twin hands desperately trying to simultaneously recognize their identical character and eliminate each other violently.

“That’s enough,” Dio said with a grin, Jotaro’s dumbfounded expression frozen in time forced it out of him.
Done. He’d gotten rid of the last of them, and would later drink their blood: his body would be his. Calmly, he raised his hand and—moved.
The boy’s hand twitched.

He didn’t owe any deference to what Jojo had spawned, to what his blood could do, he didn’t need to see it, but he stopped himself either way. The thirst to know—he wanted to know, he’d always wanted to know, that’s why he’d started travelling the world, that’s why he’d talked to so many men, there was knowledge he wished to achieve—he had to stop himself.
“Time resumes,” he whispered.

Star Platinum hit emptiness and Jotaro turned.

“Could you see?”
No answer.
“I’m asking you so answer, could you see?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It had been the same since childhood: a wave of rage surged through his body, his neck sweating, and the uncontrollable urge to destroy, to make them pay, all of them, no matter what. It’s alright, it doesn’t matter. He remained calm, watched Jotaro escape. Dio had learned not to give in, he’d had practice.

He caught up to Jotaro. “Show me.” Time stopped.
Jotaro’s hand moved but this time the reflection of a street light bulb’s gave him away: a magnet. Dio couldn’t stop himself from laughing, if only for a moment. Unbelievable, he thought once he was calm, that a boy, Jojo’s descendant, would be like this, collected enough to fool Dio. Someone who didn’t lose his temper. Someone like Dio had wished to—no. No, he was completely different. Dio was no mere human. These were parlor tricks, they didn’t matter. It was over. The World moved rapidly towards Jotaro and—

Star Platinum’s fist went right through the other stand’s body. This was it; Jotaro’s eyes narrowed as he watched Dio fall, abdomen open and bloodied, idiot look of surprise on his face.

No, no, Dio was no mere human anymore, he couldn’t be defeated, he’d defeated another Joestar ages ago, he knew not to underestimate them, he would be fair to the boy, he had to remain calm—After getting his leg back, he gathered enough knives and smiled. His body back in near-perfect shape. Couldn’t be defeated.

Jotaro’s eyes opened wide and he almost stopped breathing. More knives than he could count flew his way, their movements slowed down by the friction of time, sharp ends reflecting the glow of the moon. He couldn’t deflect them all before being bound by time stop.
Time resumed.
Two knives pierced his upper thigh, three of them went to his arms, one to his lower stomach, and two more to his shoulder. He’d deflected enough to not take much damage, and when he was starting to feel some small relief, long nails perforated the skin of his arms, cut into his muscles. Dio yanked him forward until their faces were close enough for the vampire’s breath—blood, it had to be blood, metallic and rusted—to brush his nose, repulse him.

He smiled.
Sharp teeth. Like a wolf, like a lion.

Another squeeze, it felt final—blood drawn—and a sudden jerk. The World kicked him in the jaw: blood spilt from his mouth; the skin on his arm and what was left of the sleeve of his jacket, torn, ripped open, ached with the speed of the wind as he coursed the sky, falling.

Dio was laughing with eyes closed, his hands clawed, turned upwards, it wasn’t the same kind of stand, he couldn’t be defeated. He laughed too distracted to notice the sword that pierced his neck. In the same movement, Dio removed the sword and turned with all the rage he’d ever pent inside to twist Silver Chariot’s arm with his left hand and dug his right one’s digits into Polnareff’s forearm, drawing as much blood as he could before knocking the pathetic man down and having The World resume time.

The bark on the palm tree Jotaro slammed into was shoved in his back, directly above his vertebrae, and he couldn’t know if it was the tree that cracked or his ribs, his arms, everything.
He fell to the ground and closed his eyes.

vii.

Palm trees and a minaret appeared from behind the lion staring at him, blurry and barely visible, they cut the horizon in their own shapes. He recognized the blurred shape of one of the two wheel wagons he'd seen earlier passing by, in a hurry, and all he could distinguish from the buzzing in his ears was the driver loudly mumbling "tuzz". Jotaro mimicked the effort himself, clicked his tongue cursing, and rolled over to the side. When he did, his eyes focused on the new figure standing on top of the lion, Dio with his arms spread out to the sky, his shoulders shaking with laughter.
"I hate this guy," he said out loud.

At a distance, the citadel towered above the city barely visible to human eyes at this time of night. Dio thought it funny, protection from crusaders and a giant tomb, a celebration of death: above the city, the futility of human ambition made stone; below his feet, covered in its own blood, the futility of human ambition's flesh destroyed, struggling to stand.
Pathetic.
Time was at his command, finally. He couldn't keep from laughing, his entire body trembling with excitement. The blood he’d taken from Jotaro, even if it hadn’t been enough, and the blood he’d taken from Joseph made the body feel lithe, comfortable—he hadn’t felt like this in a while, maybe ever. Laughter made him pierce his own flesh, his body’s flesh, blood gushing forth and dripping down his fingers, staining the fabric of his pants, the chains of gold around his wrists, and he laughed even more at the sight, jabbing his nails in further. Everything was perfect.

Maybe Jotaro was only pretending to be dead, it made him laugh even harder. “It’s useless.” Maybe it was the blood, or the excitement, but he could see better, hear better, and he scanned the area—his thoughts a mess, he couldn’t remember what he searched for, he was no longer thinking of art, no longer thinking of calm—he kept laughing, his eyes frantically looking around.

Jotaro lay on the ground when he felt the monster. It made him angrier than he’d ever felt, angrier than he thought possible. Time was stopped.

“Jotaro! Your anger is worthless!”
The metallic cords attached to the trolley hit the ground beside him, denting the asphalt on impact, the absence of time exaggerated their damage. One of their ends struck the lion’s paw just as Star Platinum raised its arms for defense. The metal opened like a tin of sardines: peeled back, its edges teethed and sharp, and for a moment Jotaro could hear Dio’s maniacal laughter on top of the whirring clunks of metal being destroyed, and through one of the small windows of the car he saw it: the word Invicta emblazoned on its engine, above the cylindric roller.

Dio stood on the smokebox that folded like paper under his feet and laughed, bending his entire upper body backwards with emotion. That was it, it was over, he ruled the world, The World, everything was as it should be and the Joestars were gone—soon, soon all would be his, and then—he tried straightening back up and a streak of panic froze his celebration. No, no, the word repeated endlessly, no, it was his, it was supposed to be his. Out of nowhere, Jotaro appeared standing on the roof of the roller. No, it kept repeating, and not being able to turn and face the strange calm temper of the man behind him was sickening. No, it wasn’t supposed to be like this, time was his, it was on his side. No—his legs were broken by Star Platinum’s kick, he felt the bones splinter and slash through his skin, through his pants, and fell to the ground listening to Jotaro’s voice—he went on and on—what was it, I don’t pity you, I pity you, I don’t want to torture you, I want to—memories of far away, blurry and out of focus, made it clear: that’s their flaw, their downfall, his virtue—Jojo cried, the last thing he’d seen was tears, Jotaro was no different. Dio had mastered every fibre of his being, even the flow of blood on his body, directing it into Jotaro’s eyes, blinding him, was the easiest.

The World stretched its leg in front of the boy, headed the kick directly to break Jotaro’s face.
That was when Dio heard it clearly.

“I feel no need to have mercy.”
The strength of the punch Jotaro’s stand dealt on The World’s calf destroyed it completely, tearing Dio’s entire body in half, like ages ago—no, this was different.

Dio fell over and let out a manic growl, before his limbs separated from his body. Blood, entrails, flesh and torn chains of gold stained the asphalt. Jotaro looked down at the body at his feet and wiped the dust off of what remained of his jacket.
“You pissed me off.”

viii.
Hours had passed when Polnareff woke up. His feet were numb but he could rest later, whenever. He checked on Joseph but the smile he had on his face once he knew the old man’d be alright, disappeared once he saw it.
He walked towards where it lay; comic books had taught him what it meant: a hat that lost its owner faced the ground.
Jean Pierre Polnareff’s father was right, he thought for the first time, he was right about revenge, and courage, and the horror of war, but especially, right about how there’s nothing like shaking hands with an American, a Japanese schoolboy, in the midst of it all. He dropped to his knees—they gave in—and reached out to grab it, whispering good byes.

"That's mine," the hat was snatched from Polnareff's hands.
"Jotaro!" the Frenchman looked up to him, eyes glazed, sincere happiness in his expression.
"How annoying," Jotaro mumbled, pushing on the hat enough to cover his eyes.

From the minaret closest to them, the hourly call for prayer announced the rising of the sun. It was over, it said. It's about to start.