The pink of a dying sunset cascaded across Giorno’s back in a wave of heat. His whole body felt like it’d made a sigh of relief. The car trip from the Colosseum to HQ was torturous, the constant turn of his head as he expected anything and everything to smack them right off the road, nothing did.
Mista was poised in the front seat, he could the deep crease in his brow through the rearview mirror as he drove. Polanareff, sit in the back seat with Giorno curled up in his shell. Giorno could see through the red gem on his back, a tiny caricature of a spirit relaxed on the couch. He supposes that he won’t be spending anymore time in there, not unless Polunareff gives him permission. The man has earned his own space Giorno figures.
As the Manor comes into view Giorno is left wondering what sort of mess will the come into. Will there be traps? Does another fight await them?
The beauty of its exterior captures him for a moment, never had Girono dreamed, nor had he ever been in the presence of such an extravagant house. It was all so fresh, he owned this house now, this was his. All of the money, every scrap of it from the manicured garden to the devastating drop of the cliff’s ridge it all belonged to him. He was now the head, neck, and shoulders of Passione.
The manor is empty. Not a single staff member haunts its halls. It seems Diavolo did not have a housekeeper, yet the place remained stuck in time. Not a single surface was laden with dust, or even a fingerprint. And knowing Diavolo’s careful nitpicks it came to no shock of Giorno’s that he, and Mista were the only humans to darken the doors.
A note lay on the desk in what Giorno now supposes is his office. There’s a fountain pen, and a deed. It seemed that Diavolo had some sort of insurance policy in place for his absence. Who this deed was meant for, Giorno really could not say, other than there was a blank space at the bottom where he conveniently penned his name, Haruno Shiobana.
It had been a long time since he’s seen or heard the name Haru, it was a foreign broken piece of him that he’d rather have forgotten. But there it was laid out before him in kanji. The last reminder of his mother, and the horrid harpy she’s always been.
Mista looked at him puzzled. “What’s that you’re writing?”
“Just a formality.” Giorno said clipping off the conversation.
The sky had finally crawled its way under a dark blanket of stars. Giorno set to enjoy the pool sized bath. Warmth did little to soothe the ache between his shoulder blades. At first it had been a dull burn, that slowly was creeping into a searing jolt every time he moved.
Mista wasn’t far behind him creeping into the pool, he was peppered with his own bullet wounds. They were faint, but with his recent tan growing darker it had become plain that Mista had been cut into swiss cheese. Little rosettes of light skin marred through the dark, where it had lost some of its pigment.
Giorno waded across the pool to lay a delicate finger on the bullet hole nestled in the bullseye between his eyebrows. There was a tender glint in Mista’s eye as he did so. Mista wrapped himself around Giorno, naked and their bodies intertwined they were both too exhausted and too hurt to follow through with the obvious.
“Diavolo did a number on you.” Mista said laying a flat palm to Giorno’s back.
Giorno stiffened as a crack of bone rippled through him.
“Giorno?” Mista said with horror in his voice.
Giorno recoiled, shifting through the water as if some how he could run from the pain. Again another crack of bone, this time with the shock of rending flesh. At first it did not hurt, not in a way that Giorno could recognize. He just felt his own skin split and flap in the wind as rivers of blood carved their way down into the pool staining the water pink. He was too busy from the sheer pain to see Mista’s expression transform into sheer terror to a nauseous green mess.
He screamed and screamed till it seemed as if there wasn’t any air left in the world. The sounds, all he could hear were the horrible sounds of rolling bone and cartilage snapping together. Suddenly it stopped, the clicking, the pain, it halted in a crescendo of heat and golden light.
Golden Experience Requiem stood unblinking above the water with its arms crossed. As if it had lost its patience before disappearing. Giorno on the other hand was heavy and numb. He thought he might pass out if it weren’t for Mista frantically sloshing across the pool to catch Giorno from falling face first.
“What the hell was that?” Mista exclaimed.
“I-I…” Giorno mumbled. “I need to get out.”
Mista seemed to agree helping Giorno heft himself out of the pool. Naked and suddenly cold, a gargantuan shadow brought him to a dead halt. There in the dim orange light cast across the wall, were giant theaters of feathers sprawled in glory like a romantic painting. Heavy and powerful they shivered a spray of bloody water.
Wings, Giorno had wings.