epitaffio | IC Inbox

[Diavolo imagines himself in their position. A human held captive by a monster. Helpless, his life left in the hands of Atem and the humans beside him.

It isn't greed that drives them, not from the moment the three are strapped in place in front of stakes aimed to kill. At that instant, the reward at the end is meaningless. Power is wonderful, but power at risk of one's own life... What other option did they have? To sit there idly and trust that the other two wouldn't sell you out in an instant? Wait the allotted time and pray that they wouldn't kill you before you had chance to draw another breath? No, everyone stepped in to their bindings with the same goal — to live to reap their rewards.

He wouldn't have played. That's the difference between him and these humans. He'd have walked away with his life. But, if, against all logic, he did decide to play Atem's game ... he'd have pressed the button before the countdown began as well. It's the only way to ensure survival.]

...I can't imagine a scenario where they would have done otherwise. [He finally says.] That smile on Atem's face when they agreed ... the way this entire scene was arranged ... he must have known what they'd do from the very start.

[And perhaps that is why he feels so uneasy, lapsing into silence as the shade tears into them. Greed made them take the first step and play — and that was all it did. But it wasn't greed, it wasn't soullessness or rottenness that drove them to break the rules and "kill". It was the most basic instinct of all: the need to survive.]

Edited 2022-08-30 22:13 (UTC)

... Yeah. I guess you're right.

[Doppio isn't privy to the Boss's logic; all he knows is that the conclusion he's arrived at makes enough sense to him. And Atem is sneaky like that, isn't he? Doppio hasn't known him to be cruel, but...

He doesn't know him all that well, he thinks, shunting fake memories of a fake reality off to the side.

A werewolf comes into frame. She's unfamiliar, but her cool and focused approach is immediately striking.]

"Butcher"? Geez, haven't they done enough to scare people?

[Then again, the collected way she's approaching this... Maybe it is meant to be instructional.

Despite that, and despite the fact that Doppio is sufficiently familiar with arterial spray, the sight that follows makes him gasp. A man with his eyes still open; his throat, sliced; his reaction, absent. It's somehow more eerie than it would have been if the man were either fully alive or fully unconscious.]

[There have been times that Diavolo thought learning the art of butchery could be useful. For Cervo, fierce as he is with his kills, indiscriminate as he is with his gorging — there are finer ways to approach a meal, and he's toyed with being the one to introduce Cervo to them.

For Cervo ... and for Doppio.

So when the demonstration begins, when the werewolf walks onscreen, his attention is fully on the television. He is no stranger to the gorier details of the human body. How many times has he seen King Crimson's fist plunged into the chest of another? How many has he cut down without a second thought? No, there is nothing here that should bother him.

The werewolf slices the man's throat in one swift movement, and he falls limp. Next, his clothes are torn away. And then, with cold precision, she narrates as his arms are cleanly removed, one by one, followed by his legs.

It isn't the same, not remotely. There is no need for memories of the distant past to dredge themselves up here and now. This is what he tells himself as he continues to watch, unblinking and silent. He is no coward. He won't allow himself to be held back by fear.

Her knife presses against the man's abdomen, and, for the first time in minutes, Diavolo makes a sound: a shuddering gasp.

(11:20 AM. File number 68...)

It isn't the same, it isn't. Nothing... nothing like him. Nothing like him at all, and so he must watch on.]

[Doppio was absolutely ready to pay attention to the rest of the broadcast, despite the distastefulness of the imagery. Not unlike what he did back home, when the Boss places his trust in him, the very least Doppio can do was steel himself and do what's asked of him. Hell, if the Boss wanted him to, he'd start taking notes on how to butcher a person.

But the sound the Boss makes is concerning enough to shove the broadcast into the background of Doppio's priorities. His eyes are no longer on the TV.]

Boss?

[No response. Doppio's voice calls from the other side of the room; to Diavolo, it might as well be coming from another time and place entirely. There is no room for Doppio in the memory that engulfs him now. By then he was already gone — bled out on the Colosseum ground, his voice and his presence severed from Diavolo from then into eternity.

In that moment, he thought he could stand it. There was no trial he had not triumphed over; he would not stumble and fail now. He would prevail over the traitors who dared to seek him out, he would prove once more that he stood at his rightfully-earned place in the world, a pinnacle surpassing all—

(...48 to 54 hours since his death...)

He should have known something was wrong then. He should have understood. It all blurred together, unreal and hazy, like a distant dream. It couldn't be real. It couldn't be him. Some other body and some other mind trapped in this hellish nightmare. Not him, never him.

The werewolf-girl on the screen says something; it's drowned out by the memory, vivid and excruciating and consuming him whole. He couldn't move then, only his eyes. He spoke — he thinks — he remembers the desperation in his voice as he asked her for answers. He remembers cold silence in response, and cold steel plunging into his chest, and the blood that flowed forth, the shock of pain, the screams spilling from his lips —

The body on screen is deathly silent. No gasps, no screams, no pleading protests — nothing but an empty shell. The werewolf shows no emotion as she slices away, just as that doctor did. All is routine.

Not like him. The man isn't like him. So why, then, does he curl in on himself reflexively, as though anything he witnessed matters, as though the butchering of a corpse is comparable to what he suffered? Why does he feel a jolt of sympathy, a jolt of pain, pressing his fingers against his abdomen. There's nothing there, no scar to prove it ever happened, but he knows what was done to him, knows what he saw as his gaze drifted downward towards a body flayed wide open. Pieces of him taken out, scrutinized and remarked upon. Everything he was — everything he accomplished — all reduced to this. Flesh and bone, dissected and analyzed and left to rot away.

(...his identity is unknown...)

Did it ever end? Is he still trapped in that hell? If he is awake, if he is real, if he is still himself ... then why doesn't it stop? Why does he still live it? Why does he still suffer?]

[Something is wrong. Something must be terribly, horribly wrong.]

Boss!

[He gets up and rushes to his side. His eyes seek out the Boss’s, but there is no reciprocation. It’s as if he weren’t even there. It’s making his heart want to jump out of his chest, in a way that feels diametrically opposed to what it ought to have done the first time he saw his face.]

Can— Can you hear me? What’s wrong?

[It’s terrifying. It’s not right. He’s never seen him like this—

No, that’s not right. The very first time they met here in Ryslig – that first week, if not that entire month… The realisation doesn’t make Doppio feel any better, but it’s starting to paint a picture.

He casts a glance back at the TV. The dissection plays out in spite of its audience.

… It was when she started to cut into the body.

Even though he isn’t sure how much good it’ll do at this point, Doppio hurries to turn off the television, an inelegant, almost brutish flick before he turns his attention back to the Boss.]

[The voice fizzles away to nothing with a click and a hum of static. The absence of noise is just enough to jolt Diavolo; a sudden change in environment is never a good sign. He feels no pain except for the dull ache where his nails dig into his flesh. If he's dying, he thinks, then the act is being dragged out far too long.

It wouldn't be the first time.

(Why would he be dying?)

In his head, the woman's droning words don't stop. They catch and repeat like a broken record, looping without end. It takes a moment to realize that there's another noise mixed in, and longer still to recognize that the desperate sound comes from him. He could have believed this wasn't real, that this was only a dream, a fleeting and pointless thought if not for that visceral reaction.

It's a whimper, pathetic and utterly mortifying in its misery, and the first move he makes is to press a palm hard against his lips to ensure that it never happens again. The countermeasure is only half-effective; more noise spills out, muffled now yet still painfully obvious.]

[It's not working. Maybe he shouldn't have expected it to. The damage was already done - throwing away a gun won't get rid of a bullet wound.

But it isn't just not working, it's getting worse. This may be the worst thing Doppio has ever heard, a sound he never wanted to hear coming from the Boss, of all people - not because it's "pathetic," but because it makes his heart feel like it's being torn to shreds. The Boss so afraid, and Doppio isn't doing anything about it--

But he HAS to do something, and there's no room for second thoughts - not now, when the Boss is in so much pain. Before he knows it, he's doing the first and only thing that comes to mind: pulling the Boss into his arms and holding him.]

Boss, I'm here.

[Doppio's hold is firm, driven by impulse. Meanwhile, his voice is low, but he can't stave off his panic entirely; his words run over each other in a rush.]

I-It's okay. Can you hear me? We're-- We're home right now, there's nobody else here. Just... Just you and me. I'm right here.

[The fear that this might not be the best thing to do hits him, small and sudden, and his hold slackens.]

[He doesn't protest. He gives in too easily, reacting to the sudden shift with a gasp but not fighting against it. His breaths come more erratic as the grip tightens around him. He can't begin to process the flurry of words murmured to him, but the voice is gentle, familiar. The arms are warm. If he closes his eyes and allows himself to sink into the feeling, it's almost comforting.

He can't be dying, at least not like he was before. If he was, it would not feel nearly so pleasant. No blood, no ache, just quiet words and racing thoughts. It calls to mind the memory of being tangled in vines, wrapping limbs and wings around Doppio until everything stopped.

Those same soft words, the same tone. It couldn't be anyone else. There is nothing to fear in this room.

It's been weeks, he thinks, if not months, since the last time he sank so low. Plagued by thoughts spiraling out of control until they were indistinguishable from reality, and even then it is rarely something so mundane that sets him off in the first place. Potential danger, something real and tangible in his environment to react to — that he can at least understand. Television. He was watching television, of all things. A recording, yes, real and brutal but entirely harmless to him, and it was enough to ... to ...

The grip around him slackens suddenly. The change in pressure is enough to startle him into movement, the slowly easing tremor in his limbs returning twofold. He lowers his hand from his mouth, releasing another desperate sound.]

D-don't.

[Don't what? That may be too hard to verbalize right now. But acting is different, and, with shaking grip, he finds himself clinging back.]

[Oh. Oh.

No need to verbalize - Doppio gets it. He takes a surprisingly emboldening deep breath and puts his all into the embrace. It's firm, but hopefully not painful. He just... wants the Boss to feel safe.]

O-Okay. I'm here, okay? I'm not going anywhere.

[He tries to keep his breathing steady. Any nerves he's feeling are nothing compared to what the Boss must be going through, anyway, so he has to do this. He has to be at his best. He can't let go.

(He's never wanted to let go, in any case; not really.)]

[It's a tight grip for someone so small, he thinks. It's strange and it's grounding. Not as soothing as it would be to close his eyes and slip away, to relinquish control and sensation and leave the rest to Doppio.]

You — shouldn't see me like this.

[Those words go muffled into the fabric of Doppio's shirt. Despite the half-hearted protest, he only presses himself closer. He feels the thrum of Doppio's heart and the movement of his chest with every breath, and tries to focus on them.]

[Doppio shakes his head. In the position they're in, it's almost a nuzzle; he may worry about that later, but not now. The Boss needs him, and the way he presses himself closer only makes Doppio want to reciprocate even more, somehow, to curl around him and hold him and stand between him and the world; then he'd close his eyes, and nobody would have to see the Boss like this.]

Nobody's gonna hurt you, Boss. I won't let anybody lay a finger on you.

[If for some reason the wolf girl on the television burst in here and decided she wanted to take the Boss apart, Doppio doesn't know how he would stop her, realistically speaking - but he does know he wouldn't hesitate to do whatever it took, no matter the consequences.

It's not that he shouldn't see the Boss like this. It's that nobody should have made him like this.]

[He comes to rest his head on Doppio's shoulder, his breaths rapid as a flurry of words pour from him.]

I'm... exhausted, Doppio. The past strangles me despite my best attempts. I see it everywhere — in everything. I thought I had triumphed over it. I'd thought it was over, but it still...

[How can he defeat an enemy that only exists in his head? He could leave right now and hunt Giorno Giovanna down for what he did to him, and it wouldn't change a single thing. What hurts him now is memory alone — intangible and insurmountable. It isn't about the werewolf, nor is it about the dead man she sliced into. The broadcast should have been such an inconsequential thing; instead, it is as a reminder.

It happened to him before.

It could happen to him again.]

I want to— to sleep. To put my trust in you fully, to rely on you as I once did, but...

[...but that isn't possible anymore.]

[Doppio still doesn't let go. He only brings a hand to the back of the Boss's head.]

I know everything's different now. We can't just... deal with stuff the way we used to. It's... Passione's over, [and it hurts to say it, and his fingers curl, but he has something he's trying to articulate and he's not sure if this is the right way but he's trying -] so... you're a lot closer to all the stuff that could hurt you, right?

But... even if we can't do things the way we used to, I'm still here for you, okay? That hasn't changed. So... So you can close your eyes.

[At some point, Doppio started to stroke the Boss's hair. He's only noticed it now.

... He doesn't want to stop that, either.]

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declaring myself free of cringe and anxiety and fear. let's go

WE CAN DO IT. WE ARE FREE

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give him a moment to recognize doppio; he's bluescreened and is rebooting

i know you said to give him a moment but. this felt Right

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sadboss hours

makes incoherent noises

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