[It is so quiet here. It is so still. Even the trees seem tense; beyond the message Giorno sent earlier, this is the surest sign of his presence. If Fugo was any other monster, it might have taken hours to find him. As an arachne, Fugo lifts himself up and off of his human feet to stand fully on the long legs attached to his back: he flips the hood of his jacket up to block his lateral eyes, closes the rest, and holds his hands over his ears. He allows himself a full minute, sixty seconds, to focus solely on his sense of vibration.
He does not sense footsteps. He senses a pulse. A deep, underground throbbing. It's faint from where he stands now, but he knows what it is; he knows that he isn't far from where he needs to be.
Fugo turns back to the car. He pulls out a duffel bag, shoulders it, and sets out.]
[It takes time to find Giorno. Fugo isn't exactly sure how long. Only that he walks forward-- pauses to feel the vibrations-- adjusts his course as he gets closer-- moves on. The night is clear to him, so he doesn't stumble even as he moves away from the shore and into the treeline. But even without the night vision that comes part and parcel of being an arachne, Fugo would be able to be able to smell it.
Sickly sweet, metallic, and foul. Not just blood, not just earth, but the rank smell of shredded intestines. He knows this smell. It's what was left behind after Purple Haze killed someone.]
Buona sera, Giogio.
[With Giorno, it's always Italian. Always.]
[Fugo mildly surveys the scattered remains of what was once a body and mentally acknowledges that, more or less, there is little left worth salvaging. Perhaps some of the bones; even broken, they can still extract the marrow for Steve. There is no sense of disgust about him. While he doesn't know the exact why this person wound up torn to pieces, he has a few guesses. But between his three years in Passione, his own Stand, and the work of butchering he is starting to become quite good at-- Fugo finds himself largely numb to the violence that happened here.
Before he moves, Fugo takes a moment to mildly survey the muck. But when he moves through the waste, it's as if he doesn't care about the mess. It's not that he doesn't see it. He sees through it and steps into it anyway. What's important is getting to Giorno's side as quickly as possible, while avoiding stepping on any of his roots. His footsteps echo wetly, except for one that crunches when his weight comes down on a section of ribcage, in the quiet until he makes it to the tree. Once there, he reaches into the bag and retrieves a bottle of water. He untwists the cap, then offers it to Giorno.]
Here. Drink this. [If Giorno accepts the offer, he will find that the water is still chill from the refrigerator; condensation has beaded on its side during the trip from the Hill House to his hand.]
cw: gore
He does not sense footsteps. He senses a pulse. A deep, underground throbbing. It's faint from where he stands now, but he knows what it is; he knows that he isn't far from where he needs to be.
Fugo turns back to the car. He pulls out a duffel bag, shoulders it, and sets out.]
[It takes time to find Giorno. Fugo isn't exactly sure how long. Only that he walks forward-- pauses to feel the vibrations-- adjusts his course as he gets closer-- moves on. The night is clear to him, so he doesn't stumble even as he moves away from the shore and into the treeline. But even without the night vision that comes part and parcel of being an arachne, Fugo would be able to be able to smell it.
Sickly sweet, metallic, and foul. Not just blood, not just earth, but the rank smell of shredded intestines. He knows this smell. It's what was left behind after Purple Haze killed someone.]
Buona sera, Giogio.
[With Giorno, it's always Italian. Always.]
[Fugo mildly surveys the scattered remains of what was once a body and mentally acknowledges that, more or less, there is little left worth salvaging. Perhaps some of the bones; even broken, they can still extract the marrow for Steve. There is no sense of disgust about him. While he doesn't know the exact why this person wound up torn to pieces, he has a few guesses. But between his three years in Passione, his own Stand, and the work of butchering he is starting to become quite good at-- Fugo finds himself largely numb to the violence that happened here.
Before he moves, Fugo takes a moment to mildly survey the muck. But when he moves through the waste, it's as if he doesn't care about the mess. It's not that he doesn't see it. He sees through it and steps into it anyway. What's important is getting to Giorno's side as quickly as possible, while avoiding stepping on any of his roots. His footsteps echo wetly, except for one that crunches when his weight comes down on a section of ribcage, in the quiet until he makes it to the tree. Once there, he reaches into the bag and retrieves a bottle of water. He untwists the cap, then offers it to Giorno.]
Here. Drink this. [If Giorno accepts the offer, he will find that the water is still chill from the refrigerator; condensation has beaded on its side during the trip from the Hill House to his hand.]