Purple Haze Feedback a Jojo's Bizarre Adventure Novel by Kadano Kouhei
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Purple Haze Feedback A Jojo's Bizarre Adventure novel by Kadano Kouhei Illustrated and based on the manga by Araki Hirohiko Purple Haze Feedback Lost in distant memories Days with companions long gone Drunk on the honor of friendship Certain it would never end Now vanished like a dream Faded, no warmth remaining Covered in a silent, deadly haze INDICE...................................................... I. vitti 'na crozza.......................................7 II. me voglio fa 'na casa..........................28 III. 'a vucchella.......................................49 IV. tu ca nun chiagne..............................71 V. mi votu e mi rivotu............................93 VI. fantasia siciliana.............................113 VII. luna nova.......................................141 VIII. 'o surdato 'nnammurato................158 An empty dream A selfish, horrific vision Passed on like the deadliest of viruses – Rage Against the Machine, Snakecharmer There were two figures in the Temple of Apollo. One male, one female. It was night; a new moon. The female lay on her side, barely visible in the faint light of the stars; the man stood looking down at her. She groaned, in pain. "Call him," the man said, his tone cold. She groaned again. "Call Fugo. Call him here. Scream, and beg him to come save you." The man's voice betrayed no hint of mercy. Only hostility and murder calcified into dark cruelty. The girl only groaned. She did not move. Her arms and legs were twisted in directions they were not meant to go. She could not escape on her own. "Don't try and fight me," the man said. It was not a threat, but a statement of fact. "Manic Depression can control you completely. You no longer have free will." His hand shot out, clutching her throat. His fingers slid beneath her skin, into her flesh. Her scream echoed through the darkness. * This is a story about people unable to take action. They have no plans for the future, no comfort in memories. The past and the future are not for them; they exist only in the present, struggling to no avail. Do they struggle to find purchase? To move forward? To retreat? Who knows. They could not tell you. The world that left them to this fate provides no answers. They know only one thing for sure – the ground under their feet is crumbling, and they can no longer remain still. They have no tomorrow, no home. How can they find hope? What can they lash out at, in their despair? Let us examine one boy, a boy in such a predicament. The boy's name is Pannacotta Fugo. There are those who call him a traitor, those who dismiss him as one without shame. His choices will decide what his fate will be. I. vitti 'na crozza ….....................................I Saw a Skull................................. Milano, Italy – the Stadio Guiseppe Meazza. One of the most famous soccer stadiums in the world. Something there was very wrong. There was no noise. There was always noise. Crowds of chanting fans, the shouts of vendors, of police struggling to maintain order. At this time of day, the Stadio was never quiet. Especially on game day – and the hometown favorites were supposed to be playing their arch-rivals to a sold-out crowd. Yet all 80,018 seats were empty. No one watching; no one playing. No one there at all. Only a terrifying stillness beneath the open sky. In that sky was a blimp – hovering overhead, as if filming the game that was not being played. On the side of the blimp, in small, unobtrusive lettering, was written: "Speedwagon." In the gondola, the blimp's staff looked down at the empty stadium nervously. They looked at each other, and nodded. One of them spoke into a transceiver. "The Stadio's deserted. You're clear to proceed." "Roger that." The man on other end of the line stepped forward into the empty seats, and waved at the blimp overhead. A light flashed; they'd seen him. "Keep a close watch. Like I said, anything happens to me, scram." "Understood. Be careful, Guido Mista." Switching off the receiver, the man – Mista – reached down and pulled a gun out of his boot. With practiced ease, he took aim at the tunnel the players entered from. "Okay. Come on out, Sheila E." His voice was low, but it carried, projected like a opera singer's. For ten full seconds, there was silence. Then two figures emerged from the shadows, their movements a far cry from the intensity the home team athletes typically displayed. One was a girl – Sheila E. Her features were young, suggested she had not yet fully matured, but her eyes were something else entirely. They were the eyes of a wild thing, prepared to lunge forward and sink her teeth into the throat of all she surveyed. Prepared to tear it asunder. There were a number of scars on her face; she showed no signs of self-consciousness about them. She was escorting a boy, who stepped gingerly onto the pitch, head down, his strawberry earrings aflutter. When the two of them had reached a point twenty meters in front of Mista, he yelled out. "Stop." They did. Sheila E stopped on a dime, like a soldier doing drills, but the boy flinched, and stood there twitching. Mista's gun was aimed at him. The barrel trained directly on his face, between his brow and his lips, towards the upper end of the bridge of his nose. It did not waver. "Hmph," Mista grunted. He looked the boy over, then stuck his lips out and said, "Long time no see." The boy's head jerked up, looking at him for the first time. Mista's eyes were cold, like ice. "Tell me, Fugo...what have you been up to?" The boy didn't answer. He seemed at a loss for words. "As far as we can tell, you spent the last six months playing piano in a bar. You play piano? I had no idea. All that time we knew each other..." "….............." "Guess rich kids get to learn all sorts of fancy tricks." Fugo muttered something under his breath. "Mm?" Mista said, not about to let that slide. "What did you say? You got something to say, spit it out." Fugo twisted his lips to one side. "It was nothing," he squeaked. It wasn't nothing; he'd rejected Mista's implication out of hand. Mista cocked an eyebrow, but let it drop. "Okay, then tell me...you got anything to say to me? Anything you want to know? I'll answer what I can." Fugo stood in silence for a long moment. Then he made up his mind. "Is he really...dead?" There was a raw grief in his eyes. When he saw that, Mista frowned, and glanced at Sheila E. "Sheila E, cover your ears." She nodded curtly, and jammed her fingers in her ears with such force it was a wonder they didn't bleed. Sealing off all outside sound. Her obedience was downright pathological. Mista did not seem concerned. He looked back at Fugo, and said, "You heard about Buccellati's death, then?" The color drained from Fugo's face. His whole body began to shake, and his teeth began to chatter. It was like he'd suddenly been flung out into a blizzard. "Narancia and Abbacchio died too. You remember what you said?" Fugo did not answer. "You aren't looking at reality. You can't survive on ideals alone. We can't live outside the mob." Fugo remembered those words. He would never forget them. Those words had led directly to him leaving the man he'd bet his life on. Had he made a mistake? Had he been the one ignorant of what was really going on? He'd wrestled with that question every day since. And now the answer – or part of it – stood before him. One of the five people he'd abandoned that day. "Mista...is it true?" His voice shook. His question was not particularly specific, but Mista smiled faintly. "You've heard rumors, then? What did you hear?" "That..." Fugo stopped, and looked a Sheila E. Mista had made her cover her ears so she wouldn't hear what they were about to say. It took a lot of nerve for him to speak further. "What I heard was that the boss had finally shown himself. And his name..." "His name?" "Was Giorno Giovanna. They said that Passione's boss was only sixteen – and his youth was the reason he'd kept his identity a secret. But traitors emerged, and tried to uncover his identity, which got an innocent girl mixed up in mob affairs, and nearly led to all out war...so he saw no further reason to hide, and revealed himself at last." "Yeah. You know that's a lie. You were with us right before it all went down." Mista's gun remained pointed right at Fugo's head. "You were with us before Diavolo – the real boss – killed Buccellati and the others." Fugo's throat felt dry, but he didn't dare swallow. "Giorno joined the gang specifically to defeat the boss and take over. Buccellati was helping him all along. Makes sense, doesn't it? You don't look surprised. The moment he joined our team, Giorno was no ordinary recruit. He never seemed like a rookie, and Buccellati always treated him like a trusted partner, not a subordinate. Giorno insists they were even partners, but truth is...Buccellati was working for Giorno. That's how it felt to me, anyway. He was ready to give his life for Giorno's dream – and he did.