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In a world full of chairs and tables, a labyrinth of rooms, Leone Abbacchio wandered, with Trish Una lagging behind. This wasn’t how he’d planned on spending his Monday. No, sir. This was supposed to be just a “routine mission,” and now… He was stuck alone in some weird world with the Boss’ daughter. She’d only been assigned to be with them a day or so ago, and while they’d managed to escape a few members of La Squadra Executione, apparently, the Stand User that had come at them this time was one hell of a wild card. He definitely wasn’t with La Squadra, no—just some punk, a random soldato who wanted to try and catch a fish he was far too small to reel in. But, even so, Abbacchio probably shouldn’t have laughed at his Stand’s name when they were confronting him—There’s A Reason These Tables Are Numbered… Or something. What the hell kind of Stand name is that? A stupid one. But this power.. Was definitely more dangerous than Abbacchio could have expected. So, it wasn’t exactly a surprise that he’d been targeted first. Trish, who had been out of the Turtle, was behind him as he’d been hit, so she was here, too. Joy.
As Leone mulled over the series of mistakes that had led him to this situation, the Una girl walked silently behind him. Her high-heeled boots tapped against the tile flooring, crunched against sand, impacted carpeting with a dull thunk . Each room they entered was different—a funeral with a mannequin in the coffin, a football watch party with a mannequin dressed in their team’s colors (S.S.C. Napoli—the mannequin had taste ). Each of these scenarios, lively in reality, were entirely devoid of people. It was eerie; as if a ghost had come through and stolen everyone away.
Abbacchio didn’t like it.
All the while, Abbacchio had begun to grow more and more frustrated. Was it the never-ending sound of distant voices, perpetually eluding his grasp? Was it the fact that even if he would open a doorway, a table would always be blocking him, right on the dot? The fact that Trish, for some godforsaken reason, wouldn’t say shit, and the silence was even more fucking annoying than if she were buzzing around like a bee, doing whatever it is teenage girls do?
Sigh. That was the thing about her. Leone had nothing against her, but the thing was… Giorno Giovanna, he could hate. That smug, cheeky-ass blond little shit. He had no idea why Bucciarati was so fond of him. Bruno, whom he loved, he was dating. Duh. Mista, Narancia, and Fugo felt like younger brothers to him. Their little team, while ragtag—save for Giorno’s unwanted presence—had a familial feel to it. But Trish? He wasn’t supposed to have an opinion on her. After all, she was just the Boss’ daughter. Opinions weren’t allowed. But… Goddamn, she was like a blank slate. Silent. No personality, outside of almost stabbing Narancia and bitching about sparkling water. Or something. She didn’t even take it upon herself to speak. Did she really think that he was so beneath her? That must have been it. Must have. God, he hated that. Perhaps he was just being paranoid and she was actually scared out of her mind. Still, Giorno being there put him in a bad enough mood, that everyone who wasn’t already in his good graces didn’t have far to fall.
He rescinded his earlier thought. He didn’t hate Trish Una. But goodness, her cold shoulder was pushing his buttons, pushing his buttons more in that moment than that goddamn Giovanna’s cocky, self-assured smile. That was what he had against her.
Leone gritted his teeth as he continued to walk. However, he stopped abruptly, hearing a ruckus behind him. Turning around, Moody Blues at the ready (not that it would really help him much here), fists prepared, he pounced into a defensive stance.
Based on his educated guess, Trish had fallen over, stumbled into one of the many tables in this building plan ouroboros. While it was clear that her pride was more injured than anything, she didn’t move, for some reason. And...
Abbacchio’s eyebrows furrowed. Upon closer inspection, he realized: She was shaking. He could hear gentle sniffles as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Ah. Goddammit… It then occurred to him why she hadn’t been talking. Perhaps she wasn’t speaking not because she was some kind of stuck-up, entitled diva, but… Because she was so scared, she didn’t know what to say. This… made sense. It was similar to how Abbacchio had been when Bucciarati had found him, on that street corner, drinking away his life, on his second bottle of shitty-ass Pinot in one hour. He’d been abandoned.
Trish, he realized, had been abandoned too. In a way.
Leaning down to her, meeting her at eye level, he said, a bit more hesitantly than he would have liked, “...You all right?”
She nodded in the affirmative.
“...Wanna talk?”
“No.” Her words were marble; hard, unmoving, and, somehow, oddly refined. The force with which she’d spoken surprised Abbacchio. Yet...
Abbacchio sneered. The time for gentleness was long past, and he was already irritated enough by this moebius strip of a building. Voice a bit more curt than he’d intended, he snapped, “Yeah. Okay, cut the crap, Trish, I know you’re not okay. C’mon. Spill it. I’m not moving until you do.”
With a light gasp, she looked up at him blearily, taking another sniffle. However, she didn't seem to be offended, or scared by his outburst. “...Abbacchio. Right? Sorry… I’m… Still learning everyone’s names.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay… Phew. Well… Abbacchio... I… I don’t know why I’m crying,” The rose-haired girl confessed. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” He sighed. “Just… Listen, Trish. You’re in a tough situation. It’s okay to be scared. This is a normal Monday for me.”
Eyeing him with awe, Trish eventually sputtered out, “...What do you mean?”
“I’m in the mob. You’re a smart kid. Figure it out.” He sighed again. “Look, Trish. I’ll level with you. I don’t know you well, but you’ve clearly been through some shit. So… You don’t have to tell me what that shit is. But, I need you to do one thing, okay? Just one.”
She didn’t say anything, still staring. The teen was beginning to perk up again, beginning to relax. Good. The talking was helping.
“I need you to talk to me, okay? I can’t stand silence, and… Look, I get that you’re scared, you’re shaking, whatever. I’m not saying to spill your life story, but… Trish, just throw me a bone here, okay?”
Taking this in, Trish sat up a bit, and had stopped wiping her eyes mid-wipe, her hand drifting before her face. Letting out a small, derisive noise, She glared at him. “...I know you’re only being nice to me because I’m your cargo. I don’t want your pity. I don’t even know you.”
Ah. Something within Abbacchio stirred at that; she sounded eerily familiar. Her emerald eyes flashed with fury. Lashing out like a wounded animal. Made sense. The memories of his first meeting with Bucciarati swept him over like a tidal wave.
“I know you’re only here because you feel sssorry for me.” Leone slurred the words, jabbing the way of the zippered man with an umbrella. The rain fell swiftly around them both, the pitter-patter almost deafening. “You don’t even know me.”
The man with a bob-cut shook his head. “...No, that… That’s not it.” A sigh. “It’s… Look, Abbacchio. I’m trying to assemble a team. We need someone like you.”
Leone slammed the empty bottle against the pavement. It scattered into pieces. “...Someone like me? You mean a fuckin’ disappointment? A crooked cop?”
“Someone like you. Someone with a strong sense of justice. Someone who will do anything to get the job done, who knows what it means to be in the line of duty. Abbacchio—I’m a member of Passione. We need someone like you.”
He didn’t stir.
“Please, Abbacchio. I don’t pity you.”
“Fuckin’ lies.”
“No, honest. I don’t. I’ve seen far worse. I’ve been far worse. Now, take it or leave it.” Bucciarati offered his hand to the white-haired ex-cop, who stared at him in shock.
To his own surprise, Leone took Bruno’s hand.
Swiftly brought back to the present, he then said, a bit more gently than he’d intended: “Trish... My duty is to make sure you live. Just…” He facepalmed. “Look, we gotta move forward, but we might as well make some use of our time. Capische?”
A bit shocked, Trish couldn’t help but nod. “...Fine. And… Sorry.”
“For what?”
“...For being rude to you. C-Could we… could we talk about something that isn’t… y’know, this? Like—Like makeup! Yeah. I…” She blushed. “...I just… really like yours, and honestly, I’d rather think of anything else than what’s been going on these past few months.”
It was Abbacchio’s turn to blush. “...You do?”
A nod. “Yeah. I love the periwinkle lipstick.”
“Oh, this? Uh… Thanks. I stole it from Sephora.” For the first time in their entire conversation, he smiled. Trish couldn’t help but smile back. Seeing her now, he understood something; she absolutely radiated light. She was, in fact, a very special young lady. Kind of like..
He shook his head. Nah, he was projecting. That was it.
“...Once we get out of here, let’s do it.” A glint of determination entered her eye as Trish spoke.
Abbacchio blinked slowly, confused. “...Do what?”
“Go to Sephora. Once all of this is over… Let’s go get some makeup. Maybe steal it. Whatever works for you.”
Abbacchio couldn’t help but grin at this. Hmm. Maybe she wasn’t as he’d imagined at first. “Sounds good to me. Now…” He got up. “Need a hand?”
“I’m good, but thanks.” As Trish spoke, Abbacchio, nonetheless, handed her a handkerchief, then, wordlessly, moved in front of her.
Once she was behind him, he began to march forward. “C’mon, Trish. Let’s go.”
Trish tagged along, but lagged behind slightly closer than before. Another door, another party. Another door, a bat mitzvah. A door, a wedding. A reception. An American-style prom. Unlike their earlier time, however, Trish would make comments as they walked.
“You know, Abbacchio… What’s your favorite weapon?”
He would have asked her why she was pondering this, but… To be fair, he was a Passione soldato. He’d been expecting something like, Who is your favorite Spice Girl? Fashion Designer? Makeup brand? Cats, or dogs?
It was a welcome surprise. “My fists,” he replied bluntly, slamming a door to make a point. Trish flinched on reflex, but went on nonetheless. As he eyed the new room—this time, a child’s birthday party, or at least, the remains of one—he trudged onward. “Yours?”
“My knife.” She responded. “Got it right here, if you wanna see.”
Pivoting her way, he shrugged. “Sure. Might as well.”
She pulled a pocket knife from her boot in one fluid motion. It was clear that she’d done this before; that she’d definitely learned how to fight, somehow. Or, at the very least, had taken self-defense classes. “Named her Medusa.”
A wry chuckle. “Why’s that?”
Trish’s eyes, a deep, brilliant green, bored into his soul as she said, nonchalantly, “Well, when men see her, they freeze like they’ve turned to stone.” She finished her explanation off with a smile.
Abbacchio was, though he did not want to admit it, impressed. “Looks like it’s got a bit of bite. Wouldn’t stand a chance against a Stand user, but definitely could stop them long enough for you to run away. It’s a good start.”
“T-Thank you.” She responded, pocketing the knife once more. A light blush danced across her freckled cheeks. “Still… Abbacchio, uh. Is it just me, or was that doll not there before?”
“That what.”
“Doll. Look. Right there. It’s giving me a look. It’s...” Trish gasped. “Abbacchio, did you notice? It’s been in every room. There’s…” Abruptly, the young woman cut herself off. Inspiration flashed. “Abbacchio. What was the name? Of the power.”
“Trish, don’t be ridiculous—”
“Abbacchio.” She said, this time with more force. As slow as she possibly could, Trish pulled out her knife. “I said, what was the name of his power? I can’t see… Stands are what they’re called, right? Yeah. So that means that that doll... Isn't a Stand. Abbacchio. I think I know how to get out of here. I remember… Its name... Something about… You just don’t know it yet, but that’s all I can remember.”
“...There's A Good Reason These Tables Are Numbered, Honey, You Just Haven't Thought Of It Yet…” It didn’t exactly roll off the tongue. “It’s a long-ass name.”
“Abbacchio… Every room we’ve been in has had a party set-up. And… That doll... What if… What if we have to…”
She trailed off, but then, he realized where she was going with that. Calling out Moody Blues, he began a rewind, and found… A man with bright red hair and an undercut that was gelled into a sort of mohawk, wearing a bright blue shirt with a large cleavage gap, and matching color pants that were more akin to lingerie. Underneath this he wore a garterbelt and white booty shorts, all accentuated by rainbow-sequined patterning. Without a word, he took the doll—or, at least, appeared to take the doll—and lifted it upward. He then slipped into the ground, taking care to put… something back where it had been.
Was that really all? Was it really that easy?
It was worth a shot. Abbacchio moved forward, grabbed the doll, lifted up, and… A trap door appeared!
This really was too easy.
Going through, he heard voices—”What did you do with Trish and Abbacchio? Talk now, or I swear to god…” A gun cocked.
Mista! That was Mista. Oh my god, it really was that easy! It really was… They’d lucked out, big time. The two of them bolted out of the Stand’s labyrinth, finally walking outside. The other members of their team were there, knives and Stands ready—save for Fugo, who wisely opted for only a knife. It looked as if Bruno had unzipped the man’s arm, and had… Zipped him into a pole. Yikes. Looked painful. But, also, he was asking for it…
“Look… Pannetonne… I promise you, we will only let you off with some light scratches if you just show us where Trish and Abbacchio are. If not, I can make those scratches into scars.” His voice was calm; cold. Even from far away, Abbacchio could see them flash a dark blue. “Or, perhaps, make you appreciate just how much you’ll miss your arm.” He retained a cool frown.
“Bucciarati!” Trish screamed, running forward. “Abbacchio and I! We’re here!”
“S-S-See?” The enemy Stand user insisted. It was the man from the replay. “Now, let me go!”
Bruno sighed. “We won’t, but you get to live… This time. If we see you again, you won’t be so lucky. Capsiche?”
He nodded tearily. Satisfied, Bruno walked back to Trish and Abbacchio. “Oh, thank goodness you both are all right. Trish—no wounds?”
“No, I—I’m fine.” She nodded. “Abbacchio—”
He’d begun to gravitate to Bucciarati’s side, but was stopped by the young woman’s voice. It hadn’t shaken. “Thank you.”
Before he’d even noticed, Leone had smiled. “...No problem, Trish.”
Back into the turtle she went. After barking to the others to go back into Coco Jumbo as well, and for Giorno to check Trish to make sure that she didn’t have any wounds, Bruno looked at Abbacchio for a moment and tilted his head slightly, the unspoken question of, What did you do? Hanging in the air.
“We bonded, I guess.” Leone shrugged. “What? It’s our duty to keep her safe, and if she feels safer now, then mission accomplished.”
Bruno nodded, the look he shot Leone insisting that he was in on the words beneath what he’d said. As if he were itching to say, sure. That’s what it was. But, mercifully, he decided he’d relent. He offered his hand to Abbacchio, who took it, grasping it lightly for warmth. The two of them walked toward the turtle, Bruno’s last comment hanging upon the air like a punchline to a joke. Bucciarati smiled.
“Mission accomplished, indeed.”
