Chapter Text
The first thing Guido Mista noticed was that his hat was missing from his head. Like a student jolting awake to the realization that he had absolutely missed the morning train, he sprang out of his bed and slammed his shin onto a table. He hissed into his teeth and crumbled to the floor, cradling his wounded leg.
“What in the goddamn…?” He does not remember having any hazardous furniture next to his bed. He reached behind to push himself up, expecting to grab cloth, but instead hears his palm sink into what feels like old, crumbly faux leather. This is not his bed.
Mista was surrounded by deep green sofas circling a long, white coffee table lit by a single fluorescent panel like a spotlight. The furnishings around him were shrouded in darkness, and he could only make out vague shapes of long houseplants and a silent radiator.
Most importantly, Mista does not know this place. He furrowed his brows and shouted,
“Sex Pistols!”
Six tiny golden Stands manifest around the gunman, all exchanging confused shrieks and yells. Amidst their bitty squabble, No.3 socked No.5 square in the face and he lets out a pitiful sob. Mista tries to hush them while reaching down the front of his pants to grip his revolver. If he had one.
“What the—?!”
He rummaged through his pants, only to feel his strawberry patterned boxer shorts and thighs. His skin breaks into a cold sweat. Where is is revolver? And his bullets? Where is this place? Who brought him here? Why did they keep him alive? Does Bruno and the gang know if he’s gone? What did he do last? His brain goes into overdrive with questions and his breath becomes increasingly labored as his heart races out of his chest.
“Mista…?”
No.5’s hiccuping voice snaps him out of his spiraling mind. The other Pistols looked at their user with concerned expressions while No.3 decided to kick Mista’s sweaty forehead, yelling at him to get a grip. The sharp pain gave him something to concentrate on while he slowed his breathing. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, then exhaled. His eyes opened, clear as his mind.
“No.1, 3, 7, scout this place out. Stay low. No.2, 5, 6, stay close and keep on a lookout.”
What he needed to do right now was to get out of this place as fast as he can. The questions can wait. Three Pistols zoomed in different directions, disappearing into other rooms. Mista slowly stood up while giving his shin a final rub, feeling a bump forming beneath the skin.
The room seemed to be well-kept and spacious, but the sofas made it feel cramped with not much room for an average person to comfortably walk between or around the place. His first instinct was that this was a meeting room of some sort, but almost felt like a living room made into a makeshift one. Mista hunched his back and kept his head low as he slinked toward one of the open doors. Keeping to the shadows seemed to be the best option at this point, and luckily the entire floor seems to be devoid of light, save for the fluorescent he woke up under. He peered from the corner cautiously and raised his hands near his face out of habit, but then remembered his missing pistol and cursed under his breath.
The door led to a narrow wooden hallway with the ceiling lined with a row of broken, flickering lights. Mista could see his two Stands floating at the end of the hallway, motionless. They don’t seem to he hurt or in distress, but they were completely silent. His dark eyes narrowed, something was definitely wrong.
“No.1, No.3, what’s going on?”
He doesn’t get a reply, but hears distant groaning from their direction. It doesn’t sound like their usual incessant, high-pitched voices. It sounds guttural, like tremors echoing from the bowels of caves.
“Shit!”
Mista bolts toward his Stands amidst the shrieks of “don’t go!” “Mista wait!” from behind. In the blur of the moment, he caught a glimpse of what the frozen Stands were in front of.
A mirror. A large, gold-framed mirror was hanging from the cracked walls, and No.1 and No.3 were entranced by something reflected in it. Mista slammed a fist into his palm and readied himself to smash the mirror into smithereens.
“Don’t fuck with me just because I don’t have my gun!”
“STOP!”
No.1’s panicked scream rang through the hallway. The gunless gunman felt the skin of his knuckles being stretched from the inside. He skids to a stop as he quickly looks at his fist, horrified to find that the his skin was forming into a shape of a pair of scissors, the blades wide open and threatening to cut itself out.
“What the fu—?!”
“It’s a Stand attack! Get out of its range!”
Mista leaped back, gripping the back of his hand and trying to push back the blades from breaking his skin. But just as suddenly it appeared, he felt the scissors dissipate under his palms. He slowly lifted his hand to find his knuckles just has he remembered them, just now sweatier. He looked up at No.1 and No.3 and sharply gasped at that was clinging to their tiny bodies. Even smaller, maggot-like creatures were writhing on their bodies. They seemed to be the source of the low moans and gurgles that have been echoing throughout the hall.
“Pistols, stay close! Keep an eye out for a Stand user!”
“No need for that.”
Mista froze. A deep voice came from somewhere in front of him, but they were nowhere to be found. Mista wildly spun around while his Stands buzzed left and right looking for the source, exchanging confused shouts and looks to each other and their user. Mista has never felt so vulnerable without his pistol and bullets, but he held his ground, readying his fist once more.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” the voice said with a tinge of irritation. Mista felt his breathing becoming increasingly difficult to do, and he wasn’t sure if it was his nerves or the air was being sucked out of him. His heart beat painfully against his ribcage. The voice continued, “I said there is no need for that.” Mista glared at the direction of the voice.
“Give me a good…reason,” he growled through gritted teeth, “why I shouldn’t…kn-knock your teeth out…r-right now…” Something was terribly wrong. Mista tried to breath, but his airways felt like they were being squeezed by an invisible hand. His pants were gradually turning into wheezes.
“One, you are weaponless,” the voice answered coolly. He heard a click of a heavy heel.
“Two, you are within my Stand’s abilities.” The hallway in front of him started for form an outline of a tall figure.
“Three.” With another click of a heel, the outline colored itself to reveal a tall, muscular man with threateningly red eyes staring down at Mista. Before realizing what was happening, the gunman was on his knees, too weak to stay up as his body struggled to take in oxygen. He felt dizzy and ready to pass out, the yells of his Pistols distant and muffled.
“I’d like to see you do anything as your body rusts.”
Mista forced his failing eyes open and shot the man a piercing glare. He thought he saw the man’s brow raise a bit in surprise and took the opportunity to launch himself at him, but his legs were too weak and gave out. He collapsed hard onto the splintered floor and the taste of iron seeped out of the corner of his mouth. His body was numb and couldn’t even feel the tiny slaps of his Stands smacking his face anymore, desperately trying to keep him awake. The shine of black leather shoes took another step towards Mista’s face. He tried to push his body up, but his arms were shaking so badly and the palms of his hands were so slick with sweat that he couldn’t even manage to get a good hold of the floor. The edges of his vision were darkening as he mentally prepared himself for a hard kick in the face from those shoes.
“Capo!”
Suddenly, a new voice cried out from behind the towering man. He paused his advance, but Mista somehow knew he kept his red eyes on him and didn’t attempt to make a move (not that he could do much).
The voice continued with a trenchant, “He’s not much help incapacitated, y’know.” After a pause, the deep voice replied with a short “hm,” seeming to agree with the new voice. Mista watched the heels turn and walk away, seeming to climb into the wall where the mirror was and disappeared. He heard the other man’s low “cool your head, I’ll take care of it” as Mista started to realize he can breathe normally again. He wasn’t strong enough to fight yet, but he could shakily get up on his two feet. His eyes me a pair of forest green irises and a much shorter man compared to his attacker. He had his hands up to his ears and had a much less aggressive demeanor, but Mista was still on edge. The man chuckled with this shoulders.
“Honestly, you’re at an advantage over me right now,” he man with the buzz-cut grinned. “My Stand can make make things it stabs small, that’s it.” He eyed the Pistols, “If they decide to gang up on me when I use my ability, I probably wouldn’t have much of a chance.”
“Let me the fuck out,” Mista growled.
“Easy, easy buddy,” the man shook his empty palms, “I ain’t here to fight. Look I don’t even have anythi—-”
“He’s lying Mista!” No.1 shrieked. Before the man could react, No.1 flew behind his left fingers and snatched something. He kicked the object towards the other Pistols and zoomed back to Mista’s side, cheering and bumping elbows with th rest of them. No.3 kicked the man’s ear for good measure and joined the group. Mista checked if the strange, maggot-like things were still clinging to his Stands, but they seemed to have vanished.
“Nice try there buddy,” Mista sneered. “Got anymore tricks up your sleeve before I beat the shit out of you and your goth friend?” The man rolled his eyes in mild annoyance as he groaned.
“Mista, Mista, Mista…why’d you have to ruin the surprise?” The Pistols gasped in shock.
“M-Mista! These are—-”
“It’s your pistol and hat!”
His Stands shoved the objects into his face, and indeed they were his purple pistol and blue cashmere hat, but much, much smaller. They were about the size of two of his Pistols combined, and most definitely useless as an actual weapon or hat for someone his size.
“I always wanted to wear this thing!”
“Hey! I’m first!”
“Nooooo you’re stretching iiiiit!”
The Pistols fought amongst each other for the hat and was pulling at the ends like a game of tug-of-war. Mista watched in horror as his favorite hat was being stretched and strained.
“Bitch STOP! That’s GUCCI!!!”
He heard the man snort loudly and was weirdly embarrassed. He shot a frustrated scowl at him and he replied with a hearty chuckle, shaking his head.
“You guys are too much,” he snickered, “oh man, this is going to be interesting.”
“Turn my hat and pistol back—-”
“’—into its original size and let me go,’ right? Well, we were hoping to do that too, but under one condition.” The man still had a smile on his face, but Mista felt fury in the gleam of his forest eyes. He swallowed hard as he listened to the words he did not expect.
“We, la Squadra di Esecuzione, would like to offer our expertise to Bruno Bucciarati.”