still learning

should be living the dream

“Incoming!”

“Watch out—”

There was the lightest brush of something against Giorno’s hand.

Instantly, as though there had been a hiccup in the flow of time, the sound of voices became strangely distorted and low. Like ants caught in honey, everyone around him seemed to be moving in slow motion, their actions suspended in midair. Even Gold Experience was affected, caught in the action of throwing a punch.

Giorno stumbled back, summoning Gold Experience back to his side; a futile effort, for his stand’s reaction was delayed and slow. Movement at the corner of his eye had him whipping around, one hand instinctively stretching out to catch at black cloth—

—only to see the figure slip past him. His fingers closed on empty air, missing the sleeve by mere inches. The person paused just long enough to wink at him; then, before Giorno had time to react, they disappeared.

There was a faint popping sound by his ear, and Giorno braced himself.

Just as suddenly as it had slowed, time resumed its pace.

The abrupt return of movement and sound was so disorienting that he could only watch the scene unfold before him as he gathered himself, dazed. A few feet away from him was Mista, shouting directions to both the Pistols and Narancia, whose Aerosmith was looping back in midair to build speed.

Despite the Pistols’ erratic path, the figure dodged the bullets with a fluid grace. Then Mista was saying something else, and Giorno snapped back to full awareness.

“—orno! Giorno! What happened? Did he get you?” Mista spared a glance in his direction, reloading his gun with practiced ease. Aerosmith flew down to cover them, levelling a path of destruction, and Giorno shook his head; he could explain later.

“Stick to the plan! He hasn’t shown it yet, but I’m certain he’s a stand user.” Where Mista’s bullets landed, there sprouted thick vines and weeds, reaching across the ground at an incredible pace. Where they touched the person, they tried to anchor him in place, tugging at shoes and coiling around ankles.

Gold Experience wrapped on hand around Mista’ gun barrel. Giorno focused his energy into it, seeking out the cold metal of the bullets. When they pulsed in response to the tendrils of power, he let go. “Shoot!”

Aerosmith swooped up again to prepare for another round of attack. The Pistols kicked off delightedly as Mista fired two shots, completely at odds with the mask of battle-calm that had settled over Mista’s expression. At speeds too fast for the human eye to follow, they shot forward; the change of their trajectory was impossible to predict, a series of loops in seemingly random directions.

The bullets vibrated again, and Giorno clenched his fist, reigning the energy in. Not yet, not yet, not yet... Tracking their process through sense more than sight, he refocused his gaze on their enemy.

Unease stirred in his gut. The person was not attacking, but not retreating, either, as though he were stalling for time.

But for what?

Giorno released his hold on the first bullet. Midair, they became writhing vines, hurtling forward. Taken by surprise, their opponent leapt back, and the first transformed bullet embedded itself just short of its target.

The second bullet scraped cloth and skin, and Giorno felt a grim smile of satisfaction creep, unbidden, across his face as tendrils burst forth, thickening and growing. Within seconds, the plant had taken root and tightened its hold on the person, successfully anchoring him to the ground.

“Nice!” Narancia said appreciatively, running up to them. “Now we can ask them why they attacked us out of nowhere.”

The Pistols were floating back to Mista in order to resume their positions in the gun. Mista still had it trained on the unknown enemy, who had dropped into a crouch in an attempt to pull himself free. Giorno studied them. “Don’t move!”