[EVENT POST] I FEEL STUPID, AND CONTAGIOUS.

[dishearten]

CHARACTERS: Open to all!
DATE: 3/11-3/12, ICly
WARNINGS: Zombie attacks? Violence? Shopping???
SUMMARY: Lockdown at the mall! Grab your CDs and your soft pretzel, it's about to get bad.

LET'S GO TO THE MALL LOCKDOWN Business has been rough for Woodhurst Shopping Center ever since riots and unrest about the Bristol Virus have shunned most to their homes. Perhaps ill-advisedly, in attempts to draw a few more customers back into the polished halls of the grandest shopping experience Woodhurst has to offer, a weekend of big sales, great bargains, and fun family activities was widely advertised in the Woodhurst Watch. There was even a scheduled public concert, performed by the University Choir. The turnout was smaller than hoped, yet the air was quite optimistic. Shoppers enjoyed the day of activities and fun, and the sense of security was bolstered by the increased security detail. There was even some members of the press on hand to document this return to normality in a troubled time. Everything was going well, until a scene broke out in the food court. Security tried to quietly remove members of the choir that suddenly seemed to snap, plowing into one of the food stands and starting to feed on raw meat. However, a good handful of them escaped instant confinement, and while many of the visitors fled the mall as soon as they could, soon Police Detail arrived and put the entire building on lockdown. Nobody in and nobody out until the situation was resolved. 18:00 TO 23:00 HOURS Anyone unlucky enough to be trapped in the mall is left to their own devices, with very little knowledge to go on. This includes many civilians, as well as a small number of Audentes agents. This also includes a small number of infected, more than just the university choir. There's a voice over the loudspeaker imploring people to hide in stores, barricade doors, and stay put until help arrives. The majority of the infected seem to linger in the Food Court especially. Bad news for anyone trapped and starting to get hungry as the hours pass by, without any obvious assistance from the outside. The members of ALASTAIR have a choice, help protect or just do their best to avoid the infected themselves. Characters can get into the Security Office for a camera feed on what is happening in the mall, and potentially use it as a base of operations to work from. 00:00 TO 02:00 HOURS It becomes apparent that the number of infected in the mall are somehow increasing, despite the lockdown. It means that those that have squirreled away into stores and outlets are growing less and less safe as infected numbers multiply and they begin attacking barricades. To make matters worse, anyone that hasn't found cover will find the infected extremely reactive, and willing to give chase around the mall. The security feed indicates the infected seem to be coming in from the Parking Garage. Investigation will reveal a sewer outlet on the bottom floor. Characters will have to decide whether they should utilize the tunnel as a means of escape, or if sealing it off would ultimately leave the remaining hours of lockdown a little less violent. 04:00 TO 09:00 HOURS It's been an agonizing 12 hours, and with surprisingly little aide from the outside. With time to make preparations and put plans in place, now it's time to end this lockdown once and for all. Audentes is tasked with neutralizing the remaining infected as well as escorting any remaining civilians to safety, by any means they decide on. It is up to Audentes to decide how the end of this event plays out, be it removing or otherwise drawing away the lingering infected, or putting them down once and for all. There are plenty of civilians that have been bitten and attacked, leaving the question in the air as to whether they are infected as well. What should be done with those that could be bringing the virus back to their families? The team is going to have to decide on the answer to that.

Comments

[unholey]

Well, share it! [There might not be much time between Joseph's complaint and when he reaches the store but let it be known: Fugo always has the time and the breath to complain.

Well, maybe not always. The little breath he has gets straight up knocked out of him when he's dropped and then slid underneath the grate. But he's fine. That's what he tells himself, as he scrabbles to find purchase with one hand on the ugly carpet tile that someone decided was a good idea to cover the floor with. His vision swims as his eyes hyper-focus on the ugly pattern, then abruptly out-of-focus.

This is unfortunate. But he has to get up, he has to help, he has to stand--]

[Fugo's arm wobbles as he too-slowly pushes himself up off the floor. His breathing is the pained, exhausted wheeze of someone who has pushed themselves beyond their limits-- and yet, keeps on pushing. Stopping doesn't even cross his mind. He can't stop. Not when Giorno needs him to stand, even if he can barely push himself up to an unsteady crouch.]

cwrystal said to go and now she'll go :V

[digiorno]

[Fugo is not fine. And because he's not fine, something in the room is off. He isn't standing up quickly enough; his breathing is wrong; his movements are wrong, his heartbeat is off.]

[It was never a question, honestly. Never ever. Giorno would rather take a knife in the back a hundred times over than let Fugo get hurt again. He can heal himself, physically, but losing one of his people again is just--he can't. He can't do it. Not again. He'll fall apart.]

[The stiletto tumbles from his fingers and falls to the floor. It's not a loud sound, but it's probably a surprising one--not in the least because of how little Giorno attends to it. Just like that, his priorities shift a full hundred and eighty degrees and so does he, turning on his heel to catch Fugo in his arms before he falls.]

Fugo, [he breathes, panicked, and digs his fingers into the other boy's shoulders, steadying him. He reaches out with Gold Experience, presses his phantom fingers against Fugo's vital signs, checking, terrified.] Fugo? What happened--

[nextlineis]

[As Giorno rushes to be beside Fugo, Joseph ducks under the gate and quickly pulls it shut. The noise of it keeps him from hearing the stiletto as it hits the floor with a clatter, but when he turns to check on the previously precious cargo the two kids he picked up, he spots it on the floor.]

Huh?

[Joseph glances up at the pair of them for a brief second before bending down and picking the stiletto up. Fortunately for everyone involved, he doesn't make the automatic assumption that this was about to be plunged into him, and instead thinks that it was pulled for self-defense against the actual threat in this mall.]

[Joseph steps around them, giving them a wide berth as he comes around, trying not to startle either one of them. Christ, that kid doesn't look so good. He holds the stiletto out to Giorno.]

I'll check around and see if anybody left some water in the back or something.

[unholey]

[When he was running, his whole body was unbearably heavy; his bones might as well have been made of lead, with how much energy it took to move them. But, now-- he feels so light. Weightless, really. So why is it that he can't move his arms? It's so frustrating, he thinks, annoyed by the way his vision goes gray around the edges.

Fugo slumps forward into Giorno's arms, completely slack, unable to keep his balance. His heartbeat flutters and his breathing is quick and shallow; he's exhausted and in no shape to move, but otherwise not hurt. He doesn't hear the knife hit the floor, or register the sound of the shutter coming down. He mumbles something that might be sto bene, but he stumbles over the consonants so much that the words turn into mush in his mouth.]

[All in all, he loses about fifteen seconds to the fainting spell. But he quickly comes back with a shudder, trying to shake off a nearly overwhelming combination of dizziness and nausea.]

Giogio? Where--

[digiorno]

[So much is happening. Giorno understands none of it. Joseph comes around with the knife held out to him, hands him back the weapon that Giorno was going to use to stab him with. Like it's nothing. Giorno takes it, juggling Fugo's weight a bit, with numb fingers that are moving on autopilot.]

[Fugo wakes up. Fugo lost a few seconds. Giorno feels like maybe he did, too. It feels like King Crimson all over again--everything is skipping. He doesn't understand. He doesn't understand, and he has to. That's his whole job.]

I . . .

[Some water in the back or something. That guy is going to get water? Why . . .]

[He shakes his head. Looks down at Fugo, tries to focus.]

We're safe. We're okay. [It's kind of true.] The gate is down. Ah--the guy who picked you up, he's . . . getting you some water. [It's painfully obvious how little he understands.]

[nextlineis]

[Once the knife's taken out of his hand, Joseph's off toward the back at a jog. The kid's clearly got a very loose hold on consciousness now, but that's not an excuse to dawdle. In fact, Joseph hops the counter rather than taking his time to walk around. He turns to face the registers, and at first glance, it doesn't look like there's anything. But first glance doesn't mean much of anything with this much clutter behind the counter. Joseph crouches and begins pulling whatever he can get his hands on off the shelves, hoping that he might unearth an abandoned bottle of water, but all he finds are extra boxes of bags, things to write with and on, extra rolls of receipts, fliers, and a few pricing guns.]

[He mutters a curse under his breath and stands up, looking in Fugo and Giorno's direction briefly.]

[He turns, trying the door at the back, and finds it unlocked. Into the break area he goes, hopeful that he has a little more luck there.]

[unholey]

[He can move his arms now: that's good. That's progress towards okay. He thinks. Everything else is moving too quickly around him. ... No. That's not the problem: he's processing everything too slowly, like what Giorno is saying to him or filtering the sounds of--

Someone is in here with them. Briefly, Fugo flinches and curls in tight towards Giorno before it sinks in that what he's hearing is the guy, the bizarrely tall and broad guy, rummaging around in something. Looking for water. For him?]

For me? But, we... [Fugo bows his head and rests it on Giorno's shoulder. They were going to fuck that guy up. Except now they can't, because just thinking is a struggle. And now he's helping?] Why? I just. Need to sit. For a little while. Then, I...

[He's not sure what happens after then. For now, though, he knows he needs just a little more time to clumsily try and pull himself back together again. He's so tired. This is no place to sleep; even knowing that, it's such a struggle to keep his eyes open.]

[digiorno]

[His expression softens. He doesn't mean for it to. He wants to be strong and get them through this, but he can feel himself fraying at the edges. Everything needs to fall into place and start making sense, so he can push it forward onto Fugo in terms he'll understand. He has to lead for Fugo, but this man--]

[He's not much of a man, is he? He isn't really that old. What is he doing? What's his game, what does he want, everyone wants something. He can't be playing some kind of long game, he's simply not intelligent enough.]

[Giorno doesn't mean to go as soft as he does, or as vulnerable-looking. He doesn't mean to curl his hand protectively around the back of Fugo's neck, but he does that too.]

Come sit down over here. Just sit on the floor, okay? We'll find a chair later.

[He schools his expression instinctively and draws Fugo away from the nowhere-in-the-middle-of-everything they were standing, pushing them behind a shelf. Before they disappear from view entirely and Giorno starts ushering Fugo to sit down on the floor, and after a moment of hesitation, he waves vaguely after Joseph to signal where they're going.]

[nextlineis]

[Joseph catches the signal that they're moving away from the dead center of the store, and nods, before he heads through the door marked with a sign above it that reads EMPLOYEES ONLY. He continues down a narrow corridor that has only just enough space for two people (or one Jojo) due to the stacks upon stacks of shoes in varying sizes along one wall. The other wall is peppered occasionally with bulletin boards with various papers that remind employees about certain benefits and expectations, as well as a few messages to one another. It's at the far end of the corridor that Joseph finds what he's looking for with a small break room.]

[In the center of the room is a rickety card table and a few chairs facing a television that's seen better days. Opposite that wall is a small collection of lockers. A few of them are locked, padlocks of varying sizes and colors, but there are some that are clearly occupied and unlocked. Joseph starts there rather than trying to brute force the combinations for any of the lockers.]

[He strikes out with the first four lockers, finding mostly trash and a few forgotten papers that were clearly distributed to all employees. The fifth, however, proves useful when he finds someone's paper bag dinner still untouched with a bottle of water left untouched. Joseph snatches it, not even bothering to really closely inspect the contents of food or close the locker door, and scampers on back out to the front.]

Got it! [he calls as he hops the counter once more with a wide grin.] There's some food here, too.

[The water's what's offered to Giorno first. He'd hold it out to Fugo, but the kid doesn't look like he's really with it enough to manage that by himself.]

[unholey]

[Fugo allows himself to be led along, mumbling agreement and more nonsense as he stumbles forward. Most of it seems to be an apology of sorts in muddled Engish and Italian, although it's unclear what exactly he's trying to make up for. He keeps his balance, not somehow, but thanks to Giorno at his side keeping him steady; when it's time to sit, Giorno guides him down to the floor and doesn't let him fall or push him away.]

I just need a minute, [he plaintively promises, as soon as he gathers the presence of mind to know what he needs. His voice is soft and wheezy and he has the fingers of his near hand caught up in Giorno's shirt; he's too woozy to even put it into words even his thoughts but, after everything tonight, he desperately wants to keep Giorno close to him.] I just need to catch my breath. Clear my head.

[Stubbornly, Fugo refuses to close his eyes. He listlessly stares at the seemingly endless stack of shoes on the shelf, picking out the sizing numbers and the brand names. In the distance, someone is calling out to them. Fugo shifts in place on Giorno's shoulder to look out at the rest of the store-- the shoe store, across the plaza-- and blearily watches Joseph as he bounds over the counter and crosses the space in a few gigantic strides.

Ah. That's right. It's that asshole. Who picked them up and carried them here. Fucking him up isn't the plan anymore, but--]

Who the hell are you?

[digiorno]

You need more than a minute, Fugo.

[It's more weary than scolding. God, but he's tired. He can't be tired yet, but he's so tired. He rubs circles between Fugo's shoulderblades, starting a bit, stupidly, when Joseph returns.]

Thank--

[Oh. And there's Fugo . . . Fugo-ing. Despite everything, it makes him laugh a little under his breath as he takes the water.]

Well, at least I know you're not actually dying. Thank you for the water, Mister . . . ?

[nextlineis]

[Joseph's starting to paw around the rest of the untouched lunch once Giorno takes the water, not at all bothered by Fugo's prickliness. That sort of stuff is just water rolling off a duck's back to him after all. He does snort at being called Mister though. Why on earth would anybody call him that? Hm, the sandwich in here's pretty disappointing with not much on it. Joseph's pretty sure whoever made this sandwich was either lazy or not fussy. Probably the latter since the rest of the lunch doesn't look so bad.]

You guys are obviously younger than me, but I'm nowhere old enough for you to call me mister. Name's Joseph Joestar, [he says, passing off an apple to Giorno.] But you can call me Jojo like everyone else does. Ooh, crisps!

[Joseph fairly triumphantly pulls out a bag of potato chips and gives it a little shake.]

Either of you want it? There's some carrot sticks in here, too, with, uuuhh... [He looks back down into the bag, giving it a little jostle.] Looks like peanut butter. You guys can have the sandwich.

[unholey]

[Fugo's first foggy, exasperated thought is that he must have heard Joseph misspeak; he's not Giogio, that's Giorno. Then it clicks: he said Jojo not Giogio. Jojo, for Joseph Joestar.

His eyes go wide and then narrow. All around him, Giorno has gone tense and still. Because this is Joseph Joestar; while Fugo doesn't recognize his first name or know who he might be, Napoli is never far from his thoughts. He recognizes that surname, remembers its connection to the Speedwagon Foundation. This cannot be a coincidence. Fate doesn't work like that.]

[Fugo curls closer to Giorno and, with a surprisingly steady hand given his recent dizzy spell, reaches to take the water. He allows his fingers to purposefully brush against Giorno's: I'm still here, I can help cover, pick a direction and I will follow your lead.]

Joseph, then. [Even when he's this exhausted, Fugo is doing his best to work with what he has. If Joseph wants everyone to call him by his nickname, he'd get annoyed about being called by his surname. But still: Fugo refuses to call him Jojo. Giorno is Giogio. In his head it's as simple as that.] ... I'll take the carrots.

Don't you care about your arm?

[It... sure is still bleeding. Pretty profusely. Now that everything is coming back, little by little, Fugo finds himself running face-first into the familiar smell of blood. Ugh. Gross. And he left a trail of it too, back and forth on the floor, a smear from vaulting over the counter...]

[digiorno]

[Name's Joseph Joestar.]

[He almost drops the apple. He almost throws up. He almost faints, can see another version of today's events that ended with him sprawled across Fugo's legs and unconscious. It's too much. It's just too much, even he can't expect to deal with all of this at once--first the threat from the infected, then the threat of this man stealing Fugo, then the thought that maybe, just maybe, he isn't so dangerous after all, and now--]

[Joseph Joestar. Joseph Joestar helped to kill his father. Joseph Joestar is Jotaro Kujo's grandfather. Joseph Joestar--he doesn't know much about him. But he knows that Joseph would hate him if he knew. Hate him, and try to destroy him. And then Fugo would be all alone, and Napoli would be bereft.]

[He wants to scream. He should have killed Joseph while they were running. He should have plunged his knife into Joseph's gut. He should strangle him with vines right now, or poison him, or just throw him out to the infected right now. He doesn't want family here--what kind of family is this?]

[But Fugo saves him. Fugo always saves him.]

Eat the peanut butter, too, [he says hoarsely, his fingers still shaking at the memory of contact with Joseph's fingers, then with Fugo's. Fugo's ground him where he was beginning to fall apart. He tries to remember how to breathe.]

Ah--I'm sorry. [He's not. He's sorry he didn't do worse.] I can fix your arm, if you'd like.

[nextlineis]

[Don't you care about your arm?]

[Joseph pauses in the middle of digging into the bag to retrieve the requested carrots to look at both of his arms in front of him. He might appear puzzled, but he's more perplexed that he managed to forget about it all while he was looking for water than the fact he's bleeding. It's not like he forgot the vine digging into his arm or something, after all. But the wound's not about to be life threatening, so Joseph's not bothered by it enough to hold off on handing over the carrots directly to Fugo.]

Oh, it's not that— [Joseph stops and looks at Giorno when he speaks, Giorno's voice sounding weak and small. The peanut butter comment sounds more like a meek suggestion than a direct order like Joseph thinks it's supposed to be. It's a sharp contrast to the way he was speaking earlier, anyway, especially once the stilted apology comes tumbling out. Joseph shakes his head as he turns the small cup of peanut butter over to Fugo. He's trying to puzzle out where Giorno's reaction is coming from as he sets the bag still holding the sandwich down on a nearby shelf and tears open the bag of potato chips.] Nah, I'm fine. I've had a lot worse.

[He pops a potato chip, munching it thoughtfully. Or rather, he munches on it and looks at Giorno thoughtfully. It's not the sight of blood that's bothering him, obviously. He had a knife on him. He's here in the middle of all this. Joseph's been bleeding for a little while, and it's his fault. He's not sick like his friend is either, so it's not like it's just settling in how tired he is or something. No, that kicked in right after Joseph said his name.]

[Joseph pops another chip. He could play stupid about it. Wait for the kid to give a few more tells and then figure out where to go from there, but what'd be the point? It'd just make being stuck together until the group of infected outside lost interest tenser for much longer than necessary. Sure, addressing it head on means the kid might want to fight about whatever it is that's got him acting weird (because in Joseph's experience, that's where these kind of weird reactions lead to), but better he get it out of his system instead of spending all the time staring at Joseph when he thinks Joseph's not paying attention, right?]

You know the Joestars, don't you? [He shoves a couple of chips in his mouth, talking around them. His tone is light enough for a mundane conversation that neither one of them will remember five minutes after it's over.] Or at least you've heard of us, yeah?

[unholey]

[Fugo twists the cap off of the water and takes a long sip of it. He knows he needs the water, but what he needs more of is time to think. Giorno is off balance. He needs to do something to make time; moreover, he needs to do something to make Joseph think they're less scared than they already are.]

Who eats peanut butter with carrots? [He takes it anyway, though, along with the carrots. Because he doesn't trust himself not to accidentally knock it over, Fugo twists the cap back onto the bottle. Even though he still feels nauseous, he fumbles to open the little ziplock of carrots.] It's probably supposed to go with the apple.

[Once the bag is open and he's fished a piece out, Fugo sets the bag aside with the water to free up one of his hands. The closest arm to Giorno sneaks around his side; Fugo rests his hand on Giorno's back, palm open. He doesn't know why the name Joseph Joestar makes Giorno so afraid; he doesn't have the strength to stand between them, either, so he'll have to settle for helping Giorno stay balanced.]

... from the Speedwagon Foundation. They're really big. [He nibbles on the carrot stick, watching Joseph with sharp eyes to see how he takes it. What comes next is the harder part: the lie. The Speedwagon Foundation is a common name, but their association with the Joestars isn't as widely known. But he surrounds his lie, which he'll say with the same confidence as the rest of it, with pieces of the truth.] And everyone knows they work for the Joestars.

It's freaky, running into a name like that in a place like this.

[digiorno]

Mm. It's quite unsettling, yes.

[What a good lie. A great lie, grounded in truth. He even manages to give Joseph a reassuring smile and actually mean it, even though he means it for Fugo.]

It's easier to pretend there aren't any connections to home in a place like this. It takes some of the danger away, you know? Like all this awfulness can't get back to the people back home that I should be protecting. A reminder like this is just--jarring.

[And that's true, too. The reminder of all the work he isn't doing to build up relations with the Speedwagon Foundation makes him worry for the safety of his people. None of it's a lie.]

[He glances sideways at Fugo.] Americans do, I think. [About the peanut butter. Obviously.]

[nextlineis]

[Joseph tries to keep a straight face, but the more the words they work for the Joestars keeps running through his mind, the stronger the urge gets to laugh. He doesn't end up laughing, but he does grin wide and plainly amused while he continues munching on the potato chips.]

Work for the Joestars? [Joseph shakes his head a little.] If Granny Erina heard you talking like that, she'd box both your ears. Uncle Speedwagon's fortune and foundation are his own. The only connection between the Speedwagon Foundation and the Joestars is Granny and Speedwagon have been friends since before even my father was born.

[Which isn't to say Speedwagon hasn't helped Erina out throughout the years, of course. Joseph and Speedwagon both would probably say that Erina's done all of it -- raising a child and a grandchild -- on her own, but she'd insist (and Joseph would too) that some of what she did wouldn't have been possible without Speedwagon. Even if Erina did most of the heavy lifting in more ways than one, Speedwagon was still there and he still helped in whatever way he could or Erina wanted.]

[It's just a stretch to say that he or his foundation work for Joseph and his family. That's never been the relationship, not once. Speedwagon is a part of the family, not an employee.]

I get the feeling you haven't heard good things about my family though. [Joseph looks between the two of them. Unsettling or not, that was still a fairly strong reaction. Strong enough that the physically weaker of the two felt the need to reach out and support the other.] I can promise you most of it's probably not true. Wherever you heard that stuff from isn't a good source anyway if they're telling you Uncle Speedwagon works for us. Granny's a good person, and so were my grandfather and parents.

[Joseph distracts himself by looking into the bag of chips to see how many are left, but his smile still turns a little brittle.]

The worst thing you can really say about us as a family is that we tend to die young. [There's a pause as his smile finds its strength and he pulls out a particularly large chip from the bag.] Well, and some of us have a bit of a temper.

[He does. He's the one with a temper. But he's not going to call himself out directly, okay. No, he's gonna eat this potato chip instead.]

[unholey]

[Ah. Good. His gamble has paid off; Joseph is from the past. The name "Speedwagon" isn't just an organization to him: he knew the man who founded it. And although he thinks Fugo's impression of the foundation's relationship with his family is wrong, he's at least accepted how the two of them recognize his name.

The rest of it, though... well, that's not the sort of conversation he can navigate. But that's fine. He bought the moment Giorno needed. Fugo doesn't offer any more information to Joseph, instead busying himself with making himself eat the carrots. He doesn't really want to. His stomach is in knots and the smell of blood makes him feel nauseous. He does not dip them in the peanut butter, because he's pretty sure Giorno is bullshitting him about Americans. They can't be that disgusting.

But Giorno is better at this sort of smoothing-over than he is; Joseph might be canny, but he wants to trust them. He wants to leave them with a better impression of the Joestars than they started with. Fugo doesn't move a single millimeter from where he's sitting, wedged underneath Giorno's arm, carefully watching Joseph's reactions and tracking the flexibility and unexpected honesty of his smile.]

[digiorno]

[We have a tendency to die young.]

[It leaves a lump in his throat. Of course it does. He's not a monster. He has--regrets. He has guilt, he has sorrow even for people he doesn't know. There's no deep emotional connection to the Joestars, and honestly sometimes he hates them, but that doesn't mean they deserved what happened to them.]

[What his father did to them. He sighs, shifts a little, and leans on Fugo's shoulder.]

I suppose there's probably a lot of misinformation that I've heard, yes. I don't expect everything that I know is true.

[No, he expects that most things he's heard are false, or at least colored by bias. He tries to remember who Erina is and can't. It makes him a little sick to try to sort it out.]

I believe you that your grandmother is a good person. I . . . wouldn't mind hearing about her sometime, if you were interested. I'm sure you must miss her a lot.

[nextlineis]

Yeah, [Joseph says with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulder. It's not really that smooth of a lie when he says it that casually after everything he's just said. But while it's unquestionable that Joseph loves his grandmother and cherishes her perhaps more than any other person in his life, like most boys, he doesn't want to seem too dependent on her either. Which is why there's a subtle redirection in the conversation, too, and not just the flimsy lie.] So how do you guys know the Speedwagon Foundation, anyway?

[unholey]

How don't we know them? [Fugo rolls his eyes. This, at least, is true: time marches forward, the influence of the Speedwagon Foundation grows wider. They're a powerful ally. Or foe.] They've got their fingers in all kinds of research. They show up on the news a lot.

[Fugo shuffles his shoulder. It's not to displace Giorno; rather, it's to help him get comfortably settled. He murmurs something, a little too quiet for Joseph's ears: it's a quiet reminder that Giorno shouldn't forget his apple.]

[digiorno]

Mmhm. Research, business, some real estate. It's actually quite impressive.

[Oh. His apple. He looks down at it in his hands, as though surprised it's still there. After a moment, he dips his head and mutters grazie in response before taking a bite. His heart isn't in it, but he's got to set a good example.]

Mister Speedwagon was--what is it? A captain of industry. [Something like that.]

[nextlineis]

[Joseph knows that Speedwagon's the sort of guy that's got a number of irons in various fires, so that part doesn't come as any sort of surprise to hear even if it's surprising to hear that it's managed to catch a little more public attention than private interests. What gives Joseph pause, mid-crunch of a chip, however, is the word was. Manners are always a forgotten thing with Joseph so after his moment, he simply asks around the half-eaten chip,]

What do you mean was? Speedwagon may be an old man, but sometimes even I have a hard time keeping up with him.

[That's not completely true. The sentiment is — very little has slowed Speedwagon down over, and time is not one of those things — but Joseph could still exhaust Speedwagon easy enough. It's just a little unfair when it's Joseph's energy that's acting as the comparison.]

[unholey]

[Good. Giorno is eating the apple. He probably doesn't want to, but he's still eating and that's what matters.]

Because that's what the history books call him: "a captain of industry," for creating one of the first international organizations dedicated to medical and scientific research. [Fugo punctuates this statement with a crunch of another carrot.] Back home, the year for us is 2001. Robert E. O. Speedwagon has been dead for... [He pauses, eyebrows pinching together while he rifles through his facts to try and remember the date.] ...almost fifty years now, I think?