IC INBOX | RYSLIG

[standless]

WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, JOJO. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 336.66.256.63 *** JOJO has joined 336.66.256.63 <JOJO...?> Technically this message doesn't exist. Jonathan doesn't actually have a laptop. I just needed an Inbox.

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[speedweed]

Using that term against him is more than enough to make every muscle in his body tense, even if he had just used it himself. A low growl bubbles in the back of his throat before he's actually making himself be seen from his little burrow, far too golden eyes narrowing in Dio's direction.

He could act, he could, but there is just something holding him back from doing so. At least for another moment or two, to see if this is really worth it or not.

"You come here and speak as if you have any idea of how such an emotion could feel. Speak as if you have any idea of how a loss like that could feel to someone? No, I see my assumptions then were the same as they should remain now. I have given the benefit of the doubt time and time again and yet here you are, speaking as if you understand some sort of emotion that I sincerely, truly doubt you could ever comprehend." Maybe stop him, Jonathan, this is going to be anything but pretty.

"Even now it seems the form this place has given you matches your personality as well. Cold and inhuman. I will admit you are an intelligent sort, which is why it baffles me how you speak in such a matter without using your brain for a fraction of a second. Even if Jonathan will not, I would reduce you to nothing in a heartbeat if given have a reason to do so."

He isn't moving from his spot yet, at the very least, but it's very clear that he's ready to move at a second's notice.

[notpiercings]

Despite everything, Dio's lips manage to stay tightly pursed throughout the entirety of Speedwagon's dialogue, watching him with increasing intensity instead with every word left to hang in the air. He tries to hold himself as someone whose feelings aren't easily hurt, so he elects to keep his potential outcries of defiance to himself because they're just words, Dio, why are you letting them get to you? Why did he even bother trying to comfort these two? Since when have they ever been on good terms? Why did he even try to care!?

And yet he can't bring himself to raise his head to meet their eyes again.

"...I hate that I have to look at your stupid face," he mutters, his fingers gripping the side of the couch, "with a frown that reaches the floor on what should be one of the happiest days of your l̢̰̤͉̝͚i̸̮̖̜͈f̗͚̻̕e̛̯̠͓̖. I hate that the͕ ̰̼͓̞̜̞h̘̖̟͉ap̭͚͖̙͇̳ͅp̛͈͕̳̠͍i͎̳͓̫ͅe̻̺̮̘͓͔̮s̡̘̫̫̪̩t͔̲̻ ̲̬͍d̸͉͕̱̣̼a͓̱̳̝y̨̹͙͉̮̩̹̯ ̥͉͈̱̦of̡̝̯̭ ̼̲̺͕ỵ͇͔̺o̷̲̥͖̖ur life has to be muddled with͖̰̞͕̬̼ ͍̥̪͎̼̪o̳̞͚n͚̯̭̳͈͉e̗͖͈͔͍͇ ̭̲̦̥ọ̫̟̀f̛̙̲͍ t̹̩h͓̩͎̕e̺ ̪̲̠w͘o͙̘r͚̭̪̞̮̟͙st, and I ha̳t̡̺̣̼̯̜ḙ̺̬͚̜ ̷̥͙̹̣th̯̝̳͚̮̭͞a̱t͈͖͔͇̥̻ ̙͢i҉͖̹̯ṭ̯̥̲̖ ̰̱͞ͅh̰͍̖͚̠a̞͔̝͡s͍̼̬̻ ҉̺̜͔̫̣t̵̠͎̟̪͓o͖̞͇̱̖̱ ̸̤̱͖̯̝b҉e͔̘͔͕̥̯ ̗t͙͠h͞ͅạ̺̬̭̰̪̪̀t̰̞̪ ͈̩͕͎̱ͅwa̗y̶̝̦͔ͅ ̴͖̺̗̼̮f͍͓̲̥o̰̝͈̜̲̩r ̶̷̼̣͙̩̞̮̠̺ͅh͕͕͖̺e͢҉̘ŗ҉͕͓̻ t̡̯̞̰o̢͡͏̫͍͉̱ͅó̱̪̠̭͈̙̬͞ ̡̪̺̭͈͙͔̦̖̀̕a̢̧̤͍̬͚̱͠n̡͜͏̜͕̯͚d̹͖͢ ҉͚̱̠͖f̖̝͚̻͟͜͝ǫ̶̠͢r̷̨̝͔ ̹͢ę̢̩̙̰͍̙͕̹̳́v̨̢͍̙͎͞ͅe̷̡̮͕͖̞͟r̢͎̰͎͉̺͎̞̻͞͝y̲̖̰̞̹̳̙͟ơ͇͍̦̰̟͙̭͈ne else! I hatę̷̢͚̯͍͔̖ ̵̡̪̝͈̱̯̀t̘͈̖͇̫͈̙h̛҉͈̘͎̪͓̯ͅa̼͙̪͚̠̜t͓̩́ ͚̬ỵ̘̬̕o͚̤̬̱͘u̯͇̮̕ ͏̟̟͘c̤̮̟̤̘̘̙a̸̲̩͔ń̹͍̰̲̪͇̬ͅ'͚̥̼̞͢t̟̜͓̤ ̬͈̩͚͕̬́a̧̻̺͓̯͉̯̫͘͞ͅͅp̷͖̮̲͢p̨̤̮̰̗̭͝ŕ̹͈͉̭͔͖͔͎͘e̶͍̘̤͎͘c̳̯̼͖͢i̧̺̗̪̝͉͕a̱͙̮̜̤̖t̠̻̯̫̩̞ͅȩ̢̥̻͕́ ̵̢̬i͈̣̱̥͘͜t̻̣͇̼!̸̴̡̗͎̞ ͉̼I͜҉͚̬̺̝̻͓ͅͅ ̹͚͠h̜̠̤͙̪á҉҉̬̘̻̰t̖͈̻̪̯̣̜̬͓͟e̘͎̹̹͟͝ ̡̜̮͚t͚̠̞̼͞ḩ̣̪̘͉a͘҉̖t̶̛̥̝̪̝̘̩̯̀ ̫͕͕̮̪̦͔̖͜y̧͓͓̰̟̥͖̺̱ò̵͇̳u̶͍̗̦̘̠̤͕͡ͅ ̖̘̞̬̱͔̖n̡͕͜e̝̺̮̠ͅv͖̣̗̪͘e͏̳̗̪̺̻̱̣r̨̡̠͕͈̞̖̫͔͜ ̬̯͍͔͟f̧̨͎̱̭̗̣̣̮͇̞͜u̖̺͔̪̲c̛͟҉̝͕͕͇̫ḱ̛̦̝̫͍̼̻̯ͅi̥͉͉͔͍͟ͅn̵҉̵͎̗̱̬̟̠̟̼̺g͈̬͇̘͓̳̱̞̕͢ ̶̭̯̤͖̼w̛̝̻̭̼̲͍͇̳͕̠͎͠ͅi̷҉̺̻͉͟͞l̶̸͟͟͏̙̦̤̜͍̞̪̝͉̬̮̼̞͙͚l̵̢̨͈̖̹̲̱̖̲̭̟̞ͅ!̡̱̬͚̘̗͎̼͓̱̝̙̯͕͎̩̣̝͝"

But not for lack of trying, nor for lack of assumed ability. For a moment he'd had the audacity to be happy for Jonathan's marriage-

"I̦͉͎̼̤͇̖̞̣̲͕̺̟̘̭͚͘̕ ̢̧̞̰͇͝ͅh̵̺̲̟̺̀a̧̯͎̟͓͓̯̙̦t̶̨̢̹͈͓̮̗̼̭̖̙̩͚̝̤̮͉͖̲̘̀e̸̸̢̯͎̳͚̻̟͉̣͇̻̹̱̪̖̭͜͜ ̸͖̠̩͎̗̬͍͙̝̟͈̜̖̞̩̣͖̣͇́͘t̻̩̱͚̭̬̻̀͞͞ͅh̦̗͎̩̀͞a̡̰̫̖̼̗͘t̨͚̫̦̩̠̹̟̣͡ ͇̬͍͙̦͇̹́̕į̵̫̙̼̫͓͙̫̠̮̹̬͟t҉̶̱͙͓͕͇͍̰̲͎͕̝͉͙ͅ'̴̞̱͎͖̲̣̩̻̫͈͕̬͟ͅs͏̤̰̱͜ͅ-̕͞͏̵̧̬̞̞͔̙̫͚̭̠̫-̱̻̼͖̫̫͙̲̘̲̣͎̮͎͕͢͟͜ͅ"

-and so baffled that it would go without even a small gesture of remembrance-

"T̷̨̛͓͇̞͎͉̀h̢͙̞̰̼̗̼̹̙̘͍̮͕̞͍̘͢a̡̡̨̦̝̥͖̳͟t̴̸̴͚̹̪̤̻̩̬͇̱̞̗̗̗̞̪͍͇͘ ҉̹̺͍̤̠̯̥͉̱̼i̵̗͚̰̣̯͇͉͖̼̱̖͎͠͞t̴̷̥̩̜̲̩̦̟͔̼̖͚̝̟̬̬̪̘͜'̲͚̙͢͡͞s̴̡̢̨̺͇̯̦̭ ̛̫̗̝̬̲̥͙͙̟̻͝͡ḁ̶̡̭̗̠͔͈̣̮͈͇͕̭̫̮͉̯͈͡ͅl̷̵̟̘̘̥̤͉̥̮̥̠̼̘̟̪̪̪͠l̛҉̴͈͎̞̦̝͓̯̜̺͖͔͎̩̫̠̙͝͝ͅ.̢̧̢̳̦̙̥̻̝͚͔͕͚̬̟͉̘̱̖͜.̵̨̨̪̪̮̣̰̯͡.̧͏͏̭͚̘̻̫̭͓̥͓̮͖̯̜͍̦̣͉̫͘͡ͅ"

-that he'd forgotten the reason it was all cut so short was because...

".͟͞҉̗̤̙̯.̗̼̲̜̣͓̬̯̞̣̰̭͡.̶͇͚̦̯̰̞̰̼͝

".̧̢̛́.̴̢͘͟͡.̵̛͡͡i͠ ͏̸́h̕҉́a̢҉̴t̵̕͟e͢͜͝͞ ̸͢͞t̡҉̨̧͘h̵̛͘á̸t̨̀͞ ̶̨͏̵ỳ̧͘͝ó̧̡ư̷̶̶r̡͠ę̀ ̴̀r͝͡͞i̷̸͠͞ǵ͜h́͘͝t̷̵.̶̀"

He'll go now. The point of his visit had escaped him anyway. They can yell at him later on the network or fight him in the street if they need that extra catharsis; he's not helping anyone by staying here.

He certainly didn't help anyone before.

[standless]

He should have stopped Speedwagon, perhaps.

He didn't of course, instead he added the only thing he could voice, but there is the nagging feeling that he should have.

Particularly when he realizes that Dio isn't looking at them anymore, when he speaks. When he finishes speaking, and leaves the Simulacrum to respond instead. Respond to break the damning silence that was brought upon them not by the words of the demon but instead the pooka, he finds himself thinking quietly.

The more Dio speaks, the more he can't help but think that instinct to stop Speedwagon wasn't just right.

It was probably vital.

"MRREEEEEEEWWWW-" Queen hisses and screeches and darts for the safety of Speedwagon's burrow, and that's the only warning there is as the words meet the air.

The more Dio speaks the more the simulacrum's voice breaks. Like screaming into a telephone, like the audio files he's occasionally heard from Speedwagon's laptop device, the boy's voice grows farther and farther from something resembling human to some horrid, miserable fascimile of it. It feels as if it stems from rage to start- but something is missing, Jonathan realizes quite coldly. It's something he's more than used to, more than familiar with in his memory and it's missing, and he can't quite put a finger to what has replaced it.

His words are nothing but smears of static, but somehow he can make them out and ultimately they freeze him to the spot.

"Dio-"

The boy is gone before his name even leaves Jonathan's lips.

They are left there, staring at the empty staircase, bits of melted snow still on the floor from where they slicked off from the boy's excessive protection from the liquid death that he'd trudged through. Jonathan can't turn his eyes away from it in the end.

Instead....

Somehow it hurts.

"...Do you remember, Speedwagon, that night when we first cornered Dio together? That night at the manor, before he placed the mask upon his face?" Jonathan doesn't wait for his friend to answer. Instead he goes on, his voice sad, but clear, ringing through the emptiness of the apartment. "...That night when we faced him, you warned me of his facade- announcing that you could even tell from a sniff, the bad from the good. I can remember back then, wishing that I had been able to tell such a thing myself- wondering perhaps, what could have changed otherwise.

"But..." But now. "...But something you said as well...after you declared his villainy before us all, you asked what I had undoubtedly been thinking myself. 'Is he a victim of circumstance?' And without pause you had continued- 'Not on your life; he's been evil since he drew his first breath'."

Silence.

Yet still it is on Jonathan to break it. "...I cannot help but wonder... ...Thinking upon the one I knew in my youth, and the small differences that exist between him and the boy who just left our home now..." The demon swallows, and only now turns back. "...I can't help but think that you might be wrong this time, Speedwagon."