Where Anyone is Possible
May Fifthteenth, year two-thousand and seventeen.
Journal Entry no. 1.
Tracking down the roots of my past wasn’t something easy. Not something I could just do with the snap of my fingers, thinking I was some god that could do anything if he wanted.
I couldn't just make them cough up what I wanted. Couldn't just have them tell me every little detail. People were stubborn. Of course, that, and they couldn't speak from the fear they felt.
The Fear of Me.
What happened whilst I was gone? It’s been a year, maybe two. I can’t find my old partner, nor anyone I even remember. Hell, maybe this little incident of mine wiped out more memories than I first thought - maybe i’m actually just going insane. Losing my mind.
I killed the first of them today.
The first of the people who turned me into what I was. A soldier. A tool. A weapon.
Journal entry end.
It’d been in the middle of the day. Two in the afternoon, the sun beating down on everything and everyone around. Broad daylight, stretching over the city that the man found himself going through, ducking between buildings and alleyways to hide himself from public view.
Last thing he wanted was some randomer consoling him on his wounds. Not whilst he’s on a mission. James Giorno. An Italian who had been part of the project that reconstructed him, and part of the project that oversaw the training of children to turn them into young killers. Michael had his position tracked already, leaving a normal life after what had happened to ONI corporation.
Trying to hide what he did in the past.
That was all about to go down the drain, however. Michael already had a track on him, sure. But he wasn’t intent on making anything subtle, or inconspicuous. Once James was visible in the streets, he was already making his move - and a sudden streak of cloaked red jumps across the street, over the heads of bystanders - to wrap a chain around the neck of the man he was hunting, a leg outstretched to trip him up and hold him so he was falling neck-first upon the chain, struggling against it for dear life.
‘Nn--! A--Agh..!’ Already the man had caught his footing, and was brought up to his head was at the same level as Michael’s, noticing the familiar look in the eyes of the one assaulting him, both hands each holding something equivalent to a large meat hook that the chain was attached to on both ends, and each tip was now pressed against the skin of the man’s neck.
This was to be his end.
“Talk. In front of this crowd. About why I was made - and you might get something that’s still going to kill you. It just won’t be as painful.”
People were gathered around - looking to one another, then to the man, cloaked in red, holding this other man by the neck, with two meat hooks for weapons, each tip pressed against his neck, clearly intent on using them.
‘I-I don’t know anything, K-Kovenach. Not-nothing!’ The man tried to utter out, and both of his hands were gripping the chain still tightly wrapped around his own neck, terrified. Why wouldn’t he be? He had a cybernetic soldier, skin burnt and charred, eyes burning holes into his head with how much he stared, holding him by the neck with a chain and two big sharp points.
“..Nothin’?” Michael asked. And his tone gave away his sarcasm. The man gave a few quick nods, before Michael sighed, and the chain seemed to loosen. “..Right. Well.. you’re no use to me.” And before he could give the man a chance, he pierced both hooks through the front of his neck - only to pull them apart, ripping open the man’s throat and allowing blood to escape like a small river before it calmed down, civilians sent screaming and running away in terror from such a brutal scene.
The former researcher was struggling for life, trying to keep a hold of what little remained of his neck before he seemed to slow down, and, finally - slump onto the pavement.
Michael was done here. There was no point in staying.
And with that, he fled. It was only the first of many, after all.. A path of blood was going to be carved out before him.
A path of Viscera.