[Atem's waiting by the door, all blue scales and gold bangles. Demon-variant Atem takes in bat-variant Giorno, and, aside from the big ol' ears, the strongest impression Atem gets is from his eyes.
Brows crease under an eye-pattern of scales on his forehead. There's something familiar about the eyes, like they've met as humans before but Atem can't remember. Did Giorno go by a different name in the other-Ryslig, the one Daniel sent them all to? Something's jiggled loose in Atem's memory, a loose thread, a connection fixed only at one end...
...but that doesn't matter right now. The almost-recognition fades from Atem's face and is replaced by an easy grin.]
As if I'd stand up a friend!
[He pulls a key out of his jeans-pocket with clawed, blue fingers as he says:]
Come in, come in!
[Go through the street-level door, down a flight of concrete steps where Atem's goat-feet click like high-heels, and through a second, also locked, door--
--and Giorno will find himself in what can generously be described as a workshop that's been closed down for the holidays, and ungenerously described as a dusty murder basement.
Dust covers are over the workbenches, covered in uneven lumps. Above the larger lumps, pinned to the walls, are newspaper clippings: "SON OF MONSTER-DAMAGE REBUILDING LENDER FOUND DEAD IN ENTERTAINMENT DISTRICT, HEART MISSING" is one headline. "DRUG-RUNNING HOBBYIST: LIEFSON INDUSTRIES HEIR VANISHED AMID QUESTIONS" is another. "ANTIQUITIES DEALER TO THE WEALTHY FOUND DEAD, DISMEMBERED." You get the idea.
A few diagrams are pinned beside the newspapers or lie on an uncovered drafting table; a close look will reveal plans for a jar that closes around a hand when a circuit is completed, leg traps that ratchet closed an inch at a time. There's covered furnaces, tools for metalwork and leatherwork, a waist-high cooler in the corner definitely large enough for a body, right near a more ordinary short fridge, a hot plate, and some comfortable-looking, plush chairs. A little break area, for when you need to rest and eat some cup noodles before you go back to making torture traps.
It all smells fairly clean. There's been blood spilled here, but not for a while, and very neatly. No body in the cooler, no rust stains on any thing. The only thing that shows signs of very recent use is a metal-mold that looks like it's for ten-sided dice, and small leatherwork tools. The calendar on the wall hasn't been changed from November.
Atem heads for a set of shelves next to a high-backed-chair-shaped dust cover, lined with medical supplies -- phlebotomy bags, disinfectant, first aid, as well as body bags, a bone saw, and other tools for butchery.
Atem gestures to the chairs near the mini-fridge and hot plate.]
Sit down, make yourself at home! I'll get what we need together in a second...
[...said casually, as though he's walked Giorno into a completely normal room, without enormous serial killer vibes.]
cw heavy implication of torture, murder, nonconsensual blood draws
Brows crease under an eye-pattern of scales on his forehead. There's something familiar about the eyes, like they've met as humans before but Atem can't remember. Did Giorno go by a different name in the other-Ryslig, the one Daniel sent them all to? Something's jiggled loose in Atem's memory, a loose thread, a connection fixed only at one end...
...but that doesn't matter right now. The almost-recognition fades from Atem's face and is replaced by an easy grin.]
As if I'd stand up a friend!
[He pulls a key out of his jeans-pocket with clawed, blue fingers as he says:]
Come in, come in!
[Go through the street-level door, down a flight of concrete steps where Atem's goat-feet click like high-heels, and through a second, also locked, door--
--and Giorno will find himself in what can generously be described as a workshop that's been closed down for the holidays, and ungenerously described as a dusty murder basement.
Dust covers are over the workbenches, covered in uneven lumps. Above the larger lumps, pinned to the walls, are newspaper clippings: "SON OF MONSTER-DAMAGE REBUILDING LENDER FOUND DEAD IN ENTERTAINMENT DISTRICT, HEART MISSING" is one headline. "DRUG-RUNNING HOBBYIST: LIEFSON INDUSTRIES HEIR VANISHED AMID QUESTIONS" is another. "ANTIQUITIES DEALER TO THE WEALTHY FOUND DEAD, DISMEMBERED." You get the idea.
A few diagrams are pinned beside the newspapers or lie on an uncovered drafting table; a close look will reveal plans for a jar that closes around a hand when a circuit is completed, leg traps that ratchet closed an inch at a time. There's covered furnaces, tools for metalwork and leatherwork, a waist-high cooler in the corner definitely large enough for a body, right near a more ordinary short fridge, a hot plate, and some comfortable-looking, plush chairs. A little break area, for when you need to rest and eat some cup noodles before you go back to making torture traps.
It all smells fairly clean. There's been blood spilled here, but not for a while, and very neatly. No body in the cooler, no rust stains on any thing. The only thing that shows signs of very recent use is a metal-mold that looks like it's for ten-sided dice, and small leatherwork tools. The calendar on the wall hasn't been changed from November.
Atem heads for a set of shelves next to a high-backed-chair-shaped dust cover, lined with medical supplies -- phlebotomy bags, disinfectant, first aid, as well as body bags, a bone saw, and other tools for butchery.
Atem gestures to the chairs near the mini-fridge and hot plate.]
Sit down, make yourself at home! I'll get what we need together in a second...
[...said casually, as though he's walked Giorno into a completely normal room, without enormous serial killer vibes.]