Truth be told, Giorno Giovanna has always wanted to visit America.
The vast, sun-bleached plains of the great American west were truly a sight to behold. The rural aesthetic may have thrown the boy's city-built senses for a loop, but there weren't many locations in all of Italy - let alone all of Europe - that could compare to the strangely nostalgic look of America's rolling hills and dusty, beaten crossroads leading off to ever more scenic locales. Perhaps the 'freedom' that this country clings to is embodied by how empty and free it's land is.
Especially when it exists in a time long before the existence of. . .well, roads, highways, and shady gas stations. A time vastly different than what the young master of Passione was used to. Indeed, the truth is that Giorno Giovanna was very,
very far from home. The golden-haired boy was trekking across a beaten dirt road winding across the plains to seemingly nowhere as his purpose for being here returned to the fore of his mind.
Ever since Giorno Giovanna had crossed paths with what he recognized as Dio Brando during his unwilling foray into new realities, he couldn't quite escape the thoughts about his own family that began to fester in his psyche like a cancer. Giorno did not pride himself in many things, but the one memento he carried on within his spirit from the early days of Passione was his focus, and now even that has been taken away from him with these damn thoughts.
To Giorno Giovanna, life was a series of paths; those winding, golden paths that only those of great resolve and ambition can hope to follow. The purpose of living in his eyes was to achieve a status of power and respect that is built on 'truth'. Those good people who are truly just will find within themselves the resolve to make their dreams come true. Those who are superficial and live only from moment to moment find themselves trapped in an endless cycle of suffering borne from their own malice.
Climb to the top by being
real, or fall from being
fake.
Perhaps this ideology is what drew Giorno to what he thought would be his true father. Someone who does not live superficially, or act on the principle of wiping away their fears. Someone who is of strong heart and ambitious. Someone that Giorno can look up to, and call his father.
What Giorno Giovanna got instead was what he actually wanted, but did not wish to admit;
the truth.
A vision. . .of true
evil.
A blackened heart that can only belong to a man who has devoured any scrap of humanity left in himself. He who lives only to take things from others - not to give or to rightfully inherit, but to
take. Taking lives, taking livelihoods, taking futures, taking hope, taking
blood. He who gives anything back but a dark reign of suffering and pain. Just taking, and taking, and taking from everyone and everything until he can live without fear. Whether that means subjugating his enemies or killing them is left up to his own inhumane machinations.
That is what Dio Brando was - or rather, this is what Dio Brando
is, because he's still alive.
And he seeks to become nothing less than a God.
Giorno's nails nearly drew blood from his palms from how hard his fists clenched at the thought alone. The greatest of dreams can fall to the worst of despairs, it seems. Now all that is left in the boy's mind is a desperate yearning that he wished he couldn't acknowledge.
But he has to. The fire in his eyes when he described the plan to Ollerus indicated that.
I need to know that there's something left to salvage from all this. A version of some kind that has some semblance of true humanity left. That there is a reality out there where my father is not the devil. A reality where I'm not the prodigy of a monster.
. . .because I, Giorno Giovanna, have a dream. I will find him.
Giorno nodded to himself, and continued walking down the path. Just as he continued walking for a couple more minutes, Giorno suddenly heard a steady beat growing louder, as if it was approaching from behind him. Was it someone running towards him? No, it cant be; it sounds too heavy to be human feet. If it's not that, could it be. . .a horse?
Silver Bullet's rushing reached it's peak once the golden-haired jockey picked up on the scent of another person, just in time for Giorno to turn around. As his eyes registered a man sitting atop a horse in distance, a sharp feeling shot up the boys spine like a tingle; that same tingle that he felt once he laid eyes upon Jolyne.
That feeling again. Could this man be. . .?!
Diego's senses would flare once more as he could pick up on a person slowly approaching him; a boy with golden hair, wearing a strange foreign uniform. The boy stopped a few feet away from the mounted jockey, meeting eyes with him. There was a silence between the two that could last for eons, but suddenly Giorno's lips moved hesitantly.
". . .Are you Dio Brando?"
@Hood Rat