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In America, it’s easy.
The accents are different, but the English is adequate. The people here have shed so many of the past’s inhibitions and stifling values. Hypocrisy and contradiction is rife, but now he is above it all. They’re freer, now.
It is pleasing to him, DIO.
The population has swelled, the cities choked with all types of human. He samples them, moves among their delightful nightlife, excited by the opportunities.
Easy to find followers and prey alike. With the struggle to survive replaced with comforts and ease, humanity is filled with a different desire. To find purpose, to find distinction amongst the masses.
Is he not kind, to give them a purpose?
In America, he meets one for the first time.
It is not him; DIO turned over every memory in his century alone, explored every inch of his trophy in the mirror. He knows exactly what it looks like, and the young man is not him.
But how similar, how gloriously similar, DIO muses. Tall, yes, even if he doesn’t reach DIO’s height. And the hair, falling just so, in that lovely shade of brown. A sculpted build, broad and strong.
The eyes are not right, when they meet DIO’s; more of a muted blue than turquoise. The voice isn’t close at all, but the human shuts up when DIO wills him to, eyes growing hazy with desire and obedience. It is a shame, DIO thinks, carding his fingers through thick brown locks, that he could not at least be English.
Perhaps then he could coach the man in proper speech, instead of his American drawl, but DIO pushes it aside.
He takes the human back to one of his houses; so many stood empty these days, and presses him face-down into the bed.
DIO orders him not to speak a word as he brushes the hair, letting it trail along the human’s neck, framing it with small ringlets. It’s not perfect. The human is too small, the muscles uneven; with none of the true strength he wants.
The human is permitted to make sounds, and he screams as DIO carves into his shoulder with sharpened claws. The new star bleeds onto the sheets, and DIO finally begins.
It’s filling, sating in a new way. In a way he has been ignoring, all those thick, nebulous years stuck underwater. In these new, keen, thrilling ones of freedom. The screams and moans and movement of muscles, the unwilling warmth and affection that stirs on the edges of an emptiness he didn’t acknowledge.
The joy, for the moment where he loses all sense of self, of time and place, and gasps that name.
JoJo.
He is not prepared for the crushing fall of the high, the disappointment of reality.
DIO drains the human dry and resolves to never succumb to such weakness again.
But he is a fool to deny it.
It is easy to find another one. DIO does not look, doesn’t need to. He ignores the emptiness until he sees the next, lit under the flashing lights of a nightclub. There’s a shyness to this one’s movements that’s immediately endearing, the human startling as he realises DIO is staring back at him.
He turns his large body away, ducking his head in embarrassment. DIO wants to snatch him right away.
But he charms a drink from him instead, smirking as the human falls over himself to accommodate, cheeks brilliantly pink. He deigns to talk with this one.
Not English, but not unbearable, either. There’s still a twang to it that the human explains is common in his rural hometown. The strength is years of labour. DIO runs his hands appreciatively over the man’s biceps.
It takes some persuasion to get the human to leave with him. A partial thrall to lead him into a different house, cold and empty.
DIO is utterly delighted when the man attempts to fight him off; bleeding from his left shoulder from a half-finished star. Even when DIO easily overpowers him, the human struggles, his dark brown eyes fearful but determined. It’s a beautiful look, and DIO takes him on his back, so he can drown in that ferocity and spark.
Oh, JoJo, JoJo, JoJo!
It is an honour to eat that one. For some time, he is sated. But DIO has an eternity to spend, and the weakness persists.
The third is a disappointment. So loud and chatty, so smug. Greedy and needy.
DIO uses him quickly and tosses the body into the river the same evening. It barely satisfied him.
The fourth is better. Strong, handsome, and with a delightful accent. The hair is too light and the eyes too grey, but his moans are the best so far.
DIO closes his eyes and feels, listening to the human beg for more, body molten hot under his hands.
‘DIO, oh God, DIO!’
‘JoJo!’
He keeps that one for days, but it has a weak, mortal body that cannot withstand his desires.
The blood is bittersweet.
There is a fifth, and a sixth, and a seventh.
DIO stops keeping count of them. What need was there? He didn’t remember each one after he ate them, only the sensations they drew out. Perhaps he is fonder of some of the memories, the ones so close he would lose himself completely, but all, in the end, were simply not… JoJo.
No longer does he deny that weakness. There was no ignoring it now, the hunger constantly lurking deep. The maw that opened within, when that smiling face fell, when those eyes stared blank and dull. The fire touched them, but did not enter. All was dark in that gaze, and that darkness took home inside his unbeating heart.
All of these humans, a candle for the night. He would have it, those moments of reprieve.
His followers eventually learn of his preferences, and learn he will reward those that bring him suitable humans. How lovely it is, after hours of research and experimentation, to find his favourite prey waiting for him.
Year after year, his power spreads, his wealth grows, and the endless nights are scattered with stars, devoured by his void.
The seer, Enyaba, is particularly adept at bringing him satisfying humans. She claims she only desires to serve her Lord, and humanity’s future ruler.
It is Enyaba that approaches him, one evening, her eyes dazed with prophecy.
‘The star has fallen back to Earth, my Lord,’ she says, voice hoarse, ‘your desires shape reality itself.’
‘What do you speak of, Enyaba?’ DIO replies, unwilling to entertain another long-winded ramble about the obscure. And what she speaks of… it is impossible to consider.
‘An end to replacements, my Lord,’ she intones, ‘to pale imitations of Fate.’
He will not, for the maw opens terribly wide, will not think of this. His ambitions span godhood, but he will not-
‘Speak not of this again, Enyaba,’ DIO hisses, turning his back on the crone, ‘or face my wrath.’
He gorges, rages, destroys. He returns to Egypt, far away from the hunting grounds he’s grown too familiar with. He tears through the nights, leaving the dead in his wake, sowing terror amongst the waking world.
It is not enough. He yearns. It is dark, too dark, inside.
He is not weak. DIO is not weak. It would be crushed, this useless sentimentality. This useless yearning. This
Useless
‘Lord DIO.’
Enyaba smiles at the carnage smeared upon the floor, hobbling over the slippery slick of blood with ease.
‘Why do you disturb your Lord?’ DIO asks quietly. He drops the empty corpse from his fingers. Enyaba’s grin grows, pride shining from her decrepit face.
‘I have brought you a gift, Lord DIO,’ she croaks, beckoning with a hand, ‘I know it shall please you.’
DIO raises an eyebrow at the audacity of her claim. She may believe her position spares her from punishment, but he is willing to show her the error of that belief. His claws grow at the thought.
There’s more shuffling, and the cry of a younger voice. Had she brought him a child? He scoffs. Children had little value.
J Geil enters, pulling along a hapless human. The child cries out with horror at the sight before it; the twisted, deflated bodies, their faces still locked in a rictus of ecstasy. It digs in its heels, but J Geil is a practised man when it comes to resistance, and easily forces the child to kneel at DIO’s feet.
A child? This is what they smile over? A tiny, useless thing?
The maw trembles.
The way the hair spreads over the neck, oh, it is the perfect shade, and under it, peeking from the collar…
The point of a star.
DIO seizes the child’s face and tips it up.
Tears are pouring down his face, bubbling up from brilliant turquoise eyes, just right, just as he remembered. He rips open the shirt to gaze upon the Joestar, sitting perfectly on the child’s left shoulder.
‘You…’ the child whispers, ‘you’re Dio.’
DIO laughs. All this time, he had searched for those fully-grown, those poor copies of Jonathan in his prime.
Again, JoJo proved him wrong. The emptiness was simply waiting for what belonged there.
How perfectly the boy fit.
‘And you’re Jonathan.’
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