recently i have like,,, reverse writer's block or sth..... i rly wanna write but i don't have any inspo??? help

dotb, message received, oneshot comps, fake-date, paradiso, 🌒 reqs: we are here
me:
me:

i guess it's kinda good tho bc uni just started for me, so i won't rly have time to write anw xD so i'm just gna publish this old thing aha >:'D

but before we get into that

p-pls 🤲🤲🤲

also if any other writer decides to do this, DON'T BE SHY FUCKING TAG ME BC I LOVE YOU 💞💞💞😩

okay

for anyone who still rmbs Purge AU...

hope y'all enjoy 🔪

CHAPTER 1
For whom the bell tolls

"... And if you want, you can always look into what other philosophers have said on this topic. Kant's idea of the categorical imperative — essentially, that one should treat others the way one wishes to be treated — is a well-known one. But Nietzsche's Thus Spoke Zarathustra presents a convincing argument as well. Do you remember the story of the tightrope walker?"

"Yes."

"Mm. If I recall correctly, I've assigned it as a reading a few classes ago. But of course, if you happen to forget, you can always come by my house. I would be very happy to go over it again with you. Anytime."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." Boong. "Ah, that's my cue to head to my next class, I'm afraid. But you seem so enthusiastic about this paper. I'm sure we could arrange another meeting time, outside of office hours and all. How about I send you a follow-up email on this?"

Boong. "Sure."

Boong. "Excellent! I'll talk to you then."

Boong. Fugo bows his head slightly as the professor leaves, his heavy cologne coiling around both of them like a snake. A sickening warmth lingers where his hand has just lifted from the boy's shoulder.

Boong. The bell sends tremors through Fugo's entire body. His skin crawls with a thousand fire ants. His breakfast feels ready to flow back out his throat.

Boong. It would be so easy. That pig moves so slow he can run up behind his back and stab him thrice in the neck before either of them can blink. His vocal cords are so worn he can cut off entire limbs before anyone even cares to listen. He's so heavy, and his knees so old and weak Fugo can shatter them with just a kick, right as he walks up those stairs right there, a kick and then a shove and then he'll finally stoop low enough for him to grab his head and bash that filthy face against the hardwood floor—

Boong.

Boong.

Boong.

It's nine o'clock. Ten hours to go. Fugo's hands shake as he reaches into his bag, pulling out the small leather-bound notebook he always keeps by his person, because it helps him think, because the neat black ink inside those crisp little boxes helps him keep track. Philosophy professor. Fifth strike. He caps his pen, sucking in a long, much-needed breath.

Friedrich Nietzsche's Thus Spoke Zarathustra. The story of the tightrope walker. How it is best to live one's life doing what one desires, to the best of one's ability, so that one may live meaningfully and contentedly, without any regrets.

Ten hours to go until Purge. He might meet up with the professor to go over this reading again, after all.

➴

"Hey, Abbacchio! Whatcha working on?"

Abbacchio looks up from the documents strewn on his table, meeting the expectant gaze of a colleague. Redhead, in her twenties, enjoys stirring up conversations with him whenever she walks by his desk. Too bad the second thing she's doing wrong is always picking moments when he's busy. (Which, realistically, is all the time, but Abbacchio likes it better that way.) "Uh, murder case report. What's up?"

"Oh, nothing...." The colleague says, twirling a loose strand of hair. "A murder case at this time of the year though? Kind of strange, seeing as Purge is literally tonight. But, ah, you probably picked up on that already."

"Well, it's only once a year. They've got to give the police something to do." Abbacchio replies, flipping the page. The redhead laughs even though he wasn't trying to be funny:

"I guess so! Aw, man, I just feel so useless around this time, you know? Nothing to do all day. But I guess it's different for you. You still do that thing, right? Hunting down rogue criminals during Purge?"

"Uh, yeah." This is getting annoying. Abbacchio shuts the report and is about to stand up, when the colleague suddenly reaches out, five well-manicured fingers grabbing onto his sleeve:

"You're so brave, Abbacchio. Honestly. I know a lot of people — myself included, actually — who wouldn't even think about going outside during those twelve hours. It's crazy out there, all these people butchering one another for no reason! I'm a cop, and even I can't imagine participating in something like that. But what you're doing is just... revolutionary. You're a hero in a lot of people's eyes, Abbacchio. What you're doing is so important, and I really admire you for it. I think you completely earned those awards and your promotion."

"... Thanks." He shakes her off, trying his best to retain a calm expression as he walks away. A hero? Bullshit. Not a single one of his reasons for Purging is unselfish. It's all a facade, a flashy web of lies he's spun up to distract everyone from his true nature. A criminal. A murderer. A dirty cop.

He knocks, then enters the captain's office — a room that would be his, if he hasn't repeatedly turned down the offer. Four hours until Purge. Just enough time for him to wrap up here, then go home and get ready. He hands the report in, and is about to leave when the captain suddenly speaks:

"One moment, Abbacchio. Have a seat. Are you still going to Purge tonight?"

"Yes." Abbacchio raises an eyebrow, quizzical. Why is everyone suddenly so interested in what he will be doing tonight? It's not like it's changed from the last three years. He sits down in front of the captain's desk, waiting as she glances out of the window warily, before opening a drawer and taking out a palm-sized black tablet.

"Take a look. It should unlock once it scans your eyes."

Abbacchio picks up the device and turns it on. The Purge symbol — a stylized A made to resemble a golden arrow — pops up on the screen, before a red dot blinks green next to the camera, and it opens. A simple message waits against a dark background.

"What's this?" He asks, surprised. That symbol marks any and all properties belonging to Arrow, the government-affiliated organization that pioneered the Purge eight years ago. But it scarcely ever appears anywhere except on nationwide Purge broadcasts, so why is Abbacchio holding this strange tablet with the golden A symbol that only he can open right now?

"Don't read it aloud. Whatever's in there, it's only meant for you." The captain says. "My guess is that they've chosen you to do something for them. A special Purge-related assignment, perhaps. It seems your heroic deeds have not gone unnoticed."

Heroic. He decides he hates that word. "Oh. Okay."

"Well, whatever it is, best of luck to you. You're dismissed." The captain waves to him on his way out. "Be careful out there, Abbacchio."

He nods, but she might as well have said nothing. Nobody goes to Purges to be careful. Most of the time, people go there to get themselves killed.

━━━━━━━━

New Message

Dear Leone Abbacchio,

We hope this message finds you well. First and foremost, we wish to thank you for your continued and valuable participation in the Annual Purges. It is a chance for our country to be reborn, cleansed of its past burdens and mistakes, and we are glad to have loyal supporters such as yourself, who firmly believe in and act for a common cause: the growth and betterment of Italy, our nation.

As you may have been aware, we at Arrow try our best to not intervene in this event. We believe, in accordance to our objective, that it is best for our citizens to use this holiday in whatever way they see fit. However, when our very existence becomes threatened, we have no choice but to step in. After reviewing your Purge-related activities at length, we have decided that you are the most suitable candidate if we wish to put a stop to this enemy of our nation.

Your target's name is Bruno Bucciarati. For the past seven years, this man has been obstructing our work, disregarding our efforts and trying to destroy the very foundation of our prospering Italy: the Purge. Your assignment is to track down this criminal and eliminate him, using any method you see fit. Any additional information that might aid you in your search has been included in the attachment below.

Complete this assignment within this Annual Purge. Upon completion, your monthly salary will be doubled, and you will be granted immunity from the next Annual Purge. If you fail to complete the assignment within the allotted time, or at all, punishment will be issued accordingly.

Blessed be Italy and its citizens, a nation reborn.

May God be with you all.

━━━━━━━━

➴

Giorno glances at the clock. 5:50 PM. He really should be back in his room right about now, nailing boards to his windows and triple-checking his reinforced locks. The uncharacteristic emptiness of his college campus tells him that much. But he needs something to distract himself from the madness of these upcoming twelve hours that's not sleep, and since he has a paper due next week, he figures he might as well get a head-start on the research.

The librarian cocks a suspicious eyebrow at Giorno when he enters, but allows him to slip past her desk. He makes a mental note to be quick. Anyhow, all he needs is that Kant book, Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals, and then he can be on his way back to his hideout. He really doesn't want to be out and about during this time any longer than he has to. But Giorno can't seem to find the book in its allotted section, even after climbing up and down the bookshelf ladder twice. He remembers the cover being a dull green, so he wonders if it's because of the library's dim lighting — when he suddenly spots it, standing at the top of the ladder, looking down toward a table nearby.

The book is lying next to a laptop and a pile of papers, and hunched over them is none other than Pannacotta Fugo, one of Giorno's classmates and a favorite student of the philosophy professor. Quickly descending the ladder, Giorno walks up to the other boy from behind and is about to speak, when his eyes suddenly land on what Fugo is reading.

It's not a handout. Not Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals, or whatever he has pulled up on his laptop screen. He's staring intently at a little notebook, seemingly a planner, with each two pages divided into squares representing each day of a month. March 2nd, linguistics deskmate, second strike. March 6th, roommate's parents, first strike. March 11th, philosophy professor, fourth strike. March 13th, roommate's parents, second strike. March 17th, inhabitants of boys dorm room 206, first strike. March 21st, philosophy professor, fifth strike.

The notebook suddenly slams shut, making Giorno jump. Fugo is looking at him now, voice calm even though his eyes are violently scowling:

"What are you looking at?"

"I... sorry, I didn't mean to...."

"To what? Look over my shoulder? Read my stuff without permission? Spy on me like a fucking creep?" Giorno backs away, but Fugo stands up and turns to face him head-on. "Stop walking away, I'm still talking to you."

"S-sorry." The blonde stutters as Fugo's eyes drill holes into his face. "I was just looking for that book... Groundwork of the Meta—"

"I'm using it."

"Oh, okay...." Giorno mumbles. Fugo is looking at him with the body language that screams fuck off, and he would, if it wasn't for what he's accidentally seen in that notebook. "Uh, may I ask... what were you looking at?"

Fugo's eye twitches. He doesn't like to be asked about this. "What's it to you?"

"Nothing! I...." The gears in Giorno's head are turning much too fast for his liking. A planner with the contents like that, Fugo being outside even though they barely have an hour left, his defensiveness when confronted about the whole thing.... "Are you planning to Purge?"

Silence.

"N-no shame if you are... and I know it's none of my business anyway..." Giorno stammers on, without really knowing what he's trying to say, "but, whatever those people did to you, I'm sure it could be resolved in some other way. You don't have to do this. Honestly, Purging is not necessary for—"

""Not necessary"?" Fugo's voice is soft, but at that instant Giorno feels as if the other boy has just brought a knife up to his throat. "How do you know what's "not necessary" and what is? You may not have to Purge. But that doesn't mean you get to take away my right to."

"I'm not... that's not what I'm trying to say! I just—" Giorno starts, but Fugo cuts him off, ruby red eyes pinning the other boy in place as he advances:

"What? You just think that this could be resolved in some other way? You're one of those happy-go-lucky bastards that never has to worry about a thing, aren't you? Rolling in the money your parents gave you to fit into this school, aren't you? That's why you think Purges are not necessary, because you can't think of a single thing in your life that needs to be Purged, can you?"

"That's not—"

"Cut the crap." The other boy is approximately the same height as him, but Giorno feels incredibly small as he's backed up against the bookshelf, Fugo's eyes locked onto him seething with rage. "I've been around your kind for long enough. You'd better pray to whatever god you believe in, that I don't actually need to do this, that there is another way to work this out. Because you just got your first strike, and I make everyone pay up during the Purge."

Giorno's heart is beating so fast it might blow a hole through his ribcage. Fugo leaves then returns with the book, and he slams it against Giorno's chest so hard the blond feels his entire consciousness slingshotting into the past. No. Not now. Not here. Not like this.

"Get the fuck out of here."

He does. He runs. He has no time to be ashamed. There's only one hour left until Purge.