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Chapter Text

Jotaro Kujo didn’t typically dread meetings this way.

While meetings for work were often boring or enraging, he rarely found himself wishing to skip them. He usually viewed them as a necessary evil, neither good nor bad. Just another thing that life threw his way.

But not this meeting.

This meeting made his gut roll with anxiety, the pressure building and tightening his throat. Even Josuke picked up on his edginess earlier on in the day. To be fair, Jotaro had done nothing but sit in their hotel’s wicker chair. All day. WIthout eating. The teen had tried his best to coax Jotaro out of his shell, but it hadn’t done much. Rohan, fascinated, had just sat on the bed across from Jotaro and watched. It was rare to see the man lose his composure completely, and Rohan made sure he had front row seats.

What an asshole…

But, Jotaro admitted glumly, it had taken too much time and effort to arrange this meeting for cold feet. So here he was, standing in front of a stained oak door, staring blankly at the ornate knocker, willing himself to get on with it already.

His grandfather’s favorite method of confrontation, being running away as fast as possible, was looking extremely enticing.

“On with it, if you will, Dr. Kujo. I’ve never entered a mafioso lair, and I refuse to miss this opportunity to see one.”

Jotaro turned his gaze over to one Kishibe Rohan, who had finally ripped his fascinated eyes from Jotaro’s fantastic freeze response in favor of examining the rest of the hallway, and huffed. Give him stands, soldiers, and crazed lunatics. He could handle it.

Anything other than Dio’s son.

After approximately one month of contact and preparation, two months of radio silence, and a few weeks scrambling to secure a date and time, Jotaro Kujo now found himself at the door of the most powerful men in Italy.

And good grief, was he dreading this conversation.

Feeling the eyes of both Josuke and Rohan burning at his back, he steeled himself and lifted the knocker, issuing two sharp clangs onto the door.

The door creaked open, and narrowed brown eyes peered at them for a few seconds before the door widened enough for them to get through. The young man who opened the door went to his position behind an impressive wooden desk, where, presumably, the Don of Passione sat. Jotaro vaguely took notice of another guard behind the opposite side of the desk as well.

Jotaro’s gaze traveled from the young guardsman, to his companion, down finally to the Don himself.

Jotaro recognized the young man who opened the door immediately as one Guido Mista. While he had seemingly abandoned his signature atrocious hat for this particular meeting, his curly hair was covered in a red beanie. It seemed someone had coaxed him into some more formal wear that day; Jotaro hadn’t seen any photos with him wearing a full shirt before, much less a dress one, even if it was completely undone. He still wore his favorite eye bleeding red pants, though. Jotaro could see Rohan eyeing the tiger stripes on them with distaste.

His companion, Leone Abbacchio, stared at the incoming trio as if they were maggots found in his food. His eyes and lips were tinged with black, silver hair pulled out of his face with a low tie, and his strong frame covered in a leathery black suit. His appearance would’ve been crisp if it wasn’t for the dark purple button-down that was left wide open, exposing a good chunk of his torso. Despite the light hair and the harsh lines that marred his face, he was clearly still a young man. Speedwagon had a particularly interesting file on him that Jotaro had poured over for some time. Though Giorno was officially Bucciarati’s second-in-command, Speedwagon had observed that Abbacchio called the shots just as often, most likely due to the younger man’s lacking experience.

Which left the Don himself, sitting between the two gangsters. Don Bucciaratti hadn’t changed much at all since Jotaro last read his file; his hair was neatly cut and braided, if a little shorter than usual. His suit was still decorated with zippers, but he had traded in his standard white suit for a sleek blue pinstripe. While intimidating, he had a warm presence that couldn’t quite be shaken off. Jotaro hoped that his warm side would be more prominent in this meeting; but that was likely a tactical ruse. It was easy to manipulate people if they thought you had a good heart.

It was common in organized crime, wasn’t it, for older men to act as guides to the troubled youth, pulling them down into the depths of society’s underbelly. Jotaro found himself studying young Mista intently, wondering how Bucciarati managed to pull him into passione’s fold. Was it money, or power? Did Mista believe the Don actually cared about him? Or was he forced into service as recompense for a failed repayment? The thought left a sour taste in Jotaro’s mouth, and his chest burned with regret for the young man in front of him.

It was his worst fear realized, seeing a kid being used as an attack dog because of their stand. It never lead to anything good.

Speaking of impressionable young men, where was Giorno?

Joatro glanced at the surrounding walls, noting the impressive collection of books and files that sat behind glass shelving doors. There was no one else in the room; the small sofa behind them remained empty, and there was nothing on the table that indicated the presence of another.

Jotaro’s frown deepened, giving his whole face a thunderous visage. The boy was nowhere to be found. Unusual, considering this meeting was set up for his sake. A way to atone, to apologize for an action that Jotaro never regretted once.

Jotaro didn’t regret killing Dio. He knew that his offenses were a heavy thing to carry, and an impossible thing to ask forgiveness for. He himself knew the stinging betrayal of an absent father; of a table half empty, guidance never given, and misdeeds never noticed. Giovanna had every right to seek vengeance for a half-empty childhood, even if Dio was the worst father figure to idolize.

Giorno deserved to know what happened

So no matter how unpleasant the following conversation was going to be, Jotaro would never know peace unless the truth was told.

Giorno isn’t Dio, Jotaro chided himself, And if he follows in Dio’s footsteps, we can take care of him.

Just like old times

“Good evening, Signor Bucciarati. I am Dr. Kujo. I have arrived to speak with you and Giorno Giovanna, on behalf of the Speedwagon Foundation. Is he currently available?”

Don Bucciaratti’s gaze slowly slid up from the papers he was examining. Sluggishly, as if moving through gelatin, his face pinched, making his expression slightly lost.

Jotaro glanced at Josuke, who also seemed to pick up on the bizarrely slow reaction time. Not a response expected of a mafia don. Even ignoring the sheer effort it seemed to take Bucciarati to react, showing such confusion in front of strangers didn’t seem like the optimal strategy for a mafia leader. What was going on?

“Who is Giorno Giovanna?”

If Jotaro was a less stoik man, he might’ve gasped, or sighed with exasperation. Why would the Don feel the need to hide his young charge now? It would’ve been more convincing to say that he had outright left Passione than to pretend he didn’t exist. Both of Joatro’s companions seemed to understand this as well. He could feel Josuke’s confused eyes on him, and saw Rohan shoot the don a withering look.

Abbacchio bristled like a rabid dog, noticing the frustration on Rohan’s face. The man could kill plants with those glares. Such open hostility towards Passione members would get them nowhere. Jotaro felt a small tug on his coat and turned his head towards Josuke, who was nervously having a staredown with Mista.

“His eyes are completely unfocused,” Josuke whispered. “It’s almost like he’s seeing nothing. Happened as soon as Giorno was mentioned.”

“An explanation, gentlemen, if you please.” Josuke stiffened when Bucciarati’s voice cut through the room. Jotaro turned to fully face them, planning how to navigate this complex scenario they found themselves in. Rohan beat him to it, loudly scoffing into the tense silence.

Jotaro sucked in a low breath and closed his eyes, begging for a decent outcome after Rohan opened his mouth. He had been brought along to help with communication and in case of a probable investigation, and had been moaning about missed due dates for the whole week. Jotaro enticed him to come on the account of watching mafia business firsthand. Now he was regretting that decision. Out of the corner of his eye, Jotaro saw Josuke make a swiping motion with his hand, frantically mouthing what looked like an emphatic warning. The manga artist ignored Josuke’s silent plea.

“Look, my dear Don Bucciaratti,” Rohan declared, the statement dripping in contempt, “We understand your rather…protective nature, when it comes to your gang members. We’re just here to check up on him and leave. No harm done. So you don’t need to hide him from us.”

The Don’s eyes narrowed with displeasure. Abbacchio’s dark lips pulled back into a jeer, a low, aggressive laugh emanating from his chest. A small click echoed through the room, coming from Mista’s hand. He had paused cleaning his pistol in favor of fixing Rohan with an unimpressed stare. The buzz of stand energy was thick in the air, although a stand had yet to make a full appearance. Jotaro continued his staredown with Bucciaratti, mentally cursing Rohan’s short patience.

Something was not right.

The moment that Giorno’s name was mentioned, the three gangsters in front of them had stiffened, with their eyes glazing and faces blank. The slightly glassy look hadn’t quite left the Don, who now looked from Jotaro to Rohan searchingly, as if they were the ones withholding information. He then opened his mouth and replied:

“I don’t know who you’re talking about. I’ve never met this Giorno in my life.”

Jotaro’s mouth straightened to a grim line. The way Bucciaratti had replied was stilted and wrong; it sounded like a parrot imitating a phrase, not a cohesive thought being expressed. Something was forcing him to act this way. The other two gangsters looked at the three intruders strangely, their faces stiff and expressionless.

“Uh, sir? I think you kinda do know him. He’s been working with you for a while, we’ve got pictures and everything.”

Abbacchio snapped to attention the moment the photos were mentioned. Jotaro internally cursed Josuke’s stupidity. The gangsters in front of them were already on edge; telling them that they’d been under surveillance wasn’t going to help ease the room’s rising tension.

“How long have you been watching us?” The man demanded, looking from person to person. “Show us these pictures! You had no right to take them.”

Jotaro shared a look with Josuke. The moment the topic had shifted from Giorno directly, Abbacchio’s state became more expressive.

“Gladly. We have no intention of hiding anything from you.” Jotaro said flatly. Their best bet was to appease the men in front of them before they started to seem too untrustworthy. Jotaro reached into his pocket. Immediately, the click of a gun was heard. Mista had pulled out his firearm at the movement. Josuke gulped, feeling the tension in the air, and giving Jotaro a panicked look.

“I have the photos in my left breast pocket,” He said. “I have pictures of you with Giorno in here. I won't lie to you, these are from Speedwagon’s scouting missions. We have been watching Passione for a long time.”

Unsurprisingly, none of the men behind the desk enjoyed that proposition. However, attempting to lie about the surveillance on Passione could’ve made the situation even worse. Joatro had to run some kind of damage control.

“You can take them out and place them on the desk.” Bucciarati said sharply.

Jotaro nodded and reached into his jacket. He pulled out a small pack of photos, each showing different members of the gang, and slowly placed them down on the table, keeping his eyes lowered. The three mafiosos waited until he had backed up again to examine the photos before them.

Bucciaratti shakily picked one up. It was a picture of Giorno and the gunman from behind, arms slung over each other’s shoulders. Bucciaratti himself could be seen smiling in the background.

“What is this?” The gunman muttered. He was looking at a photo of five teenagers, all standing on a dock. “This is from that drug bust that we did three months ago! How did you get this?”

“They obviously edited some photos to have this kid in them.” Snarled Abbacchio. “Trying to get close to us or some shit.”

“And why would we do that, Mr. Abbacchio?” Jotaro replied flatly. “We speak the truth. We only came here to speak with Giorno Giovanna, whom you were known to be acquainted with. We have no interest in fighting you.”

“If you had no interest in fighting us, why would you have us under surveillance?” Abbacchio shot back. Bucciarati didn’t reprimand Abbacchio for his sharp tone, enraptured by the photos on his desk. He stared, unseeing, down at Giorno’s blurred face in the photograph.

Enough was enough.

Jotaro took a deep breath, hoping that Rohan had caught onto the situation at hand.

“Gentleman, I have reason to believe that you have been attacked by an enemy stand user.”

“THAT doesn’t answer why you’ve been watching us,” hissed Abbacchio. “If you were so concerned for our health, and this Giorno, why didn’t you come sooner? I may not have the best nose in the world, but I know horeshit when I smell it!”

Everyone except for the Don and Jotaro began to bristle and fume. The aggression in the room reached an agonizing peak, and still the Don didn’t respond. He was now chewing on his lip in deep concentration, as if he was recalling a difficult math equation.

“We’re not your enemies, you fool. Quit throwing around accusations when you barely understand while we’re here.” Leave it to Rohan to insult an angry mob grunt. The manga artist was going to get himself killed.

“What the hell, man!” Mista yelled. “The only enemy I see right now is you, with all your cryptic bullshit. Do you honestly expect us to trust you? After you admitted to stalking us? We’ve killed men for less!” Abbacchio seemed to agree, as his already thunderous expression had turned downright murderous.

Jotaro has had enough.

“I don’t need you to trust me,” Jotaro replied, eternally calm.

And time stopped.

***

The utter pandemonium that occurred once time started again was a sight to behold.

Rohan had made it over to the Don and managed to find a memory block in place. However, Star Platinum’s five-second time limit didn’t allow him the time to fully remove said block with Heaven’s Door and leave. Which meant that he now had a very angry gangster rapidly approaching.

What a good story this will be, Joatro thought dryly, watching Abbacchio throw Rohan bodily from the desk and slam him into the wall. Under Jotaro’s firm grip, Mista wriggled incessantly, trying to get a better look at the fight. Rohan was lucky he decided to snag the gunman in case things went south.

“What the fuck was that?” Mista yelled. “What the fuck was that! Abbacchio, you felt that, right?” Abbacchio turned his head minutely, looking at the gunman. He was currently pinned against the wall by Jotaro’s impressive stature, his gun lying uselessly on the floor.

Stands were ripped from their users’ bodies in a flash, towering menacingly in the air. Mista’s stand whirled angrily around Jotaro’s head, berating him for the capture of their user.

The Don remained motionless, head laid on his desk.

“What did you do to him?!” Abbacchio demanded. “What did you do?”

“Calm down, Abbacchio, Mista.” Jotaro replied. “We didn’t hurt him. You all have had your memories attacked. Heaven’s Door did not harm your don; it merely replaced what should’ve been there.”

“Yeah, fat chance we’d believe you after you attacked our Boss. Who are you, Andre the Giant? Let me go!” Screamed Mista, writhing in Jotaro’s grip. His stand wailed in agreement. Jotaro took no notice of them.

“Josuke, go wake up Don Bucciaratti. I’m sure it’ll put his friends’ minds at ease.”

“You touch him, I’ll gut this man in front of me!” yelled Abbacchio.

Rohan laughed. Abbacchio turned his rage towards him. “And I’m sure Dr. Kujo would be happy to repay the favor, starting with that young man over there.” Rohan wheezed.

“Face it, man. You’re between a rock and a hard place. I’m not gonna hurt him, I swear. Once he’s awake he can explain everything to you.” Josuke stepped forward. Abbacchio tensed with each step taken towards the don, until Jotaro thought he would simply shatter from the pressure of his posture. If his and Mista’s faces had been murderous before, they were downright genocidal now.

Abbacchio kept glancing from Rohan to Mista to the Don, panic bleeding into his features. He was struggling with what his next move should be.

Josuke gently shook the Don's shoulder. “Hey man, uh, Mr. Bucciarati. Can you hear me?”

He began to stir. Abbacchio dropped Rohan and moved over to him. Jotaro did the same, dropping Mista, who let out an undignified grunt and tried to dash for his gun across the room. Jotaro snagged him by the collar, tossing him towards the desk instead. He let Star Platinum hover menacingly over the weapon to deter any attempts to take it. Mista begrudgingly left the weapon and turned to his boss. Josuke stepped back to make room for the two gangsters, keeping a respectful distance.

“Bruno?” Abbacchio said. He shook the man again. “Bruno, are you alright?” Bucciratti’s eyes squeezed shut, and the man muttered something under his breath before shooting up with a frantic gasp.

“Where… who…” The man’s eyes flew around the room before they settled on Jotaro. “Dr. Kujo, what are you…” His expression cleared. “Was it already time for our meeting? I thought it was weeks away. I apologize for any inconvenience, I know my correspondence has not been the most consistent as of late.”

Mista and Abbacchio both gaped at their Don. The sudden friendliness and familiarity were a stark contrast to what they had just seen. Abbacchio quickly shifted his gaze to Rohan, eyeing him dangerously. Rohan pulled a smug look back. It was clear he wasn't trusted, even though he just helped their Don a great deal.

“I’m sorry, I’m a little… confused.” Bucciarati continued. “I’ll go retrieve Giorno, and we can have a chat, and…” He slowly got up from his desk and made for the door. His hand grasped the handle and froze.

There was a beat.

Then two.

“Uhh, Boss?” Mista asked. “You okay? You’ve been standing there for a bit.”

Bucciarati wheeled around like a man shot. He lurched towards Mista, gripping his shoulders tightly. His confused demeanor had given way to panicky desperation.

“Mista,” He said urgently, tightening his grip, “Where is Giorno? Did I send him out on a mission this week?”

Mista’s bamboozled expression would’ve been funny if it wasn’t for the terror currently rolling off of Bucciarati.

“Who are you talking about, Boss? I think those guys messed with your brain.”

Bruno shook his head emphatically.

“No, Mista. Giorno. He’s lived with us for months. His room was across from yours, you were teaching him how to cook. Blonde hair, blue eyes, he was part of our Famiglia!”

Mista shook his head and grimaced. The foggy look that had once clouded his eyes was back.

“The room… the room across from mine is empty!” He yelled, seeming unsure of himself all the same. “Besides, it’s locked, and we’ve lost the key.”

The excuse was a poor one at best, and stated robotically. It did nothing to ease the frantic don’s distress.

“Oh please,” Bruno snarled venomously, turning away. He looked to Abbacchio, and back at Mista. “With a stand like mine, we had no reason to avoid that room. I could’ve gotten in and out easily! Something was actively preventing us from entering it. You know this to be true.”

Mista and Abbacchio stared at each other doubtfully, before looking to Rohan.

“What are you looking at me for?” Rohan said petulantly. “Your friend is missing, and you still suspect me of foul play? Do you doubt me so much?”

Mista was the first to respond, his gun wavering in Rohan’s direction.

“But you did just alter his memories right in front of us. Do you blame us for being suspicious?”

“Ungrateful bastards! I-”

Bruno huffed loudly, drawing the attention back to himself.

“If you need proof, you can ask me. If you don’t trust my account, then trust your unusual behavior. Mista, why can’t you think of a proper reason for not going into that room? You two even speak differently when you’re trying to lie.”

“I- uh…”

“Enough. These men are speaking the truth, even if they are not trustworthy. We have no time to waste. They’ll have to fix your memory later.”

With that, he strode out of the room, disappearing down the hall. Rohan was left with the two gangsters eying him with suspicion, before running after their leader. The manga artist sighed, before turning to the two Joestars behind him.

“Shall we follow them, then?”

***

Bruno had known something was off for a while.

It wasn’t anything in particular that set him off; it was more like a tidal wave of small things that had begun to haunt him. It had gotten to the point where he had started to make a list of these small irregularities as he came across them.

One, the strange feeling of emptiness when the team was together. The extra chair at the table that felt out of place. The small section of the sofa that nobody could quite bring themselves to occupy, even if there was no other space open. It was like something- or someone -had been ripped from their lives unexpectedly.

Two, the strange accommodations that everyone made. There was always an extra plate set up. Always an empty shower slot that no one felt comfortable using. When he was at the store, Bruno found himself itching to pick up something special for a team member; but he couldn’t place who, and no one he could think of felt right. It was like a ghost haunted them in those moments.

Three, the garden outside. None of the men (or Trish, for that matter) ever had much of a green thumb. Naranica had tried, but he managed to kill cactus plants. The boy just didn’t have the patience for the upkeep a garden that size would have. It was bright, overgrown, and contained many plants that Bruno didn’t even recognize. Some of them were completely foreign. However, when he stared at the orange petals that littered the garden, he could almost hear the echo of a voice explaining what flower they came from. He got a migraine soon after and had to retire for the day.

Finally, the door. The biggest mystery, and the only thing that seemed to bother his teammates as much as it bothered him. No one used the room across from Mista’s. It was locked, and although he easily could’ve gone in himself, something always seemed to stop him from doing so. He would suddenly get lightheaded, or just get a strong foreboding feeling whenever he got close. His throat froze up of its own volition when he tried to discuss any of these irregularities with his team, but he could see the uncomfortable looks the others shot at the door. As if there was something horrid to be discovered there.

Bruno finally understood the awful feeling that the door gave him. Standing in front of it now, looking at the neglected, dusty surface, he finally found a word for the pressure in his chest, the heaviness behind his eyes, and the distinct sensation of his stomach dropping to the floor.

It was anguish.

His heart positively ached with it.

He has abandoned his youngest team member. Lord knows if he was alive or dead, suffering or slowly decaying. And Bruno had dared to forget about Giorno. Not only that, he brushed off every single red flag sent his way. It didn’t matter if a stand was preventing him from remembering Giorno; if the teen was dead, he would never forgive himself. It was as if the door was taunting him now.

“Bucciarati, wait!” Mista yelled, panting. He had needed to run to keep up with the Don. Abbacchio was hot on his tail, along with Dr. Kujo’s entourage. “Wait for one of us to go in there! It could be something bad!”

“It would be better to find something bad than to find nothing at all.” Bruno spat.

Without further ado, He summoned his stand and formed a zipper on the door. He disappeared through the newly-made gap, and everyone else followed suit.

***

“Ugh, it’s musty as balls in here. Smells like your closet, Abba.”

“Shut it, faceache.”

“Make me, bitch!”

Abbacchio and Mista continued their squabble as Josuke tripped through the strange zipper portal. Mista was right. It was extremely musty; dust particles floated lazily in the air, and a delicate sickly stench flooded his nose. The only source of light was a small sliver of brightness peeking out from behind a curtain. It wasn’t nearly enough to see what was in the room. A loud clapping noise sounded from nearby, making Josuke jolt. An undignified squawk from Mista followed. It seemed Abbacchio had been groping around in the dark so that he could slap Mista for that last comment.

“OW! What gives, man? I’m already on edge here!”

“Abbacchio. Mista. Behave yourselves.” Bruno snapped. Josuke hoped this new, prickly Bucciaratti was a result of worry for his missing underboss and not a permanent personality shift. It set his teeth on edge. He could see Bucciaratti’s silhouette from the small sliver of light, and soon the curtains were thrown open, leaving everyone blinking spots out of their eyes.

The room that they were left with was a sad sight.

Not because it was a bad room. It was because of the feeling that Josuke got as he looked around. It was the same feeling he got when visiting battlefields or graveyards. A sense of loss for someone he didn’t even know. Knowing that, without a doubt, someone who was once there was not anymore. Their traces stuck to the walls and floor around him, but try as he might, Josuke would never know who they truly were. It made Josuke ache, knowing that someone who was loved had been ripped away from this place. Wondering if Giorno’s previous teammates were feeling the same, he glanced at their faces.

Mista seemed to be feeling the same as he was. His eyes roved around the room madly, fixing on things periodically. Once in a while, his eyes would tighten, as if he was struggling to remember something painful. He probably was.

Abbacchio was silent. His normally stony expression had changed to something else. It hadn’t exactly softened, but there was a raw look deep in his eyes. He kept his upset hidden better than Mista, anyhow. It was hard to get a read on him.

The room was a decent size, with hardwood floors and blue walls. A bed was neatly made, with the dust settled on its carefully folded sheets. Numerous vases lined every surface. Impressive flower arrangements sat inside each vase.

Each and every one of them was rotten and dead.

A desk scattered with papers sat in front of the light-giving window. It looked like whoever had been there last had nearly completed his paperwork. An elaborate signature decorated the larger pile; Abbacchio had reached out to touch it with a shaking hand.

Giorno Giovanna

Bucciratti stared back at Abbacchio, worrying his lip. His brows had slammed down into an angry line, his eyes scrunching up with worry. Josuke doubted they’d need more convincing. The evidence was almost damning.

“What’s that?” Rohan pointed to the bedside table. He had previously been eyeing the vibrant wardrobe. Abbacchio’s eyes followed his finger to a bright spot in the dreary room.

It was a flower.

A living, pulsating flower.

Its bright orange color matched the ones that grew in the garden outside. It laid there innocently, next to a glass of water that was filled with dead flies. They were floating like buoys in the sea. It made Josuke feel vaguely sick.

Abbacchio walked over hesitantly. He reached out and picked it up, looking back at the others incredulously.

“No one’s been in here for months.” He gasped. “How is this still alive?” He reached out and gently touched one of the petals. The flower seemed to lurch, and a faint jingling noise could be heard emanating from it. A golden glow overtook it, and then with a strange Schwoop! sound, the flower popped into a filthy piece of paper. Abbacchio gave the paper in his hand a bewildered look.

He looked at Bruno, begging for an answer.

“That was Golden Wind, Giorno’s stand. It can change non-living things into animals and plants.” Bruno confirmed, voice raw. “Does the paper say anything?”

Abbacchio opened it and looked. His eyebrows shot down, dark lips thinning to a small, displeased line.

“It’s all horribly cryptic.” He said, looking back up.

“Show it to me.”

Abbacchio obliged. Everyone else gathered behind Bucciarati, peering at the short message.

You took mine,

Now I take Yours.

“Well, Fuck.” Mista said cheerfully. “That sounds encouraging, doesn’t it?”

Chapter Text

In Jotaro’s opinion, Bucciarati had way too many children.

Not that he wasn’t guilty of picking up the occasional stray. The evidence of that, Josuke, was sitting to his left, nervously twiddling his thumbs and glancing at the weeping girl in front of him. Bucciarati had achieved a whole different level of generosity, though. Which was why he found himself jammed at a table with four mafioso teenagers, remaining completely silent as the table’s other occupants completely fell apart.

To be honest, it wasn’t the company that bothered him; it was more the unexpected emotion that ran through the air. Rohan had taken the liberty of using Heaven’s Door on each of them; although some details were still fuzzy, they could all remember their missing team member. Jotaro would be lying if he said he expected them to be this upset. He expected the callousness of young adults used to death; perhaps he was a fool for expecting their reactions to be less extreme.

Don Bucciarati’s team was exceptionally deadly. They must’ve lost many people along their rise to power, and caused many deaths themselves. The fact that the team was so visibly shaken after losing one member spoke of an unexpected bond; Jotaro was unsure of how deeply the team cared for each other, but it clearly was there. Bruno’s reaction after Giorno’s disappearance was exposed yesterday was testament enough.

He acted like a frightened mother, Jotaro mused, Not a mafia’s Don. What sort of dynamic do they have here?

Jotaro interestedly examined the gangsters gathered at the table. Bucciarati and Abbacchio were in the hallway, having a hushed discussion that Jotaro could only vaguely hear. This left Jotaro, Rohan, and Josuke at the table with four teenagers, one of which was Mista. Mista seemed to be taking the news in stride, but he had already been told that Giorno was missing before the block was removed. He was desperately trying to coax a smile out of a younger boy with unruly balck hair, whom Jotaro recognized from speedwagon surveillance but didn’t have a name for.

Across from Josuke sat a girl with bubblegum pink hair, who had stopped crying and was scrubbing at her eyes viscously. The third teen, who was sitting next to Rohan, seemed to be struggling with himself. Jotaro couldn’t tell if he was going to attack them or punch a hole through the wall. One thing was for sure: the kid looked like he was going to blow a gasket. Putting Rohan next to him was probably a match made in hell. Judging by the look Rohan was shooting the child, he thought so too.

What sort of lives did they lead? Jotaro had expected nothing more than a loose partnership, borne out of owed debts and power-hungry, backstabbing “loyalty”. Why were his expectations being contradicted so much?

Did this team truly care for each other?

Why did watching them leave his wretched heart aching?

“Alright,” Bucciratti said, sounding exhausted. He stepped through the door, Abbacchio following. “We need to figure out what to do next.”

The boy next to Rohan slammed his fists onto the table. Everyone except for Jotaro jumped at the noise.

“No,” The boy began, practically foaming at the mouth with fury. “We need to figure out why Giorno went missing as soon as these guys came looking for him! He vanished after Speedwagon made contact with us, don’t you find it the least bit suspicious? What do these freaks even want with him?”

“Fugo…”

“NO! I will not calm down! He’s been gone for months, Bucciaratti. Do you know what the statistics of retrieval are after one week? The chances are practically ZERO after the first three days!”

The kid Mista was comforting made a particularly loud hiccuping noise at that. The girl sitting next to him reached over and squeezed his hand.

“Calm down, Fugo. I’m aware of those numbers.” Abbacchio cut in.

“However, the question about Speedwagon is a legitimate one.” Abbacchio turned his steely gaze onto Jotaro.

There’s the ex-cop that Speedwagon told me about.

From either side of him, Rohan and Josuke gulped, now glued down by the eyes of six unhappy gangsters. Rohan seemed to be enjoying himself a bit too much, though. He had a dumbass, perky little smile on his face. Probably thought this was good writing material.

“I don’t blame you for your suspicions.” Jotaro said steadily, ignoring Rohan’s dangerous antics. If the man wanted to play with fire Joatro wouldn’t stop him. “And, considering the dangerous nature of our foundation, it is very possible that the information about our correspondence was leaked by a captured agent, and that’s what led to Giorno’s disappearance. We’ve had several situations in the past months where high level foundation members have gone missing.”

His heart ached a little at that one. Polneraff was still a sore spot. Jotaro sighed.

“I know that this may do nothing but make you distrust us more. But know this: I was not seeking out Giovanna as a possible threat to be neutralized. I had already done that ages ago, before you met him, in fact.”

“Wait!” the girl interrupted. “Why were you investigating him before he joined Passione? He wouldn’t have even had his stand back then!”

“Well, uh, actually, he would. He’s a natural born stand user, just like me, and Jotaro. We’re all related, you see.” Josuke said with a small smile. There were several doubtful murmurs traded across the table, and Bucciarati steepled his fingers, staring at Jotaro intently.

“Wait,” blurted Mista, “You’re related to Giorno?”

Jotaro couldn’t stop his fists from curling at that last remark. The thought of being related to Dio in any way, even through his child, made rage simmer in his gut. He’d spent too many sleepless nights staring at old photographs to acknowledge Dio as something other than a long-dead adversary. Admitting familial relationship felt like a horrific betrayal against his dead companions.

“I suppose,” Jotaro managed to choke out. “Josuke is closer in relation to him, but yes, I suppose we’re… family.”

Everyone sat silently, waiting for more. Jotaro offered nothing.

“I can confirm that Giorno was a natural stand user.,” Bruno said hesitantly. “When I confronted him over Luca, he already had his stand. That was before his test. I would, however, like some proof of relation.”

“That can be arranged.” Jotaro acquiesced, “But our relationship is distant, and Giorno was unaware that we were biologically related. Unless you have blood for a test, all I can give you is family archives and some photos.”

The gang exchanged a look at that. Abbacchio in particular exchanged an unhappy look with the Don, clearly mistrusting his intentions. Jotaro, desperate to end that train of conversation, plowed on.

“I contacted Giorno to try and forge an alliance between Passione and Speedwagon. However, Speedwagon foundation is intrinsically involved in the affairs of the Joestar family. Our family.” Jotaro gestured to himself and Josuke.

“Due to complex circumstances, Giorno’s side of the family was left estranged, and we were unaware of his existence until recently, when we first investigated him in 2001.”

“The Joestar family agreed that it would be in poor taste to keep Giorno in the dark about certain familial details, so this meeting was an attempt to rectify that. When we initially lost contact with him, we assumed that one of his father’s… friends had found him first, and that he no longer wished to continue a relationship with us. Considering that coming into contact with one of his father’s followers would cause many issues, we wished to follow up. ”

“Wait, hold on,” Fugo interrupted. “What information could be so bad that Giorno would drop a relationship with a company like yours? Giorno was no fool; if Speedwagon had presented an opportunity for us, he wouldn’t have dropped it because of some old family spat he wasn’t involved in. He’s too even-keeled for that.”

“Did he… never say anything?” Josuke asked. “He never mentioned any names or anything?”

“No.” Said Mista, looking at the table. “He was really hush-hush when it came to anything personal. We barely knew anything about his life before Passione.”

It was strange, then, how shaken they all seemed for someone they barely knew.

“It’s also very possible that he didn’t know himself.” Jotaro replied. “Giorno’s father was… a very powerful man. A nearly unstoppable stand user. And, unfortunately, he chose to use that power for selfish reasons. It resulted in several casualties; for this reason, Giorno’s father is no longer alive.”

There were several horrified looks at that. It was probably a good thing that Jotaro had left out so much; if they knew the murderer of Dio Brando sat at the table with them, a fight was inevitable. As it was, figuring out Speedwagon’s assasination of Dio Brando would be child’s play, especially if they found out the man’s name. That information getting out would do wonders for fostering trust between the companies. Letting out a long-suffering sigh, Jotaro continued.

“Knowing his lifestyle and temperament, I doubt he would’ve known or cared about Giorno’s existence. It is no longer an important part of this investigation, as he is clearly not involved.”

Jotaro knew his quick shutdown of this conversation would encourage the already evident suspicion in Bruno’s team, but he couldn’t quite find the energy to care. He could still remember roaming through Dio’s Cairo mansion. The stench of blood never left the place, and he wished he could forget the sheer number of bodies that Speedwagon recovered from it. They were all young women and men, completely sucked dry of blood; it was a wonder Giorno’s mother survived.

“Speedwagon Foundation has had ties with the Joestar family since its foundation. Giorno is technically a member of our family, albeit distant. So, naturally, they hoped to seek an alliance through Giorno, as Passione has gained notoriety for its numerous stand users.”

There was a brief silence. Bucciarati seemed to be struggling to absorb all of this newfound information; something about it was troubling him. He clearly didn’t trust Jotaro, not yet; perhaps the aforementioned blood test would help. However, Abbacchio looked completely unconvinced. He was leveling Jotaro with a dead glare, so potent that Jotaro was fighting the childish urge to grimace back. There was no way the goth was convinced that Joatro was trustworthy, and as long as the two adults were suspicious, the kids would be, too. Jotaro was sure of it. This house would be a mine field, trying to avoid tipping them off about Dio.

Give me a break…

Jotaro found that he had difficulty continuing his carefully crafted speech. Willing his trademark stoicism to remain in place, Jotaro leveled his eyes with Bucciarati.

“If Giorno is in danger, the Joestar family will come to your aid.” he said calmly. “The family would never stand for leaving him behind.”

I could stand for it, a small, vindictive part of Jotaro whispered. So many lives ruined, and now you have to protect his son.

Jotaro could’ve lived his whole life never meeting Giorno, and he would've been content with it. Will he always have to travel the world, cleaning up Dio’s mess? Would he always have to live in the shadow of that night in Cairo? Would every journey drag up the image of bloody cobblestones, shrunken bodies, hissing laughter, and flashing, sharp teeth? But it was as he said; Joseph and Holly had both agreed that keeping contact with Giorno was for the best, and neither of them would appreciate him leaving Giorno behind, when he was so clearly in danger.

It’s best not to leave stones unturned, Joatro, Joseph had said. Imagine the situation Josuke would be in, had we not stepped in and met him. Go talk to him. If he’s everything you fear and worse, then we’ll take care of it. But why should we wait for that to happen?

As if Joseph wasn’t guilty of running away from his problems.

Jotaro just has to keep his involvement with Dio’s death a secret. Should be a piece of cake, right?

There was silence for a time. Bucciratti held his gaze intently, face set hard as steel. Finally, he took a deep breath and looked to the three Stand users before him.

“If the blood test runs true,” he said, “Then I’ll allow you to join the mission. It is as much your business as it is ours.”

It wasn’t an admission of trust; rather, and offering of the possibility of trust. It was as much as he could ask for.

After Bucciaratti’s acceptance of Jotaro’s explanation, most of the tension leaked out of the room. If Jotaro wasn’t so focused on keeping his face blank, he would’ve sighed in relief. If his own personal reservations got in the way of this mission, his mother and grandfather would wring his neck.

“But know this,” Bucciaratti continued, “If Giorno proves to be your family by blood, we will allow this relationship to continue. However If at any time we sense that you hold ill intentions towards him, we will not hesitate to respond in kind.”

It’s only to be expected, Jotaro supposed, that doubt would remain. He would just have to keep a careful lid on exposing his true feelings about Giorno. Jotaro never spoke of such things anyway.

Jotaro stood up and held his hand out to shake. Bucciaratti took it.

“Fair enough,” Jotaro grunted, “trust comes with time, eh?”

The truth was, Jotaro didn’t care about Giorno at all. He was only doing this for Speedwagon, and the family.

***

Seedy alleyways were commonplace in Italy.

Much of Italy's charm came from its ancient cities; their dilapidated structures attracted many tourists. And, similarly, much of the local “charm” came from the shady characters that inhabited said alleyways.

Such as this man.

If passersby were to see him, they would probably describe him as scary in a stereotypical sense; all harsh lines and dark clothing. Bark with no bite. However, if they were to come close enough to see his face, they would describe him as truly terrifying. Not because of the scars that marred his sunken cheeks, or the hair that was chopped unevenly; it was his eyes.

His eyes were empty yet hysterical. Joyous but terror-filled. They were full of madness and malice, and a stifling air of evil wrapped around him like a cloth. A person wouldn’t need to see the blood stains under his leather coat to know that he was an unstable mafioso.

This Mafioso was currently leaning against the alleyway, whistling a wavering tune. Out of any other mouth, it would’ve sounded happy. Out of his mouth, it sounded sick and wrong, like a broken music box. He seemed happy; after all, he’d gotten some good money that day. He took a long drag from his noxious cigar and breathed deeply.

Life was going good right now.

A loud ring cut off his content mood. He pulled it out and answered smoothly.

“What’s the word?”

A scratchy voice answered on the other line. The man listened for a moment, before his dry lips stretched into a painful grin.

“Excellent . Our sales will increase tenfold. You’ve done well.” With a click, he snapped his phone shut, his shoes screeched across the flagstones. A tin can was kicked across the alleyway, startling a small bird from its roost.

The man’s skeletal fingers groped inside his jacket, until he retrieved a glass vial of a viscous fluid. The man cradled the liquid gently, tenderly kissing it, before he slid it back into his pocket.

A joyous, raspy laugh echoed over the rooftops.

***

After the drama in Bruno’s dining room, there were many affairs to get into order.

Chief among those was phoning Speedwagon and informing them of the situation.

It was decided that Josuke and Rohan would be sent home until further help was needed. Jotaro didn’t want to involve them in any more dangerous business. Kira was enough experience for a lifetime; he didn’t want to expose them to the world's vicious underbelly if he could help it. The two men were sent back to their hotel room, bound for a flight early the next morning.

Which meant Jotaro was left as Speedwagon’s field agent in this scenario.

“When was the last time you saw him? All of you?”

The photos that Jotaro had brought were spread out on the table in front of them. Bruno’s gang, plus Jotaro, sat around the low coffee table. Most of the gang gave Jotaro a wide berth. It didn’t seem like the gang trusted him entirely yet.

Abbacchio jabbed his thumb at one of the photos. It was the same one that Mista had recognized from before.

“This right here was probably a few days before he vanished. It had been a pretty nasty drug bust; There had been rumors of human trafficking being involved as well. We had taken a few days to rest afterward. He went missing during that time.”

The other members nodded their assent. Jotaro studied each one of them carefully.

“As for a specific time of disappearance…. I can safely say it was sometime at night. I was downstairs around 10 pm and he came down for a drink. I know he tends to stay up pretty late, so there is a possibility someone else saw him even later.”

Silence washed over the group, each person racking their brains to try and remember when thay last saw Giorno.

“That may have been me.” Bucciarati cut in. “I went into his room at about one in the morning; told him to go to sleep. He was trying to finish up all of his paperwork.”

“So now we need to figure out if he left the house or if someone stole him away in the night.” Joatro finished.

“As far as I know, he was acting perfectly normal when I last saw him.” Bucciarati answered. “He was preparing to sleep; if he felt the need to go out, I don’t see why he would hide it from me.”

At this, Bucciarati hesitated.

“There’s… something else. I remember wondering why he hadn’t come downstairs the day after. I wasn’t worried until close to noon; he never slept in like that before. So I went upstairs to check on him. Everyone else was still asleep. But whenever I try to remember what I saw there, everything just fizzles out. I think that’s where the memory stand attacked me.”

“We can try a replay with Moody,” Abbacchio sighed, “But if it was a stand that attacked you I won’t be able to replicate it. If that doesn’t work, there’s always replaying Giorno during the attack.”

“Is there a possibility that this drug ring is involved in his disappearance?”

“I find it likely,” Fugo replied. “The timing certainly supports that theory. If we are dealing with a memory stand, it would make sense that the user was involved with that ring, too. It would make trafficking drugs and people child’s play.”

“Excellent, now we have a place to start from. Abbacchio, Mista, you go with Dr. Kujo upstairs and find those replays. Narancia, you come with me to retrieve all of the paper evidence from that mission. Fugo, search the databases for any memory-related stand users, and all known members of that ring. Trish, you go help Fugo.”

The team scrambled to follow their Don’s orders. Jotaro found himself marveling at their efficiency. As mischievous and scatterbrained as many of them seemed, they did make a good team.

He tried not to think about who they reminded him of.

Hey, JoJo! Show us the cigarette trick again!

Not right now.

***

Although Fugo was the resident hot head, he wasn’t the only one in this household with a dreadfully short fuse.

Or so Jotaro was finding.

Abbacchio was becoming increasingly agitated. The man couldn’t get a pin on any sort of attacker; it seemed that whatever had attacked Bruno was a stand.

“Abbacchio, rewind it to Bucciarati. See if we can spot anything from there.”

The man grunted in reply. Soon, an exact replica of Passione’s Don was standing in the doorway. The face was identical, if you ignored the more casual dress and the timestamp over his forehead. Moody Blues hummed once, and then the replay began.

The copy of Bucciarati mimed knocking on a door, mild concern tainting his features. He stood back respectfully, waiting for a response. When nothing came, he knocked once again, calling:

“Giorno, are you alright? I know you had a late night last night. You need to get more sleep.”

The domesticity of it was almost amusing.

“Giorno?” The fake Bruno called once more. The concern was starting to leak into his voice. He pressed his ear to the door that was no longer there, listening for noise.

Evidently, he heard nothing, because he soon jerked up and yelled down the stairs.

“Boys, did any of you see Giorno step out this morning?”

“Nah, he’s probably in his office or something!” A faint voice called back, echoing through Moody Blues’ speakers. Jotaro recognized it as Mista’s.

Bruno chewed on his lower lip before opening the door. His face immediately melted into one of shock and horror. His eyes flew around the room, resting on things that were no longer there. They finally rested on the corner of the room, becoming impossibly wider. He took a deep breath, and then another, and braced to yell.

The shout never came.

“Touchy, aren’t we?” A raspy voice blared. Based on the sheer volume of the voice, the proximity must’ve been ridiculously close. However, Bruno made no effort to move away- in fact, he was standing stock-still. His eyes were glassy, and his body frozen unnaturally.

“Abbacchio, pause it there and switch to the attacker.”

Abbacchio shot Jotaro a dirty look and grumbled something under his breath. Eventually, though, he complied; there was too much at stake for pettiness. His stand warped and shifted, going from Buciaratti’s kind face to the purple of his stand. The stand then began to shudder and jerk, changing height and structure, until at last it settled into a spindly form.

The man was tall- taller than Abbacchio, and barely shorter than Jotaro. His frame was missing the impressive girth and muscle that each man held, though. He was thin as a rod, and his face was gaunt and chalky. The paleness of his skin made the scars on his face stand out lividly, and his dark clothing caused him to look washed out and ghost-like.

His face was twisted into a small smirk, his hand outstretched as if he had grabbed something. In fact, it appeared as though he had been gripping Bruno’s jaw at that moment.

“House of Memories. Remove this man’s memories of Giovanna. Possess him, and infect his housemates.”

He turned his head and sneered at something in the room.

“I know you can hear me in there.” He snarled. “So I'll have you know. The kid? He deserves what’s coming to him. So I’ll be tying all the lost memories to you. Leave you chained up in here. I’m sure it’ll be nice, knowing what happened but being unable to help.”

The man threw Bucciaratti away from him and stalked over to the desk. He pulled open a drawer and reached out as if to grab something. He jerked back with a yelp- his finger was bleeding.

“Little bastard,” He hissed, before snatching whatever was in the drawer again. “And now, Jean Pierre, I bind to you the lost memories of everyone here. May you be a suitable house, and do with the knowledge what you will.”

He dropped the object unceremoniously into the drawer, and a loud thud echoed through Moody Blues’ speakers. He locked the drawer and shoved the key into his pocket. Faint, muffled cries could be heard distantly through the replay, but it was too quiet to hear the words being said.

The man climbed out through the window. Abbacchio stopped the replay there.

“We’ll have to try and follow him later,” he said, “but at least now we have an ID and a general idea of the enemy’s stand. Mista, you’d better go check the drawer, see if Coco Jumbo is still alive.”

However, Mista was currently enraptured by watching Jotaro, who upon the end of the replay, had bolted for the drawer and torn the lock clear off the hinge. He ripped the drawer open, and out spilled a turtle and a key.

“What?” Jotaro gasped. He whipped towards Abbacchio.

“He said Jean Pierre, right? Do you know Jean Pierre Polnareff?” His voice was extremely accusatory.

Abbacchio gaped at him. Eventually, when his wits had returned, he ground out:

“Yes, we know Jean Pierre Polnareff. Or we did- it seems that stand erased our memory of him too. I wasn’t there when this happened, but that turtle is a stand user, and Jean was bound to the room its stand creates.”

Jotaro, who only seemed to be half listening, grabbed the key and shoved it into place, his body tumbling into Mr. President’s room right after.

***

“Jotaro?”

An incredulous voice echoed from in front of Mista. Dr. Kujo was still sitting on the floor, jaw slack and eyes wide. The white haired Frenchman that haunted Coco Jumbo glanced at Abbacchio and Mista uncertainty.

Finally, he barked a laugh. “Well, I don’t know how you guys got into contact, but I’m sure it’s a riveting tale! It's good to see you, Jotaro, my friend, but we have more important matters to attend to, so-”

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!” Jotaro bellowed, and ouch, Mista never wanted to hear the man yell again. It was like listening to Abbacchio yell. His voice had a deep thrum that just made it reverberate through your skull. Abbacchio was scarier, though, because his tone was usually bitchier. Dr. Kujo’s voice was a cross between devastated and angry, although Mista could detect a hint of joyful hysteria.

Polnareff grimaced. “You weren’t exactly wrong in that assumption.” He answered. “I was killed by the previous Don of Passione. I got bound to this turtle because of the stand arrow, but that’s a story for another time. I am here now, mon ami.”

Jotaro had straightened himself out by this point, and walked to where Polnareff was. He waved a hand through the Frenchman's head.

“A ghost?” He asked, “You’re a ghost now?” His voice, while mostly back to normal, still betrayed his true feelings.

“Yes, Jotaro. But please. There’s much I have to tell you. I’ll explain this all later- I promise. We need to go help Giorno.”

Abbacchio, who had been watching the exchange silently, piped up at that.

“Polnareff, I saw the replay of when Bucciaratti was attacked. Can you tell us what happened at all?”

Polnareff sighed, and suddenly he seemed to have aged decades. The worry that had been plaguing him despite his reunion with Jotaro broke through completely, and the man appeared defeated.

“How long has it been?”

“About three months.”

Polnareff swore loudly.

“Do you think he’s even alive?”

Abbacchio’s eyes bored into Polnareff’s.

“We don’t know,” He answered sincerely, his words hitched and tight. Mista hadn’t seen him so upset in years; not since he first gave up drinking.

Polnareff signed and rubbed his hands over his eyes.

“I was with Giorno when he got captured,” he finally said, face grave. “I’m assuming you saw the man who did it on the replay. He got in through the window early in the morning. Giorno was exhausted- he had fallen asleep at his desk.”

***

Polnareff, as Coco Jumbo, stood on Giorno’s desk, acting as a small guard in the night. The boy himself had long since fallen asleep; his pen had fallen out of slack fingers, and his breathing was deep and even. The room smelled like a garden in full bloom, which was apt, because Giorno had flowers and plants everywhere. Their life was linked to Gold Experience. When the boy was resting, they thrived, and many seemed to emanate a faint golden glow. A gentle jangling permeated the air, most likely from the subconscious use of Gold Experience.

It was peaceful.

A small shift of movement outside caught Polnareff’s eye. The window was open by a crack, but he could see no wind rustling the curtains. He eyed it warily.

Strange, but nothing to worry about. Perhaps it’s a bat in the night, or a loose branch.

He would never forgive himself for dismissing his worry.

They sat in peace for quite a while after, the boy enjoying his sleep, the man keeping watch, until Polnareff noticed something strange coming from the bottom of the windowpane.

It was a finger. A long, lanky, skeletal finger, dressed in black leather. Soon, four others joined the first, and the window opened silently. Polnareff hastened towards where Giorno’s head lay.

“Giorno,” he whispered urgently, not wishing to alert the intruder of his presence. “Giorno!” Coco Jumbo nipped at his head. The boy stifled a shocked breath and opened his eyes, looking at Polnareff. His eyes then trailed behind Polnareff, widening in shock, and chest expanding with a gasp.

Polnareff turned. His eyes met the grisly visage of a stand, towering over the desk. It was tall, so very tall, and its neck bent to keep its head from slamming into the ceiling. Maroon flesh bulged over lanky muscle and bone, and it looked like a starved beast. A gaping mouth hung wide and frothed with saliva, long tongue lolling about in the foamy mess. It reached out a long, spindly arm, and grabbed Coco Jumbo from the desk. The turtle began to squirm, and Polnareff began to yell to Giorno so he would do something, only-

-only Giorno was stuck, eyes rolled up to their whites, and the stand user’s hands in his hair and over his mouth. The user grinned up at him viciously, pressing the cloth even harder against Giorno’s face as the boy began to struggle. Gold Experience flickered and twitched behind him, unable to fully manifest.

“Just a little chloroform mix the ring came up with. A little sleeping aid, and enough relaxant to fell a horse. His stand will be out of commission for a while, but it’s best to not take any chances.”

Suddenly, the user slammed Giorno’s head against the corner of the desk, and the boy went slack, falling to the floor. The user reached out a gaunt hand and plucked Polnareff from his place on the desk. Idly examining a squirming Coco Jumbo, he murmured:

“House of Memories. Remove all of Giovanna’s memories.”

The stand leaned over Giorno’s prone form, deaf to Polnareff’s yells. Being tied to a turtle was always inconvenient; but now the dangers of being so helpless were more evident than ever. He just couldn’t be loud enough to catch any of the other house member’s attention. He could only hope that someone had heard the loud bang that happened when Giorno was rendered unconscious. He didn’t count on it, though. It was three in the morning.

The stand, after placing a spindly hand on top of Giorno’s golden head, dug his nails into his scalp. Small marks formed under the sharp nails, and as the pressure increased, they began to ooze. In place of blood, a metallic black substance that rolled and shifted in the meager light oozed forth. The liquid continued to flow, although in a most peculiar fashion. It was as though the stand’s hand was a magnet and the liquid metal; it clung to his hand, and became large and bubble-like. The bubble became bulbous, and dripped from between his fingers like a crushed slug. The stand turned and passed the revolting mess to the intruder; to Polnareff’s disgust, the man swallowed it down greedily, as if it was the finest of liquors.

“Now, my dear Polnareff, I would kill you, but I’d find that to be too kind,” the man said, licking his lips. “And besides, You cannot kill a ghost. So instead, I’ll keep you here.”

He opened a drawer, removing the key from the lock in the process. Polnareff’s vision was cut off, and Coco Jumbo was shoved into the tight space, squirming indignantly. The man leaned down and leered, his ruined face overtaking all of Polnareff’s vision. A finger traced over the turtle’s shell, and Polnareff felt the most peculiar sensation pressing against his skull. It ached as though a rapid beast tore through it, but the sensation quickly subsided. Polnareff’s blurring vision snapped back into focus, and the man’s face flitting back into view. He casually sat in Giorno’s chair; the boy’s body discarded out of view. He considered Polnareff casually, before smiling and giving Polnareff a speech that turned his blood to ice:

“I hope you sit here and think. Think real hard. About how you can’t help dear Giorno here. About how you couldn’t help your companions. And I hope that while you're in the dark, trying not to go mad, you remember your dear sister, Kakyoin, and Avdol. I hope you remember that you couldn’t save them. Just like you didn’t save Giorno here. And I’ll be back later to take care of the rest of the team.”

Polareff wanted to scream, but he had been yelling as loud as he could for so long, and nothing had happened. The man’s harsh words had taken his breath away, with their ferociousness and their unexpectedness.

How did he even know of Sherry?

The man leaned down close, whispering now.

“And I hope you know that, as much as you failed your sister, what you have subjected Giorno to is nothing compared to what she suffered. This is your magnum opus. Your greatest failure. If you’re lucky, I may even show you the product of your efforts, when all is said and done.”

The world was dark and empty, and felt cruel and cold. A turtle sat in a drawer, trapped. In a room, a man sat, devastated. Outside the drawer, a hand carelessly turned off a desk lamp, and dragged a limp body from the ground.

***

The group sat in moody silence. Jotaro was staring at Polnareff with an emotion Mista couldn’t identify; if he had to guess, it was shared grief. Bruno would stare at Abbacchio the same way, when the drinking got bad and the goth spent too much time in the past.

“Pol, what he said about Sherry-”

“I kn-”

“And K- and our friends, it’s not-”

“I know, JoJo.”

The pair descended into silence, looking at anything but each other. The two outsiders looked on, bewildered.

“Uh,” Mista said, tactfully. “Not to go prying into anybody’s business, but who’s Sherry? And Avdol? And Kakyoin?”

“That would be prying, Mista.” Snapped Abbacchio

“I know it’s prying, man. But this guy brought these people up, and he’s the one who stole our GioGio, so I think it’s a valid-”

“It’s fine, Abbacchio.” Polnareff cut in. “In fact, it is important. By all rights, that man should know nothing of any of those people. I’ve been compromised”

“Compromised?” Abbacchio turned to look at Polnareff questioningly.

Polnareff stopped for a moment, clearly considering his next words carefully.

“The user that attacked could clearly steal and manipulate memory. I don’t know what he did to Giorno, but it’s clear that he was able to retrieve memories from me.”

Everyone sat back to consider those words. A stand that could block and read memories? Mista felt himself shudder, before a realization hit him.

“Wait,” he started, and all eyes in the room trailed over to him. “Bruno’s memory…the user just blocked all of our memories by ‘infecting’ one person, right? But it looked nothing like what Polnareff described happening to Giorno. I didn’t see any goo in the replay.”

“An astute observation, Mista!” Polnareff grinned. “I’d need to see the replay to confirm, but yes, I think it was different. We should consider what all of the stand’s effects are, and theorize about what happened to Giorno.”

Jotaro nodded curtly. “We should regroup with the others. We have plenty of information about the stand and user from your description, Pol.”

With that, Jotaro stood, staring down at Polnareff with an unreadable expression.

“We have a lot to catch up on,” the Frenchman said quietly, with a sad smile. “Don’t be a stranger, alright?”

Jotaro looked down at him for a beat, before turning, reaching up to leave.

“Yeah,” he said. “Alright.”

Chapter Text

In a dark room, there was a hatch.

Hatches are useful things; they are entrances to shelters, to storage, to keep things safely hidden. They are meant to be opened when times get tough, when the family needs help, and lend a safe place to stay.

However, as with all things, hatches can have another meaning. They can keep things hidden that shouldn’t be found. They can muffle the cries of the damned, hide villainous acts, and keep the sick from reaching safety. They can close out the light, cage life, and keep things withered and cold inside musty chambers. They hide the abandoned things of the world, and keep the gentle touch of warmth from ever reaching them.

This hatch had found its purpose doing just that.

People came and went, some more free than others, but no one who entered through that hatch was kept there to be safe. No one in the house was safe. The boy knew this because had observed the happenings there for a long while. He watched how people moved and groaned, how they writhed through pain and swelled with sickness. He watched as young ladies were taken away, as foolish young men came in begging for another hit. He watched their skin turn sallow and dry, their lips crusted and eyes blank, and had seen enough to know their time was close. He had sat in a soulless room, filled with bodies that were no longer alive, and shadows that groped at his feet. He sat as they were taken away, one by one. As time passed, he found himself wishing to join them up the ladder, just for a change. For anything to happen.

Were they tasting the sweet warmth of freedom?

Or was it the cold kiss of death?

Deep in his bones, the boy felt that he didn’t want to join them in death. But he desperately wanted to be let out of this room, this building, and to see what lay outside. As times passed and faces changed, as bruises yellowed and faded, as tears dried and were forgotten, the line between freedom and death had blurred for the boy. He began to doubt that freedom could exist before death, and that notion terrified him. Even though his mind was empty of memories, giving up felt like a betrayal to himself. He had to get out before the last of his strength dried up.

Would he ever see the sun?

At first, the boy had screamed, bitten, torn and scratched. His nails had left deep grooves in skin and wood alike, as faceless people dragged him from the cellar to take blood or run tests. A particularly upsetting test, which involved the breakage of the boy’s forearm, had resulted in a Whitecoat losing his tooth from a well-placed kick. The boy had earned a shiny bruise on his jaw to match, and a swollen eye for revenge. At the time, he had barely cared. There was a deep conviction in him, a metaphorical voice screaming at him: there was something better than this. There had to be.

But as days passed, the voice faded, as though it, too, was getting tired. He barely heard the voice at all now.

The boy got tired of the tests. He grew dizzy from the bloodloss. His bones felt brittle and healed slower with each passing day. He was tired of bruised, scratchy throats, of having his limits pushed. He just wanted to rest, without a room of people scrutinizing his unusually fast healing.

Please, I just want to sleep…

A new group of people were with him today. A small group, but a new one nonetheless. A foolish boy, perhaps his own age, sat against the back wall of the cell. An old man, face withered and teeth rotting from years of abusing substances. The fool was vibrating with excitement. The fool had been lured here with the promise of good stuff, same as the old man. The boy knew that the fool and the old man were here, but doubted they knew of his presence. When he’d heard the clicking of boots on the floorboards above, he’d hidden behind a stack of boxes to doze. It was best to take advantage of the times he was left alone.

Silently, he crept from his hiding place. He sat in his usual spot, pounding head resting on the box he had hidden behind, legs splayed out to the side. He took care to not shift the chains around his ankles. Despite his best efforts, though, they jangled in the dark.

“Who’s there?” The fool’s voice snapped. There was the sound of fumbling, and then a click, and then light invaded the boy's eyes.

He flinched back, but the fool crawled closer, holding a lighter in his hand. His face, which was doughy and slick with sweat, pulled into an expression of disgusted awe.

“Dude, what happened to your face? That’s a gnarly gash!” The boy stared at the fool with wide eyes. They burned in the brightness, and were red-rimmed with old tears. They were crowded with bloodshot blood vessels, swollen and aching from little sleep and too much stress. In the dim light, a dark scab formed a shadow on his face. It ran from his collarbone to his eye, stopping right under the eye socket. A bruise ran along the opposite cheekbone, and dried blood settled under his nose. The fool didn’t seem to register the implications of the boy’s condition, though.

“What, did you get on the wrong side of these guys? Did they jump you or some shit?” The boy wanted the fool to leave him alone. He hated being the center of attention.

“Holy shit, what are you wearing? A dress? And what’s with the haircut?” The fool took no heed of the boy’s discomfort, and examined him with the small light.

“Hate to tell you this, man, but I think you need a new barber. That’s the worst dye-job I’ve seen in my life.” The fool tugged on the boy’s hair, exposing a lock intertwined with gold and black. He felt a vague indignance over the comment on his hair, because he felt that it was most certainly never dyed. He had no memories to prove it, though. However his mild annoyance was quickly interrupted when his eye caught the lighter once more. The lighter seemed familiar. Just looking at it filled him with excitement, but over what, he didn’t know. The boy scrunched up against his box in disappointment, wishing for non-existent memories. Eyed followed the lighter in the fool’s hand longingly, as though it held the key to his damaged mind.

A loud, cut off snore broke the silence, and the old man shifted in his sleep. The sudden noise made the boy jerk, and his chains clinked together. The fool, whose eyes were drawn to the noise, looked confused.

“Hey,” the fool said, fear finally leaking into his voice, “Why’re you all chained up like that?” He peered down at the boy’s feet, and his swollen ankles. “And- that’s a hospital gown, right? Wh- where are your clothes?”

The boy just scrunched tighter, making a small noise of protest. The fool, who now seemed to realize the situation he was in, began to breathe erratically.

“Oh, fuck me, I’ve made a mistake, haven’t I?” The old man snored, unaware of his dire circumstances, and the boy stared at the fool.

“Come on man, can’t you talk? How the hell do I get outta this?” The fool grabbed the boy’s bony shoulder. The boy silently shook under his grip. The lighter was dropped on the floor at the boy’s feet, put out and forgotten.

The fool shook the boy once more.

“Answer me, you moron!” His voice had risen to a shout. The boy squeezed his eyes shut, body as stiff as a board. The chains on his feet clacked dangerously.

Footsteps echoed on the floorboards above, and dust fell from the ceiling. Both the boy and the fool stared up at the hatch, terrified of the moment it would open. Only the old man slept on, uncaring. And slowly, the sliver of light became a chunk, and the hatch swung open.

***

Hours later, the boy was brought up from the cellar himself.

His chain was unhooked from the wall by a whitecoat, and he rolled his ankle experimentally, wiggling his toes to check if they still worked. His foot had fallen asleep shortly after the Dark Man had pulled the fool from the basement. The fool had screamed the whole way up, but the Dark Man was deceivingly strong. One touch from him, and all of your muscles froze.

A slap to the back of his head snapped the boy back to reality, and he turned to see the Whitecoat frowning at him. The boy stared blankly back. It was the man he’d kicked some weeks before; he could see the spot where a canine was missing.

“Get a move on, why don’t you? We’ve had a breakthrough, and we need you in the lab.”

The boy shuffled to the ladder, gripping the iron bars and hoisting himself up shakily. Ever since his fast healing faded, he’d been feeling incredibly weak.

That may have been from the lack of food, though.

When the boy had first woken up, whole and hale and confused as hell, he hadn’t realized that his healing was abnormally fast. The Whitecoats had, though, and they were overjoyed at it. They took so much blood he couldn’t see straight, and broke bones to time how fast they repaired. They boy had finally clued into it when they decided to test how long it took to heal a stab wound and got a little too zealous. The cut didn’t heal by itself, like the blood replenished or the bone repaired. It just oozed red until the boy was dizzy. Eventually, a panicking Whitecoat had pressed a towel into his side, and it miraculously formed into flesh. It left the boy exhausted, and never happened again.

His hands finally reached the tile of the upper floor, and his feet soon followed. The whitecoat groaned as he hoisted himself up behind him, and the chain jangled in his hand as he straightened.

“Your hair’s getting’ ratty, again. Let’s buzz it before we go.”

The boy brought a hand up to tug on one of his curls. He liked his hair long. He wasn’t sure why, but it only felt proper.

As if anything in this place is proper…

The Whitecoat moved ahead of him, walking down a dirty hallway. It was probably sterile at one point, but mold had long taken over the cracks in the tiles and walls. Everything had a dusty, greenish hue. He turned to the left, tugging the boy’s chain along with him, and they arrived in a musty shower room. The far corner held a metal industrial sink. The Whitecoat walked over and wrapped the boy’s chain around a nearby pipe, sliding the lock into place with a deep frown. He rummaged in a nearby shelf, before pulling out a rusty razor and a pair of scissors.

His pale eyes slid towards the boy, and he beckoned to the sink.

“Come here,” he ordered, pointing to the sink once more. The boy stood still, face remaining carefully blank. The man’s eyes narrowed.

“Come. Here. I’ve got no time to clean up a mess, so we’re using the sink for this one.” He once again jabbed a thumb at the sink. The rim was yellowed and caked with old soap scum. The boy remained still. A small tremor shook the edges of his hospital gown.

A loud clang resounded through the room; the Whitecoat had thrown the razor down into the sink. He stomped over to the boy, who looked at him with wide eyes. The tremble in his legs heightened, but his breathing remained carefully regulated.

“Useless. I swear, on all that’s good and holy, boss fucked your brain for good. Does anything even get through to you? Come ON!

With that, the man grabbed the boy by the hair, and dragged him to the sink, throwing him unceremoniously over the side, so the yellowed edges pressed against his protesting stomach. The boy threw his hands out to catch himself, hands sliding along the edges, until he felt a sudden burn on the palm of his hand. The razor had embedded itself in his flesh. The cut stung and smarted, welling with blood, and the boy gasped in surprise, clutching the hand briefly. It didn’t hurt so bad, but it was unexpected.

He felt rustling about his head, and a hand reached down and snatched the razor. From the corner of his eye, he saw the Whitecoat pull out a pair of scissors, and heard the distinctive snicker-snack of their blades cutting hair.

A halo of gold and black fell into the molded sink below. The boy saw dead beetles lining the drain, their crushed and soggy bodies buried under the hair, and felt his eyes burn unexpectedly.

What a waste of life.

It takes one to know one, A harsh voice whispered in his ear. always taking up space, pathetic-

The boy flinched to the side, and the Whitecoat cussed, pulling roughly on his head again.

“Sit still, or I’ll cut more than your hair.”

The shadow grinned. The boy nodded once, and the clipping continued on. He clutched his hand, trying to ignore the shadow next to him.

You never do what you’re told, do you? It snarled. It’s voice was higher pitched, a woman’s, with the screechy lilt forced childishness. Don’t blame me when it all goes wrong. You deserve this.

As the shadow spoke, the boy stilled, eyes widening. Blood dripped from his hand into the sink.

Drip, Drop, Drip

The red stained the gold and black.

Something was familiar about this.

***

“It’s incredible, what we’ve managed to achieve so far. I’ve never seen a stand so strong.”

The boy did not understand what was happening. The lights glared from above. His eyes burned and watered. The transition from the darkness of the basement to the brightly lit room of the upper floor was always jarring. Briefly, the boy wished that there were other types of light here, one that didn’t blind him, or sting.

But there is!

His mind flashed to the metal lighter that the Fool had dropped upon the basement floor. The boy had stayed tucked away in his corner when the Fool had been dragged away, only creeping forward once complete silence had taken over. He had wrapped his fingers around the cold, sleek metal, listening to the soft snores of the old man in the corner.

There’s something there, his mind had whispered, and his fingers worked around the smooth metallic surface. Something clawed at the back of his mind. An empty space of memory throbbed with anticipation. He flicked the lighter open.

He still remembered the delight he had felt when he saw its golden glow. It was warm, and didn’t hurt his eyes. It wasn’t hard and blue like the lights here; but it cast enough light to feel comforting. Plus, looking at it caused an itch to form in the boy’s mind. It was almost like a memory. He had hidden the lighter away in the corner, buried in a light dusting of dirt. He wanted to stare at its glow until it burned out, but it was too precious to waste.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and the boy startled out of his haze. A skeletal, scarred face grinned down at him. The boy shrank back, suppressing involuntary shivers. He’s balanced on a hard stool, the room empty besides the IV taking blood. There’s no place to hide.

One nice thing about the dark: you can remain hidden, if you wish.

“Take some more blood. The doctors need more data for our research development, too.”

The man reaches out a spidly hand and grabs the boy’s face, tilting it up. The light caught a pearly white sheen on the boy’s cheek; a scar. It ran from the edge of his eyebrow to the bottom of his jaw, just narrowly missing the corner of his eye. They boy had been suppressing the urge to itch the raised flesh all night.

“The cut was extremely deep, and it’s almost completely unnoticeable. Fascinating. Even with all his abilities suppressed, he still causes life to flourish.” He stroked one long finger against the fading scar. The boy quaked under the touch.

“The healing factor he shows- It only seems to affect non-lethal circumstances. If it’s anything worse than a broken bone, or a small cut, he needs something extra to heal it… almost like a matter exchange.” The whitecoat passed a clipboard to the Dark Man, who intensely scrutinized the contents.

A strange expression overtook the Dark Man’s face. Boots squeaked along the tile floor as he turned to the whitecoat.

“A matter exchange?”

The whitecoat swallowed nervously. Even they seemed scared of the Dark Man.

“Yes; It seems like some of his cells divide at a faster pace, making him regenerate certain parts easier than others. Sort of like the stomach’s lining. But it’s not extremely significant; we’ve noticed that his cuts and breaks only last a few days as opposed to weeks, but not for major injury. A broken finger is repaired in two days, but a broken femur? That would still take months. So to heal a bigger injury, he needs matter to take its place…”

The whitecoat trailed off, noticing the Dark Man’s darkening demeanor.

“Pour more research into this matter exchange.”

“But sir,” cried the whitecoat, “that aids none of our drug development-”

The Dark Man grabbed the whitecoat’s shoulder, and the man immediately froze.

“You will do as I say,” he growled.

He left the cold room with a flourish, leaving the boy with the whitecoat. The remaining man shook himself, startled, and moved in to examine the blood bag

It was going to be a long day.

***

User’s Name: Unknown

Gender: Male

Description:

Tall, dark haired, and skinny. According to Moody Blues’ replay, he is about 200 cm tall. Estimated to be in his mid 30’s. Black eyes. Identifying marks include facial scarring.

Stand: House of Memories

Description: (guessed) Removes memories from victims and consumes them. Can cause paralysis on contact with the user or stand. Long term effects unknown. Removes memories by causing a physical injury to the victim; possibly through blood. Thought to be short range. Is able to cause groups to forget the same thing by infecting one person. Person limit unknown. Range unknown.

Bruno sighed, rubbing his burning eyes with one hand. Fugo and Dr. Kujo had joined him in his search at the dining room table; there were papers sprawled everywhere on its surface. Mista and Abbacchio were still upstairs in Giorno’s room, cross-referencing Moody Blues’ replay and writing a diagnostic. Trish and Narancia had disappeared to help them some time ago. Bruno hoped they were making more headway than he was.

There was no one who matched the stand user in Passione’s database, so he’d started scouring public databases for a possible match. It was a mostly fruitless endeavor. People could change their appearance a lot after their stand awakened; Giorno had once mentioned his hair being black until Golden Wind appeared. Bruno had little hope for finding their suspect on appearances alone.

Trish had run down about an hour before with Giorno’s wallet in hand. She had found it sitting in the back of the drawer polnareff had been stored in. There was nothing missing from it, so there was no use trying to see if they could track the kidnappers through the use of money. In fact, money was unlikely to be a motivator at all. There had been no attempts at ransom.

“So it’s not money,” Fugo said, slumped in the chair across from him, “And it’s unlikely that it’s any of Dio’s men?”

Bruno turned his stinging eyes to Dr. Kujo, who was sitting at Fugo’s side, sorting through reference papers.

“Highly unlikely. Polnareff’s report details an attack with malicious intent, not to mention the memory erasure involved. In my experience, Dio himself wouldn’t have been adverse to using such methods on his son, but his followers saw Dio like a god. They wouldn’t dare lay a hand on Giorno, not in that fashion.”

Fugo and Bruno exchanged a look. That statement had implied that Fop had some experience with memory erasure, but Dr. Kujo had been cagey about the details of Giorno’s estranged father. Bruno was beginning to suspect it would hinder their investigation. Clearly, from his pinched expression, Fugo was beginning to think the same.

“Your response implies that Dio was capable of erasing memories in some fashion.” Fugo finally said, turning a suspicious glare on the doctor.

Jotaro scowled at him. Polnareff filled in the uneasy silence.

“Dio himself was the man that could affect memories, so there was no lackey with that job. This is barring the fact that, as far as we know, Dio’s followers are either dead or obsolete, mostly the former.”

Fugo chewed his lip silently. He reached forward and grabbed a note lying on the table; it was the same one that had been found in Giorno’s room.

“With all this information at hand, I think our best angle is to assume the perpetrator was connected to Passione in some way.”

The three other men remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

“I know there’s nothing in our database that matches our kidnapper, but there’s a possibility it's a family member or a friend of one of the people we killed during the coup, Giorno especially.”

“So I started looking for patterns that matched what we’ve found thus far, to see if there was anyone who operated in a similar way. And here’s who I found.”

Fugo pushed forward two stacks of paper, each with a photo attached to the front. Bruno felt his heart turn to ice and sink, his hand slowly going to rest in front of his mouth.

“Bruno,” the Polnareff asked, voice gentle, “Who is it?”

Bruno took a deep breath, feeling Dr. Kujoh’s curious eyes on him.

“Two former members of the Elite Squad. They… as dangerous as you find us, Dr. Kujoh, these men had reached a level of depravity that you can hardly imagine.”

Jotaro shifted and moved closer to the table, examining the men in the photographs. His fingers hovered over the glossy images, and then moved to the text below. He mouthed the text as he read it, eyebrows wrinkled in confusion, until he looked back up and met Bruno’s eyes.

“Cioccolata. Says here that the man has been terminated. You think he’s involved in this?” He directed the question at Fugo.

“Not him directly, no. But he was one of the men Giorno killed, as far as we know. There is a small chance that he survived, so we can’t entirely rule him out. Additionally, while the perpetrator’s methods are different from what Cioccolata would typically do, there are a few reports here that he wrote that have some eerie similarities.”

“How so?”

Fugo rubbed his forehead, a frustrated expression coming over him. Bruno could tell he was fighting off a headache.

“Cioccolata had a habit of kidnapping victims after he joined Passione, so he could continue doing his work the same way he had in hospitals. There’s a few reports in there that speak of an “ally” that used to help him when the victim was a particularly powerful Stand user.”

Dr. Kujo’s face twitched as Fugo mentioned Cioccolata’s kidnapping habits, eyes briefly flicking to Bruno before settling back on the papers in front of him. He probably hadn’t read far enough to know about Cioccolata’s…hobbies. Bruno dreaded explaining it to him.

“And this ally wasn’t a part of Passione?” Jotaro asked, eyebrows raised.

“Not officially, no.” Fugo said. “These reports suggest that Diavolo, our former boss, was aware of his presence, though. There was even one occasion that Diavolo requested his skills. It was more like a loose partnership. Diavolo was high-strung and desperate to remain anonymous; he wouldn’t have pushed the issue if the man’s stand put his anonymity at risk.”

“Excellent, Fugo. We have a lead now!” Polnareff smiled kindly at Fugo. He then looked to Bruno once more. “What will our next move be?”

The black-haired man sighed, running a hand through his mangled hair. He felt exhausted. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this wrung out, aside from after they killed Diavolo and Giorno had healed them. Both him and Giorno slept for days after…

How could he have forgotten that?

Squashing down a new wave of guilt, Bruno answered Polnareff’s query:

“Examining any and all of Ciocolatta’s family tree, and finding any records that can be recovered. Continuing to scour databases for a match to our man. Diavolo was notoriously suspicious of people hunting down his own identity, so his higher circle also remained anonymous. We don’t even know Cioccolata’s real name. If all else fails, I can question people at the hospitals that he used to work at. Diavolo did a thorough job, covering up for Cioccolatta, but I know someone who may be able to help.”

Bruno took in everyone’s reaction, noting the bloodshot eyes and slouching postures. As much as he wanted to just run out and begin as soon as possible, there was no way they could begin field work like this. Half his team was still recovering from the shock of gaining their memories, and Dr. Kujo was definitely fighting off jet lag. They needed to recuperate, a sense of urgency be damned.

Even if waiting made a part of Bruno’s heart curdle and die.
“For now, though… It’s been a trying few days. Dr. Kujo, I’m sure you’re exhausted, and Polnareff too.”

Each word felt like a betrayal, and burned like lava on his tongue. But his wretched mouth moved on anyway.

“We should all get some rest, and food. I’ll arrange a spare bed. We’ll be working together for quite some time, I’d wager, so some hospitality would be ideal.”

***

Dinner was a sordid affair.

It was so quiet that Bruno could hear the buzz of the electric lights in the ceiling, broken intermittently by the clacking of silverware. Abbacchio and Trish had thrown together an acceptable meal for everyone, but no one seemed that enthusiastic about it. Even Narancia was picking at his food.

The research papers had been hurriedly shoved aside to make room for plates, and were now sitting on the cabinet behind Bruno. He itched to grab one of them, even if it was just for the novelty of doing something. His stomach was twisting itself in knots, and he couldn’t stop his leg from mindless jittering. It subtly bounced under the table.

Fugo had noticed the mild shaking of the chair, and Bruno had noticed the irritation sparking in his face before he realized who the perpetrator was. He had gapeg at Bruno for a moment, before thinking better of mentioning it and turning to his own plate. He had been seething silently ever since, but Bruno wasn’t sure why. It could’ve been the continued jittering of the chairs, or the general situation. Bruno just couldn’t seem to calm down.

Not that anyone else was faring better. Even Abbacchio was chewing with a small frown, his headphones in place but not playing. Narancia looked like he was trying to melt into his seat, he was slouching so much. Mista and Trish weren’t much better. Bruno couldn’t bring himself to scold them for their lack of manners; not like he usually would. Not even with a guest here.

While the metaphorical elephant in the room, Giorno’s disappearance, was the most likely culprit, there was also the issue of the newest Joestar addition.

Bruno eyed Dr. Kujo warily. He sat in Giorno’s once-empty chair, which had haunted Bruno for many months. Looking at the chair filled made Bruno want to scream. Everything was so wrong.

Bruno jolted when he felt a kick to his foot, eyes snapping to Abbacchio. The older man raised his eyebrows pointedly and jabbed at his plate.

Eat, before I have to force-feed you.

Bruno shakily picked up his own fork, stomach protesting.

The deafening static permeating the room was broken by Dr. Kujo clearing his throat, asking:

“So, you guys function as a team. You’re all stand users, I can tell that much. What’re all of your roles?”

Each and every member of his team bristled.

“Why should we tell you anything personal?”

Narancia stabbed moodily at his plate, sloshing a mass of food around messily. Bruno internally winced, but still felt wholly incapable of scolding him for it.

Good thing Abbacchio beat him to it.

“Narancia, quit making a mess. This isn’t a barn.”

Dr. Kujo paused, sending Abbacchio a strange look, as if he wasn’t expecting the reprimand. He then continued his query.

“I want to know because we’ll be doing field work together. We should plan how to use our abilities in tandem.”

“With all due respect, Dr. Kujo,” Bruno finally interrupted, anxiety momentarily forgotten in favor of defending Narancia, “You’ve done nothing but invade our privacy since you arrived. You’ve admitted to partaking in a surveillance on us, had your lackeys root through our heads, and been given access to classified Passione documents. If it’s trust you want from us, trust us with something about you first.”

All the heads at the table turned to Dr. Kujo expectantly, who’s normal thunderous visage had darkened exponentially. Surprisingly, Mista broke the silence.

“How about your stand? We’ve already experienced it, and seen a little bit of it. What’s its name?”

“His name is Star Platinum.” The doctor added nothing else. Oh well; if Bruno knew one thing, it’s that Mista and Narancia as a duo could wheedle anything out of someone. Mista by being charming, Narancia by acting like an overexcited child. He waited expectantly for the next comment to come sailing by.

It came from Mista.

“It has something to do with time manipulation, yeah?”

How did Mista know that?

To his surprise, Abbacchio nodded. “That’s certainly what it felt like.”

“When did you find this out?” Bruno asked. Dr. Kujo cleared his throat sharply, causing everyone to turn back to him.

“When we first met, in your office,” he said. “You were under the influence of Rohan’s stand, so you were out cold. And yes, it has to do with time manipulation. Star platinum pauses time.”

Fugo hummed thoughtfully, turning to Abbacchio.

“Did it feel any different from last time? I know you weren’t there for the worst of it, but…”

Abbacchio cocked his head in thought, removing his silent headphones entirely.

“It felt similar,” he concluded, “but instead of everything moving forward in time, I was kept in place entirely.”

Dr. Kujo watched the exchange with interest, eventually asking Bruno:

“You’ve had experience, then, with time manipulation stands?”

“Whoa, buddy, hold up a hot second,” Trish interrupted rudely. “All we’ve found out is your stand’s name and general ability. Tell us something else before we start talking again. Where are you from?”

“...”

“I’m waiting!”

“Japan.”

…
…
Once again, silence.

…
…

Abbacchio broke it.

“You and the brat are exactly the same,” He groused. “You’re so fucking cagey about everything.” He picked up the teapot moodily. Bruno narrowed his eyes at him, suspicious.

“Now Abbaccio, we can’t be giving every Joestar we meet pissy treatment, can we?” Narancia and Mista collectively choked, and began howling with laughter. Fugo cleared his throat primly and pretended to stop paying attention. Abbacchio turned beet red, slamming the piece of crockery back down on the table. Bruno smiled victoriously.

“Shit, man, you weren’t actually planning on it, were you?” Mista clapped him on the back. Abbacchio’s scowl deepened.

“No”

“Bruno never let it go the first time.” Fugo reminded him steadily. “I wouldn’t repeat your transgression.”

Bruno felt the urge to laugh as well, anxiety momentarily forgotten. “It would be moderately unwise.” He agreed.

“What did Abbacchio do to Giorno this time?” Trish complained, jabbing an accusatory finger towards the goth.

“There is no “this time”, Trish, it’s something he did before we even met you.” Mista was still laughing.

“Don’t tell her. Don’t you fucking dare!”

As the exchange devolved into routine squabbling, Bruno kept his eyes on Dr. Kujo. The strangest expression had crossed over his face. It almost made the momentary joy Bruno found fade entirely.

There was something off about that man.

Bruno would figure it out, if it killed him.

Chapter Text

“Dr. Kujoh, is something wrong?’

Jotaro turned, seeing Don Bucciaratti standing in the doorway. His blue pinstripe appeared black from the red glow of the kitchen lights. Jotaro wouldn’t read his face- the backlight had caused angular shadows, obliterating his blue eyes and sharp nose in their depths. The sight was vaguely disconcerting, and he briefly wondered how many men had viewed a similar scene with the barrel of a gun pressed into their skull.

Sometimes, Joatro found himself struggling to imagine the Don Killing someone. Or ordering a death, for that matter. He could easily see Abbacchio beating a man to death, or Mista shooting one in the head; their temperaments matched Jotaro’s pre-existing ideas about gangsters. Grouchy, imposing, leering from the shadows. Loud, boisterous, friendly, and deadly. But Bucciarati?

At first, Jotaro thought that the man was merely manipulating the young teens under his wing. But watching Bucciarati deal with the aftermath of Giorno’s disappearance had him questioning that assumption. Bucciarati did, on some level, care for his team. The only question that remained was the level of dedication the man gave to his team.

So far, it seemed like he cared for them deeply. He acted like such a mother hen; Jotaro was unmistakably reminded of his mother whenever he observed the interactions in the Don’s household. That impression had increased tenfold when he had watched Bucciaratti wrestle three of his teens up to bed like an experienced old matron before retiring to his own room earlier that night. Bucciaratti had encouraged him to rest as well.

Jotaro wasn’t sure why, but his tone now suggested that he was legitimately concerned about Jotaro’s sleeplessness. Perhaps he had noticed Jotaro’s subtle mood shift at dinner. A strange cloud of melancholy had developed over him, but from what, he wasn’t sure. His room had felt too crowded, so he had come out for a smoke.

He shuffled uncomfortably on the brick porch, feeling the uneven surface through his dress shoes. The garden was beautiful, if overgrown. Orange flowers shone from dark bushes, their petals decorating the grass like fallen stars. Insects chirped and frogs croaked lazily. It was warm, but not muggy. A cigarette rests between his teeth, filling his throat with a comforting burning haze.

The night was positively blissful. What could possibly be wrong with him?

“Perhaps you are missing your family?” The Don questioned innocently. Jotaro’s hand jerked, aggressively ripping his cigarette out of his mouth. Was that the reason?.

It wasn’t as though Jotaro had forgotten about Jolyne. He remembered her every day. But missing her had never impacted him like this. And his relationship with Marina was currently… complicated.

“I’m used to being away,” Jotaro answered. “I just needed a smoke.” The answer was wholly inadequate. The Don walked onto the porch, closing the noisy sliding door behind him. He leaned against the metal railing, right next to Jotaro, and looked out into the garden.

“I know a liar when I see one.” The Don replied. Jotaro wondered if the man always had an aptitude for dropping social bombs on other people. How on earth would he respond to that?

Luckily, he didn’t have to. The Don spoke for him.

“You are used to being away,” He mused, “But you do have a family. Abbacchio informed me that you and Polnareff are old friends. He also mentioned some names which seem to hold significance to you. Avodol. Kakyoin.”

Jotaro tried not to flinch at the names. He resolutely stared at the orange flowers, sucking on his noxious cigarette, feeling the tar in his throat.

“You and Polnareff are both Speedwagon agents,” the man hummed, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps you were on a team, once upon a time?”

Fine, then. Go ahead and flay me alive.

He threw his cigarette to the ground, stamping it out with a twist of his heel.

“At any rate, knowing Polnareff’s relationship with you does put me at ease. We’re usually not this welcoming to strangers, but special circumstances occur, as you know.”

An uncomfortable silence overtook the porch. Distantly, car horns blared.

“Perhaps then, Dr. Kujo, it’s your team you're missing, as they are your family?”

Jotaro exhaled deeply.

“They were… some type of family to me. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Staying here was no good. Talking about his dead team was dangerously close to talking about their mission together, and Dio. He couldn’t afford to lose their trust yet. Although Don Bucciarati trusted Polnareff, it was mainly his vow to help Giorno that put Jotaro in Passione’s good graces. Anything that put his intentions in question would endanger his family’s goals.

He didn’t want to talk about this anymore…

He turned to go back inside, but was stopped by the Don’s voice once more.

“I am sorry for your losses, Dr. Kujo.” He hadn’t turned back to look at Jotaro. Instead, he had picked up one of the many fallen flowers. Wilted orange stained his hands.

“Thank you for helping me with mine.” The statement wasn’t a threat, but it felt like one. The flower was tucked away gently. “You should go back inside. We’ll have a plan together by daybreak, and I want you on one of our teams. Get some sleep.”

Jotaro stood awkwardly for a second, before turning and prying the door open.

“You as well.”

***

It was now 4 o’clock in the morning, and, hypocrite that he was, Abbacchio had not slept. Everyone else had been sent off to bed right after their late dinner, which had concluded just after midnight. They went off, mostly without complaint after Bucciarati gave them his special I-told-you-to-so-do-it glare. It usually took much more than that to get Narancia and Mista to sleep, so it was testament to how emotionally exhausted the whole team was. It had been a long day.

Fugo was sprawled in his chair, head at an unnatural angle against the headboard, gently snoring. He had succumbed to exhaustion a while ago; perhaps around two. The sleeping position certainly wouldn’t help the migraine the boy had been fighting off the day before, but it was too late to wake him. He'd already been there for hours. Still, at least their research had been a success. They’d found no less than four hospitals linked to Cioccolata.

And still, Abbacchio could not sleep. There was a burning feeling in his chest that made his throat constrict a bit too much to relax. His heart was beating strangely, too. It almost felt like…

The sound of the screen door opening set Abbacchio’s teeth on edge, and he whipped around in his chair, fingers trailing to the handgun that was always shoved down the back of his pants. Old habits die hard.

An unperturbed Dr. Kujo stared back at him. The reek of cigarettes followed him around like a halo, and he clutched a flip phone in one hand. His grip was white-knuckle tight, which was the only reason Abbacchio believed that he was upset. The man wasn’t just built like a brick shithouse; he had the emotional range of one, too. Compared to him, Abbacchio wore his heart on his sleeve.

“Dr. Kujo,” He sneered. Alliance be damned, the doctor was still an outsider. Abbacchio would treat him as such. “Bed not suit your taste?”

Kujo didn’t rise to the bait. It was unsurprising, really, but still infuriating. As Abbacchio watched the man shuffle over to the stairs, he was inexplicably reminded of a certain blond-haired brat. The ugly feeling in his chest rose to his mouth, and before he knew it, he was speaking.

“You remind me of Giorno,” he blurts out. Kujo turns to him, eyebrows raised, and Abbacchio internally winces.

This is what I get for not sleeping, Abbaccio thought glumly. Can’t put a damn filter on my mouth.

“You both have this…” Abbacchio gestures to his face, “Stony look on your face, all the time. He was always so stoic, unless he was angry.”

Shockingly, Kujo nods.

“I’ll admit, hearing our similarities was not something I expected.” He replies. His face is carefully blank. Not the usual storminess; blank, as if he was hiding a reaction. Strange. Giorno was supposed to be a long-lost family member, but Kujo remained unusually neutral when subjects broached the brat. The ugly feeling doubled. It felt like his ribcage was preventing a bonfire from spewing out.

“Do you actually care about Giorno?” Abbacchio asked bluntly. Kujo’s face twitched minutely, but remained impassive.

“Whenever you talk about helping him, It’s always about Speedwagon’s wishes. The family’s desires.”

Abbacchio scowled at the man.

“I don’t trust you at all. You have no personal stakes in this, do you? You’re just doing it because you feel obligated to. You don’t care about him. You may even hate him.”

“With all due respect, Abbacchio,” Jotaro throws back at him, “I’ve hardly gotten a resoundingly positive perception of you. You seemed to antagonize Giorno quite a bit, based on your dinner conversation. Enough that your Don felt the need to intervene. You’re hardly in a position to criticize hostility.”

Abbacchio scoffed, ignoring the surge of guilt that bubbled up at those words. He had been so busy he had hardly had time to ponder his and Giorno’s…strenuous relationship. He hadn’t been resolutely avoiding thinking about it all day.

He would never let one of the kids die. That was enough, right?

Right?

Dr. Kujo left, walking up the stairs quietly.

Leaving Abbacchio to quietly drown.

The steps paused for a moment, before Kujo’s voice echoed down the stairs quietly.

“Don Bucciarati is outside still. I think he could use someone to talk to.”

What the hell did that mean?

“I think you could use a talk, as well.”

Rude.

Slowly getting up from his chair, Abbacchio moved to the screen door in the kitchen. He grabbed onto it, grimacing at the noisy grinding that happened as he pulled it open. He would have to replace this soon. Narancia had already torn half the screening out of the sides of the frame anyway.

“Bruno?” He asked, pulling the door shut. He stepped quietly over the uneven brick, staring at the other man’s back. Shoulders tensed, and then sagged.

“The flowers are dying.” Bruno replied quietly. His hands were stained orange from the petals on the ground.

“You’re not blaming yourself for this,” Abbacchio asked. “Are you?”

Bruno turned his head to look at Abbacchio, chin resting on his hand.

“Are you blaming yourself?”

Abbacchio flushed. “Maybe a bit.” He admitted. He wasn’t quite sure guilt over the circumstances of Giorno’s disappearance was the only cause of his rolling emotions. There were levels to the guilt, as always. And that ever-present anger that simmered whenever Giovanna came to mind.

Why did that stupid kid bother him so much?

That, Abbacchio decided, was a problem for another day. Figuring out the source of his anger was sure to be a messy, traumatizing revelation, and something he didn’t want to face with so many other problems currently on hand.

Ignorance, or avoidance, was bliss.

His hand itched to grip a glass bottle.

“You shouldn’t blame yourself.” Abbacchio’s attention snapped back to the present. Bruno was still looking out to the dying garden.

“Neither should you.”

Bruno scoffed quietly.

“I’m serious. They messed with your head, Bruno. There’s nothing to be done about it. No one’s to blame, really.”

“If no one’s to blame, then why do you feel guilty?”

Abbacchio sucked in a breath.

Guess I really am doing this today.

“You know how I treated him.”

Bruno remained silent for a moment, rubbing another orange petal between his fingers.

“Yes… I do.”

“Do you know why?”

Bruno finally turned to fully face him, leaning against the metal fencing.

“Do you want my honest theory?”

“Yes.”

“He reminded you of yourself.”

Abbacchio smiled and kicked at the ground.

“Shit. You really know me well.”

Bruno looked at him, expression gentle. Good lord, Abbacchio hated this man’s compassion. How could someone so deadly have so much love in their heart? It’s warm glow made him feel so much better…and so much worse.

“Yeah. All Giorno’s blind, world-changing ambition…it made me seethe. Because I was expecting the world to cut him down. Like it did for me.”

Bright eyes and an impeccable social image, a young upstart walking in, announcing his plans of changing the world for the better… It was like Abbacchio was being forced to look into an outdated mirror. The sting of guilt and self-loathing increased tenfold the more time he spent around the kid.

Every fight Giorno won, every hurdle he passed, he barely seemed to break a sweat. Every step closer to his dream, Abbacchio watched, and felt the crushing weight of his own inadequacy. It was pathetic. He was a grown man, jealous of a teenager’s tenacity. But it made Abbacchio wonder…

If he had tried harder, would he have succeeded too? Would his partner still be alive? Would he be rounding up people like Bruno, putting them behind bars?

Was he just that fucking useless? Or was life for Giorno a breeze?

“It almost felt like… nothing had ever gone wrong for him. And I wanted to see him fail, so I could understand how he picked himself back up.”

That was the problem, wasn’t it? When the world kicked Abbacchio down, it curb stomped him for months, leaving him in a pit of his own making, consumed by alcohol and mourning. He wanted to know if Giorno would respond as badly. He wanted… to stop it from happening again

“I wanted to stop our similarities, before we became too alike. Because, yeah, it hurts to look at how many similarities I used to share with him. And I was a bitter asshole about it. I nitpicked and groused because I wanted to see if he had tough skin. But, at the same time…It’s almost like… I hoped he would fail at something, so I could do damage control.”

It felt like he was admitting a deep, dark secret. Then again, Bruno had a way of getting those out of him.

“If anything did happen, I didn’t want him to turn out like me. I wanted… to be there. For him. When it happened.”

With that admission, the burning in his chest finally lessened.

“Abbacchio…”

“But it doesn’t matter anymore. I let my bitterness get the better of me, as per fucking usual. Now the kid’s life has been completely screwed over, and I’m the last person he’ll want help from, because I can never get over myself, can I?”

Abbacchio was barely keeping a ridiculous wobble out of his voice. Why couldn’t he hold a conversation with Bruno without spilling some kind of traumatic bullshit? He sniffed, resolutely refusing to cry, and went to rub at one smarting eye with the back of his hand. Damn. Must be the late night getting to him. Bruno gently stopped him, grabbing his wrist with loose fingers.

“I understand,” said Bruno. “You were frustrated. But you were also an adult.”

Abbacchio nodded, struggling to maintain eye contact. Bruno’s sea-blue eyes seemed to bore into his own amber husks. It was hard to not flinch back, with the finally acknowledged guilt in his heart.

“You’ll just have to do right by him this time. Right?”

“Of course.”

“Then everything will be put to rights, in due time. In the end, it’ll be up to Giorno.”

Abbacchio laughed quietly at that, finally joining Bruno at the railing. If the kid ever forgave him for his bitchass attitude, it would be a miracle. Then again, was something about having Bruno and Giorno on your team that made second chances abundant. He gazed out into the garden, and then frowned. Speaking of second chances, Bruno had completely derailed the original conversation. It was time to fix that.

Curse Bruno and his ability to deflect questions about his health. You could ask him if he’s alright, and you’d end up spilling your entire life’s story instead of getting a simple response from him. Talk about a love language being acts of service. It was Abbacchio’s personal theory that he was allergic to caring for himself.

He lets himself be an emotional doormat. It’s gonna creep up on him one day. Eventually, everyone will walk all over him.

At least that would only happen over Abbacchio’s dead body.

“I came out here for you, though. Not to vent, but to check on you. I’ve done a damn poor job so far, so I need you to answer honestly. Are you really alright? I told you, none of this is your fault.”

“The flowers are dying.” Bruno said again. Abbacchio pulled a face, trying to figure out what the significance of that statement was. It didn’t really seem like an answer, but Bruno had repeated it twice now, as though he was in shock over it.

“It’s Gold Experience.” Bruno clarified, noticing Abbacchio’s confusion. “He’s losing power. Giorno used him to make this garden, and keep it alive. If the garden is dying, then so is Giorno. Even if it’s slow. Golden Experience is exhausting itself.”

Ah. What a roundabout way to say you’re stressed out of your fucking mind.

Abbacchio turned a horrified gaze back to the garden, to the orange petals on the ground and the shriveled flower buds. A new fear blossomed in his heart as he stared at the sickly sweet rot. Fear for Giorno’s life, and fear of the team’s condition, should he die. If Abbacchio failed again, found another loved one dead on the ground, would he ever recover? Would he go thrashing back down into that pit, drowning in stinking, burning liquor?

Would Bruno ever recover if he lost a kid like this?

Would Abbacchio be enough to help him, or would he just be dead weight, as always?

Bruno stared ahead, eyes glassy and unfocused. Abbacchio voiced none of his worries. This was the closest you could get to venting with Bruno; he would wait it out, to see if the man said more.

Instead, he got an ultimatum.

“We’re on the clock. If we don’t find him soon, He’ll die.”

***

Bruno awoke to sunlight on his face and the smell of coffee.

Grimacing at the brightness of the room and the gritty sensation in his eyes, Bruno rubbed his face with the heel of his hand. He had probably gotten under four hours of sleep last night. Abbacchio had practically dragged him to his bed, insisting:

If we’re running out of time, you need all the sleep you can get. You’ll net to be in tip-top shape.

After getting changed and washing his face, Bruno made his way downstairs for a cup of coffee. He was greeted by the sound of quiet laughter, and the sight of the team- his team- throwing cereal across the table at a sleeping Fugo.

How charming. One crisis is all it took for all manners to go to shambles in front of a guest. At least Dr. Kujo seemed to be enjoying it; he sported a rare grin. Coco Jumbo was sitting on the table, munching on some greens, and Polnareff was laughing with everyone else from Mr. President.

Fugo let out a particularly loud, undignified snore, probably a result of the awful position his head was in. Still, it left his mouth hanging open, and Narancia was quick to see an opportunity.

“What’s the bet I can get a hole in one?” He hummed nonchalantly, wiggling his eyebrows at a giggling Trish. The girl squawked indignantly and was quickly sushed by everyone else.

“Quiet, you!” Hissed Narancia.”You wake him up and spoil the fun!” He snatched the box of cheerios from the table and fished out a piece. Bruno had seen enough.

“Don’t you think he’ll choke?” Bruno asked innocently. Mista waved him off.

“I know the heimlich,” said Mista. “Little sister used to choke on anything. Besides, it’s a cheerio.”

“I don’t-” Bruno started, but Narancia didn’t wait for him to finish. The cheerio sailed through the air, landing perfectly in Fugo’s mouth. Predictably, the boy inhaled the cheerio, and began coughing. Bruno started forward to help, but a solid thump on the back from Mista cured Fugo of the cereal stuck in his esophagus.

Abbacchio was cackling over his cup of coffee. Bruno doubts he slept at all. At least his mood had improved since yesterday.

Unfortunately, improved moods did not stop Fugo’s explosive temper. Coughing, he quickly yelled:

“And what the FUCK...was that?”

“Sorry, Fugo!” Narancia giggled. “But it was such a good opportunity, you know~”

Fugo growled, and tried to launch himself across the table at Narancia. Bruno started forward to stop the impending fight, but Abbacchio snagged the teen’s collar before any damage was done. Several cheerios fell out of Fugo’s hair. Everyone started laughing harder, and even Bruno had to suppress a grin.

“I’m gonna kill you one day,” Fugo vowed solemnly. “You won’t even know what hit you.”

“Yeah, but Bucciarati will. And then you’ll make him cry. Right, Boss?”

“Of course I’d cry for you, Narancia.”

“See, Fugo? Someone will miss me!”

“We’d all miss you, little man.”

Narancia blushed and spluttered at Mista, who was giving him a cheeky grin.

“Aww! No one told me Narancia was called little man!” Trish interjected.

“It was supposed to be until a new member joined, but I doubt Giorno would’ve taken well to the nickname, so it stayed stuck on Narancia.”

“Hey! We don’t talk about the nicknames, salad boy!”

Bruno sat down to watch the chaos unfold. Dr. Kujo seemed enraptured in the team’s antics.

Perhaps you’re missing your family?

They were some type of family to me. It doesn’t matter anymore.

Bruno smiled sadly. It seemed that Dr. Kujo’s momentary happiness was a result of bittersweet nostalgia. He may not trust the doctor, but if his team helped alleviate some of the older man’s grief, that was a worthy achievement.

Dr. Kujo seemed to catch Bruno’s expression, and he turned to face him, clearly wishing to get down to business. His quiet smile had faded entirely, and his stony, business-like demeanor returned. Bruno suddenly felt as though he’d been struck.

The man swapped masks just like Giorno. Bruno wouldn’t lie; he’d questioned whether Dr. Kujo and Giorno were actually related, even with the blood test backing it up. The only similarity the two seemed to share was, at first, their turquoise, tropical-sea colored eyes. But he’d been proven wrong. Dr. Kujo and Giorno had never met, as far as Bruno knew; but their intense emotional regulation was the same, alongside the quirks that came with it.

Bruno must’ve been gaping a little, or studying him too intensely, because the doctor noticed his pondering.

“Is something wrong, Don Bucciarati?”

Bruno quickly backtracked his thoughts, before they got too hectic and painful.

“No, nothing’s wrong…” Suddenly, he noticed the table had gone quiet. Everyone was staring at Bruno and their guest, perhaps expecting there to be a disagreement. Bruno had to continue the conversation peacefully, before the younger team members started a riot. They were lucky that the team hadn’t already started their standard initiation tactics, including but not limited to: Pissing in things they shouldn’t, stabbing things they shouldn’t, starting petty fights to scare someone away… Bruno was getting sidetracked. How could he answer this delicately, with present company in mind?

“It’s just-”

Surprisingly, Abbacchio cut off the rest of his carefully planned comment.

“It’s your face,” he said flatly. “I told you yesterday, you look like Giorno when you swap expressions like that. It’s creepy. Cut it out.”

The doctor’s expression twitched and darkened. Bruno’s eyebrows furrowed. Did Dr. Kujo take offense to that? Why would he dislike a comparison between him and Giorno?

Bruno felt like there was something being hidden from them. Meeting Abbacchio’s gaze, he realized that the other man felt the same way. That comment was intentional, no doubt about it. Abbacchio never would’ve cut him off like that unless he wanted to draw attention to something.

Was Dr. Kujo really here to help Giorno?

Bruno felt for the man; it seemed he had lost a great deal in his life. The air he carried reminded him of Abbacchio in the early days, when the goth would stumble around the house with bleary eyes, trying to keep his hands off the liquor and barely sleeping two hours a night. On one of the rougher days, Bruno had come home to find him sitting in the bathtub with an iron grip on a bottle of cooking sherry, mascara running rivers of inky black over his skin. Bruno sincerely hoped that Dr. Kujo never had a similar experience. Bleeding heart aside, this behavior was suspicious. Why would the man act negatively towards the mere mention of Giorno, if not for some type of grudge?

Did the family spat really extend that far?

A gloomy silence had descended over the table at the mention of Giorno. Deciding it was best to brush over hid recent epiphany, Bruno cleared his throat awkwardly.

It was time to get down to business.

***

“We’ll split off into two teams.” Bruno said, leafing through the papers Abbacchio and Fugo had written last night. “There’s four hospitals. We can focus on the hospice and surgical areas of the hospitals. We’re just looking for general information, so unless you find anything suspicious, don’t use intimidation.”

Bruno turned what he knew was a pointed glare at Mista, Abbacchio, and Dr. Kujo. At least MIsta did him the honor of looking sheepish. Bruno took that as a win and plowed on.

“Fugo, Abbacchio, I don’t want you on the field today. You stayed up all night working on this, and we need someone to hold down the fort here for our Capos.” Both men looked like they would protest, but Bruno cut them off before a complaint could be voiced.

“I’ll place myself on one team, and Trish on the other. Both our abilities allow us to go through walls, which may be helpful should we want to steal any records or evidence.” Bruno studied the team members sitting at the table. He didn’t want anyone alone with Dr. Kujo, not when he and Abbacchio were both second-guessing his intentions. He’d have to pair them up wisely.

“There’s an uneven amount of people here, so Mista, I’ll place you and Dr. Kujo on a team with Trish. Narancia, you’re with me.” The hyperactive boy grinned and pulled a teasing face at Bruno, who politely ignored his antics.

“Narancia, we’ll start of at the first one. The rest of you, start here, We’ll meet up in the middle. If you find anything, please call.” Bruno slid several flip phones across the table, and they were dutifully picked up by his team.

“Make sure your volume is turned down so your ringer doesn’t put you in any unsavory situations.” Bruno lectured.

“Well? Get moving!”

Mista grinned at Trish, holding his phone.

“You ready?”

Trish looked up from her seat and huffed.

“Of course.”

“Mista. Trish. I need to speak with you.”

Bruno breezed past Dr. Kujo and led both teens into the hall. He wasn’t about to drop them into the field without any warnings. Trish and Mista followed him, the former rather anxiously. They passed through the door frame and entered a small office. Once both teens were in the room, Bruno closed the door with a quiet click

Mista whistled a tune, leaning against one of the bookshelves in his typical sloppy fashion.

“Whatsa matter, boss? We in trouble?” Bruno smiled, despite the situation, opting to stand behind the desk for this conversation. Both teens looked at him expectantly.

“No, Mista. No one’s in trouble. But I want you to exercise caution.”

“I’m always cautious!”

Bruno felt his eyebrows creeping towards his scalp. He and Trish exchanged a look, before the girl hummed:
“Mista, our last field stop resulted in no less than seventeen bullet wounds.”

“They were scrapes! There were only three bad hits!”

Trish rolled her eyes towards Bruno, who was resisting doing the same. Mista’s glorious lack of preservation aside, there were more serious circumstances to discuss.

“Be careful around Dr. Kujo. He’s a stranger, and Abbacchio and I have found reason to be suspicious.”

“Abbacchio is suspicious of everyone, Boss.”

That was true.

“Still. We have too much at risk for a blunder, or outside interference. If Dr. Kujo shows signs of impeding the investigation, you know what to do. Right?

“Sure thing, Boss!”

“And take care of Trish.” At this, the girl made a noise and expression of theatrical offense. Bruno smiled, and she grinned back at him teasingly.

“That’s rich. I’ll probably be the one dragging his sorry ass back here myself. You know how he is.”

Bruno felt a stab of amusement at the young girl’s sass. Really, it was no wonder that her and Abbacchio got along well.

“Come back safe, both of you.”

They were interrupted by a quiet knock. Mista and Trish pause, looking to the door and back at Bruno.

“Come in.”

Abbacchio poked his head through the door, glancing at Mista and Trish. He looked back up to Bruno, who was watching his behavior, confused.

“You done with them?” He asked. Bruno shot him a look. If Abbacchio was here, then that meant…

“Did you leave Narancia by himself with Dr. Kujo, directly after we both noticed that he was suspicious?”

Abbacchio fully entered the office, looking slightly sheepish.

“Fugo’s with him. The kid’s smart enough to keep him out of trouble. Plus, he definitely picked up on Kujo’s behavior.”

“What was that all about, Abba?” Mista asked. “I get that he was acting weird, but you don’t think…”

Bruno cleared his throat, and everyone turned to look back at him.

“Abbacchio, care to explain your comment to Dr. Kujo earlier? It seemed you noticed his behavior before I did.”

Abbacchio shuffled between Trish and Mista before looking to Bruno and speaking

“He had the same ticks,” Abbacchio started, “As Giorno when we first met him. That is, the completely neutral mask he wears. The only difference is that Giorno was like staring at a brick wall. He hid everything from us; that’s part of the reason we…I always fought with him. It made me suspicious. But I noticed Kujo only regulates his facial expressions when he mentions Giorno. I thought it was strange, so last night I confronted him about it…said I didn’t think he really cared about the kid. He deflected the whole discussion back onto me.”

He shot Bruno a significant look, and Bruno suddenly understood Abbacchio’s sudden upset from the previous night. Whatever Dr. Kujo said must've been related to Abbacchio’s relationship with Giorno. Dr. Kujo must’ve noticed Abbacchio and Giorno’s relationship was a sore spot, and used that to cover himself when Abbacchio became suspicious of his reaction.

Bruno felt a burning anger build in his chest. Dr. Kujo had purposefully used information about Abbacchio to cause emotional turmoil. It was a calculated move, designed to hurt.

Why would the doctor do that to his allies?

Bruno chews on his lip, trying in vain to justify removing the man permanently. But no, he couldn’t risk it. Speedwagon and the Joestars would be on Passione in seconds. And, if they acted rashly, they could lose a strong ally in Kujo. Bruno still trusted Polnareff; he wanted to trust Jotaro, too. Jotaro’s behavior was making it very difficult, though.

“And you don’t think it’s just the aforementioned family drama that’s inspiring this behavior?” Trish raises her eyebrows at Abbacchio pointedly, which, fair. Abbacchio did have a tendency to jump to the worst conclusions. The man seemed to enjoy waging war on his own brain every time a new person was met.

“I think,” Bruno said carefully, “that Dr. Kujo is withholding information from us. His relationship with Polnareff makes me want to trust him, but his behavior indicates that he may hold a personal grudge against Giorno. His reaction when Abbacchio questioned his loyalty supports this.”

Trish frowns, glancing between the two older men in front of her.

“But Dr. Kujo has never met Giorno, right?” She asks. “Could it be something to do with his Dad? Maybe Kujo was involved with the assassination.”

Bruno sucked in a quick breath, pieces sliding into place. The dead team, the apparent contempt for his similarities with Giorno, the stony exterior… it all made sense. In a horrible, heartbreaking, and concerning way. If Dr. Kujo was one of the assassins that took out Dio Brando, how could they trust him with Giorno? Bruno’s heart was beating wildly in his chest at the possibilities that presented themselves before his eyes.

Speedwagon, swooping in when Giorno was vulnerable and taking him out. Speedwagon, stalking him for the rest of his life. Dr. Kujo being the first to find him and bashing his skull in. Speedwagon being responsible for Giorno’s disappearance in the first place.

Finally, he took a deep breath. They were getting ahead of themselves.

“We have no proof,” he said, looking at each person in turn, “aside from Kujo’s behavior and our own suspicions. Therefore, Abbacchio,” the man’s amber eyes snapped to his own blue, “I want you and Fugo to do some research on Speedwagon. Interview Polnareff. If he doesn't give satisfactory answers, pay a visit to speedwagon’s file servers.”

Bruno studies each person in turn.

“Depending on our discoveries, we may have to terminate the good doctor.”

Chapter Text

Hi everyone!

You may be wondering why this work went from 8 chapters to 5. That's because I made all my chapters three times as long! All of the previous chapters have been combined, updated, and posted, so I'm totally caught up. The next chapter will be a brand new one! It may take a little bit to come out, though. While I'm working on it, I figured you guys would want the updates to chew on. I hope you enjoy!

- Swampy

Chapter Text

“Quiet, Narancia!” Bruno hissed. Narancia snapped to attention, teeth clacking together from the force of keeping them shut. Curse his nervous mouth. Side-eyeing Bruno next to him, he took in the clench in Bruno’s jaw. The man really was anxious over this whole mess. Not that Narancia wasn’t, as well. It was just… Bruno usually didn’t get this shaken up. Maybe it was just the location putting them both on edge.

Man, he hated hospitals.

They were walking down a long, sterile hall that smelled of bleach and bad soap. Whitewashed walls burned his eyes, and the tile floors shone. Everything was painfully covered in a bright sheen. If Narancia hadn’t been resolutely avoiding looking up from his feet, his eyes may have scorched out of their sockets. The first place had been a complete bust, so Bruno moved on to a nursing home facility that also included a small hospice wing. It was a branch of the hospital they visited previously, but the campuses were separate.

“I have a contact here.” Said Bruno quietly. “That used to work with Cioccolata, back when he was in med school.”

“Okay.” Narancia mumbled, eyeing an open room. He could see the feet of a person lying in bed. The room was dark, and the TV in the room hummed faintly. There were dying flowers in a vase on the bedside table. Petals fell around the shriveled buds, forming a halo of shriveled beauty around the vase. It reminded him, eerily, of Giorno’s flowers, shriveled and dying in the yard. Narancia felt a sudden lurch in his stomach at the thought.

Bruno followed his gaze. “I know you don’t like it in hospitals…” He said gently. “I hate them too. But just remember who this is for. You can always talk to me after, but we need to get through this for Giorno’s sake, ok?”

Of course, Bruno always remembered why Narancia hated hospitals. The statement gave Narancia some comfort, and he nodded in thanks. “I’ll be alright.”

With that, Bruno started forward, reaching a door that read “Staff” on the front. He slammed the door open, movements so robust that it almost startled Naranica. A woman in scrubs immediately leapt up from a small bunk bed in the room and groaned when the automatic lights turned on. She looked to be in her mid thirties, and had long, frizzy hair tucked into a bun.

“Who’s dying? She demanded waspishly, until she squinted and saw who was in the door. Her face changed to one of delight, then carefully composed solemnity. Narancia felt his nose scrunch and his eyebrows creep towards his hairline. He glanced at Bruno, who had a soft smile on his face.

Who would be so happy to see a mob boss?

Furthermore, why was Bruno so happy to see her?

“Oh, Bucciarati. I forgot you were coming today. Good timing, I’m technically on break, though I can’t guarantee that’ll last for long.” The woman looked utterly exhausted. It was a miracle she was sitting up, let alone coherent. Narancia felt the stupid urge to offer her a chair, even though there was a bed right behind her. Should he apologize for barging in when she so clearly needed sleep?

“That’s okay, Marietta, we won’t be long. I just have a few questions about an old co-worker.” Bruno pulled up a chair, sitting across from the woman. Narancia, standing awkwardly, eventually followed suit. The metal foldable made a cold ache seep into his hands. It had a stained, cloth cover over the seat. Was it blood? Coffee? Had a doctor sat someone into this after a flatline? His heart pounded wildly, but he still sat down. He felt small, even though his feet could touch the floor this time. In truth, Narancia felt as though a gust of wind would push him over. He hated this place.

“Ask away, then.”

Narancia glanced up to the woman. Her scrubs were patterned with tiny dogs; it was cute. She had the harsh smell of antiseptic on her. A stethoscope with orange accents laid around her neck. Overall, she had a relatively calming appearance. Her earthy, green eyes briefly tracked over to him, before setting once again on Bucciarati.

“I can't guarantee that I remember much, considering how little I slept in med school, but I’ll give you my best.” Absently, hands brushed down her scrubs, neatly plucking a fragment of lint off of the front. She dropped it, and took down her hair, deftly fixing up a new bun as Bruno spoke.

“One of your old co-workers eventually became involved in our industry.” Bruno said, emphasizing the last word. “I knew him as a disgustingly cruel and self-centered man. Therefore, if you find my line of questioning upsetting, I understand. However…”

The woman finished her hair, looking up at Bruno expectantly. Bruno hesitated, before continuing on.

“One of my charges,” he said, “Has been stolen away. We believe he is connected to this particular co-worker.”

A dawning understanding bloomed in the woman’s eyes.

“You’re talking about Lorenzo,” she said. Bruno froze.

“Lorenzo?”

“Lorenzo Nasato, yes. He was busted after he left healthcare for torturing patients and recording it- he accidentally left a tape behind somewhere. I caught the fucker in the act once, but nobody would listen to me…never knew what happened to him.” She paused, considering her next words.

“What do you need to know?”

Bruno sat back, in his chair, evidently pleased at the new information.

“Well, Marietta, you’ve already helped a great deal. Until this point I didn’t know Lorenzo’s true name; just the moniker given to him by our boss.”

Bruno paused, considering his next words. Narancia stared at his feet, wondering why the two in front of him seemed so familiar. He had expected an interrogation, not a relatively amicable discussion. He felt like he was intruding on something. He pushed down the urge to bounce his leg, lest Bruno or Marietta mistake it for impatience.

“Lorenzo Nasato, or Cioccolata as we knew him, is dead. I know this as a fact.”

The unspoken my team killed him hung in the air. Marietta snorted. Narancia was a little shocked at that, honestly. The woman was horribly nonchalant about them being in the mafia. Was she a member too?

“Well, good riddance. He was a creepy son of a bitch, even before I caught him egging suicidal patients on. And honestly,” she shook her head, “Cioccolata. What a dumbass code name. Was he a fan of sweets or something?” She looked back to Bruno, who shrugged.

“Other than his name, we were curious if you ever saw any of his family, or if he ever told you of them.”

Marietta considered this for a moment, before he careful voice filled the room once more.

“There was one time,” she said, “when we had a small staff party, and we were allowed to bring a plus one. Lorenzo was pretty young, so he didn’t have a spouse to invite. Instead he brought another boy, about his age. They said they were family, I think. In truth, they could’ve simply been best friends.”

She took a shaky breath, and continued on with her story.

“The next day, we found a patient completely eviscerated in bed, apparently by his own hands. It was a psych patient that had shown some concerning tendencies in the past, so the higher-ups brushed it off.”

“This was before I suspected Lorenzo. He had just joined the fold. But the injuries on the body… didn’t look self-inflicted. And they varied. As if two different people went to work on it.”

She sighed, and Naracia noticed that her face had colored and her eyes turned glassy and wet.

“The patient was just a kid.” She whispered. “And they were in recovery. They were doing great. I was responsible for them, so… I was the one to find the body in the morning. Lorenzo was the first one who came running to help, so I never suspected him until later, when I caught him acting strange with some elderly patients…”

Bruno nodded solemnly, and allowed the woman to compose herself before continuing on.

“Can you describe the other boy that was there?”

“It’s been close to fifteen years, Bruno. The kid probably looks totally different.”

“All the same, I’d like you to try.” Bruno said, pulling out a small notepad and a tape recorder. He quickly jotted down The words Lorenzo Nasato, before looking up at Marietta expectantly.

“Well,” she began slowly, “He had dark hair. And he was really gangly, like, it looked like he had been stretched. I know that teenagers sometimes have that look, but he was tall and thin to an unnatural degree. When the rest of the doctors saw him, they were all concerned. And there were a bunch of scars on his hands, one or two on his face. Lorenzo said it was because he liked to build things; cars and the like. But now I wonder…” The faraway look on Marietta’s face returned. Bruno crisply snapped his notebook shut, stuffing it into a breast pocket.

“Thank you, Marietta. That description matches our suspect so far. Did you happen to know his name?”

Marietta looks down.

“No. Though I imagine they had the same surname, if they actually were related. Lorenzo sometimes talked about having an uncle.”

Bruno nodded and put the pencil and recorder away. He got up, and Narancia and Marietta followed suit. He smiled warmly at the woman before giving her a hand to shake.

“Thank you, Marietta. The information you gave us was extremely helpful.” Marietta took his hand, but instead of shaking it, used it to pull him into a hug.

“Don’t give me that, Bruno. I know you’re having a time of it. I can see it in your face.” Bruno seemed shocked by her actions, but didn’t pull away.

“The charge was one of those kids you picked up, wasn’t it?”

Bruno remained silent. Narancia couldn’t see his face, but the tenseness of his shoulders betrayed his upset. His arms hesitantly wrapped around the woman to return the hug, and if the situation wasn’t so dire, Narancia’s jaw would be on the floor. Just who was this woman?

They definitely knew each other, and well.

Bruno’s head bobbed up and down in a nod, and the woman sighed, face creasing in worry.

“I always seem to see you,” she said, “in the worst of times. I’m so sorry, Bruno.”

The woman finally pulled back and smiled.

“Come and visit for real sometime, okay? After all this is done. My address is still the same. Bring the kids with you.” She winked at Narancia, who was too busy gawking at the display he just witnessed to feel indignant at the childishness.

“I surely will. Get some sleep, Marietta. You deserve it.” Bruno headed to the door, and Narancia followed, still in awkward spectator mode. As Bruno made his exit, she called out:

“If the kid needs help, Bruno, when all is said and done… you’re always welcome to call.”

Bruno paused suddenly, and Narancia face planted directly into his jacket, getting a mouthful of fabric and lint. Nasty.

“Thank you, Marie.”

Bruno held the door open for Narancia, falling into step next to him as they walked back down the bright hospital hall. Narancia glanced back, watching the lights turn off from the crack under the door.

“You’re curious. I can tell.” Narancia whipped his head around to look at Bucciarati. The man smiled back.

“It’s alright. You can ask me about it if you like.”

Narancia inhaled slowly, considering what to say. There were so many things he wanted to know… but now didn’t seem like a good time.

“Naw,” he said simply, “You got a lot going on right now, boss. I don’t wanna dig anything up ‘til this is over. Then we can have a nice long talk.”

Bruno nodded in understanding. Narancia may have been imagining things, but there was a shade of relief in his eyes. He almost felt guilty for the question he asked next.

“...Boss?”

“Narancia?”

“Do ya think he’ll need it? Like, real bad?

Bruno gave him a sideways glance. “Who will need what real bad?”

“Giorno. Will he need a hospital, like, real bad?”

“...”

“I don’t know, Narancia. I hope not.”

***

The ceiling danced in front of the boy’s eyes.

There was a hazy quality to everything he saw, and when he breathed too deeply, something rasped in his chest. They had taken more blood that day, and his arm was bruising badly. He didn’t always go black and blue so easily; not when he first arrived. That changed as hunger scraped the weight from his bones. The crook of his elbow pulsed dully with the feeling of a dozen needles.

He was so dizzy.

Since his last blood draw, the boy hadn’t moved. He was dragged back to his underground cell, near incoherent, and dumped on the floor at the earliest convenience. His back had jolted painfully against the ground, head snapping back to match, and he hadn’t even groaned. He was just so tired. Everything was swimming in a clear, soupy syrup. Was that why his ears were clogged, and his vision rippled? The air was so thick. He couldn’t breathe through his nose.

The metal ladder above his head waved in front of him. It looked so cheerful, moving up there. The dull, chipped iron waved back and forth, as if it was inviting him to join the dance. Briefly, the boy wondered if he had ever danced so nicely, perhaps in a past life. Moving so freely must be a valuable luxury. If he ever got out, maybe he’d try it. He was just too dizzy at the moment. It will get better.

Yeah, the boy thought, stomach full of aches and chain around his ankle. It would get better one day. This wasn’t an illness. It couldn’t be. How could he force himself to go on when his own body was giving up on him? He felt hysteria grip his painfully thudding heart. The pounding reached his clogged, roaring ears. What if the illness worsened? Would his last sight be this ladder? Rusted, flaking handlebars?

His thoughts came to a screeching halt when light cut into his cell. They had already taken blood. What more could they want? The boy squinted, trying to make out a face through his wavering vision.

A dark shape stepped down the ladder, and the boy felt wet rubber soles lick the side of his face. The boots they belonged to scruffed along the dirt floor, the boy’s eyes tracking their movement slowly, settling on the Dark Man’s pale face.

A red spot flared, and the noxious smell of cigars filled the room. The boy was suddenly glad for his mostly blocked nose. The relief faded when he caught sight of the flashing teeth of a shadow in the corner.

He’ll walk it off. Leave him there.

Unexpectedly, a wave of hopelessness washed over him. His eyes stung, a deep pit yawning and eating away at his heart.

Who was that? The shadow felt familiar, and so did the feelings, somehow.

“Say, Emilio.”

The stout voice of the Whitecoat with the missing tooth answered.

“Boss?”

“Didn’t ya say that our golden boy here-” the man nudged the boy’s leg with his foot- “healed quicker than usual?”

“That’s putin’ it simply, boss, but yes.”

“So then, it should be pretty damned hard for him to get sick, right?”

“In theory, sir, I guess.”

“Then why’s this kid dyin’ on the floor?”

There was a brief scuffle as the whitecoat came down the ladder.

“He wasn’t this bad earlier, boss.”

“Look at his arm, Emilio.”

The boy felt someone tugging on his arm, examining the bruised crook. A tremor shook through him, and the hand on his arm paused. The touch had shocked him, burned like ice pressed against flushed skin.

“Looks like it's infected, sir.”

“So you’re getting sloppy.”

“Sir, I-”

A slam and a crash sent shivers down the boy’s spine. Why couldn’t he stop shaking? The Dark Man had the whitecoat -Emilio- by the neck. The shadow’s teeth flashed. Wooden crates had been partially overturned from Emilio’s back smashing into them. Cigar ash floated lazily to the floor, darkness racing to eat it whole.

“You must be out of your fucking mind, Emilio.” The cigar waved as he spoke, muffling words and puffing toxins. He pulled it out of his mouth, hand still on Emilio’s throat, and tapped some more ash to the ground.

“Ohhh, to be responsible for killing our best cash cow…” The Dark Man drew each syllable out slowly, eyes turning back to Emilio’s frozen face.

“If this isn’t fixed, you’re next on the testing line. I don’t give a damn how many PhDs you got- if we lose him, we lose everything. So quit being so fucking USELESS!” Emilio’s body hit the ground with a crash, dirt particles drifting lazily in his wake.

The shadow by the Dark Man’s shoulder laughs. Briefly, Giorno caught the foggy impression of a squat man in a white tank- the smell of the cigar was noxious, the reek of tar finding its way through his clogged nasal passages, the teeth flashed wide at him, get out of the way, you idiot-

And in a moment, the shadow was gone, the only proof being the pounding in his own heart. Emilio was able to move once more, and the Dark Man breathed poisonous smoke and leaned down to stare at the boy, amber eyes gleaming like a hungry dog.

“It’s your lucky day, kiddo,” he said, a lazy lilt to his voice. “You’re being put upstairs.”

He just couldn’t stop shaking.

***

“Hey there, pretty girl! You got some change for me?”

Trish didn’t even glance at the man as she passed by. Instead, she was distracted by her phone’s piercing ring. She glanced down to her pocket and pulled it out- Bruno. Mista turned around and frowned.

“Did you forget to turn the ringer off?” He asked, eyebrow arched.

“Probably,” she admitted, flipping the device open. “I was distracted.”

Mista nodded and turned back around, following Dr. Kujo. It was hard to maintain focus with the overwhelming presence of Dr. Kujo following their every step; she felt much better now that he was walking ahead with Mista. They were both a little on edge, it seemed. Mista had nearly shot a housecat that had surprised them on the walk here.

She pressed the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

Bruno’s deep baritone greeted her. “Trish. Instead of questioning about Cioccolata, ask around about one Lorenzo Nasato.”

Her heart skipped a beat, and she stopped dead in her tracks. Bruno had found some information!

“Will do, Boss.” She felt a tug at her back pocket and whirled around, grabbing blindly. She squeezed what she grabbed painfully, realizing seconds later that it was a wrist.

“Trish?” Bruno’s voice echoed over the phone. Shit, she must’ve gasped out loud. “Is everything alright?”

Furious blue eyes met the face of the catcaller from before. She grit out an angry response.

“Yeah. Just caught some bastard with his mitts in places they don’t belong. I’ll call you back if we find anything.” She hung up the phone. The man from before stared at her with wide eyes.

“Trish!” Mista yelled. She glanced up at him and the doctor, who were jogging back to her. Shit. It was stupid of her to stop following them.

“I’m fine, Mista. It’s just some creep.” The man began tugging backwards, but her grip remained firm.

“Please, ma’am, I just want some change,” he said. Trish exhaled slowly, taking in his appearance. Rough, mottled skin, narrow, cadaverous face- and bloodshot eyes, with pupils so dilated you could barely see the iris.

“I’m not financing anyone’s drug habit, thanks.” She snapped. The man flushed. “Get some help or get lost.”

The man tugged his arm away, nearly tripping in the process. Something dropped on the cobblestones at Trish’s feet, making a light jingling noise as it fell. She watched the main hightail around the corner, down a dark alley. Mista shifted beside her.

“This area’s always been rough,” he said, “but I thought it was starting to clear up.”

“Me too.” Trish admitted. They had worked so hard to get rid of the drug problem in this spot; now that her anger at the attempted robbery had subsided, she felt horrible. Had they neglected the outreach programs during Giorno’s absence?

She suddenly became aware of Dr. Kujo, who had finally made his way back to Trish.

“Is everything alright?” He asked, and Trish almost bristled. It was hard to hear any modicum of concern in his voice when the whole team was so suspicious of him. The tall man stared back at her impassively.

“Fine,” she snapped instead. Her eyes caught something glistening on the ground. She bent down, fingers reaching, before realizing that touching street paraphernalia barehanded was not the smartest idea. Instead, she pulled out her handkerchief and unfolded it, covering her right hand entirely. Stooping down, she picked up a small, plastic wrapped package, no bigger than the palm of her hand. Golden liquid dripped out of one side, and she swore, almost throwing it down in revulsion.

“What is that?” Kujo asked. Trish ignored him.

Trish turned the object in her hand, examining it closely. It looked as though two cylinders of liquid were packaged inside; one had broken in its fall, and the crack in its plastic was the source of the sluggishly dribbling liquid.

“That guy dropped it,” She said, looking up at Mista.

“The druggie?”

Trish nodded in confirmation.

“I don’t recognize this. It doesn’t look like any known drug on the market.” Mista said, scratching his head. “Are you sure you should be holding that?”

Trish grimaced. “Probably not.” Who knew what she was being exposed to. Suddenly, as though the thought had brought it on, some of the golden liquid leaked onto her bare hand.

“Aww, nasty!” she complained, dropping the package once and for all. Her whining was cut short when she felt a ripple in the air. Unbidden, her stand burst forth, and Trish gaped openly at Spice Girl. What was she doing out? She glanced around, looking for danger, and stopped.

The whole world moved as though it was in slow motion. The package moved lazily towards the ground, as though gravity was a mere suggestion to it. Birds above wavered in one spot, their movements slowing to a point of hilarity. Mista’s expression, comically surprised, morphed slowly on his face.

“What?” She breathed, looking around her. Was this an enemy attack? Was Dr. Kujo doing this?

Trish whirled around to look at the Doctor, but found him moving just as slow as Mista. His arm lowered in minuscule increments towards the package, slogging through non-existent honey.

“This is not the doctor’s doing,” Spice Girl’s voice echoed from behind her. “It’s that substance.”

The package was still inching towards the pavement. “What is it?” She looked to her stand, hovering next to her.

“It is covered in the aura of your lost friend.” Spice Girl answered. Trish’s breath shuddered in her chest. Giorno? Why could Spice Girl feel his aura in this liquid?

Her eyes found the package again, inches from the ground. Inches away from shattering. Vaguely, she felt everything speeding up; Dogs slowed barks returning to their normal pace, birds traveling across the sky. A decision had to be made.

As everything returned to normal speed, she snatched the package once more, making sure her hand was fully covered by the handkerchief.

Horrified eyes met Mista’s concerned face.

“We have to bring this to Fugo.”

***

Chapter Text

“Look at him. He’s shaking worse than a newborn deer, Emilio.”

A low grunt responded.

“He should be in a hospital - kid’s boiling alive. Figures we’d lose him to the flu after all the trouble we went through to get at him.”

A hard rubber sole nudged his head, and it swayed weakly. Boneless. He couldn’t do anything. The voice tutted.

“Little fucker. Better be worth it.”

“He is. We’re making thousands right now, and it’s only been launched for two weeks. Once the stand users get ahold of it, It’ll catch like wildfire.”

The new voice hummed a small, melodious assent. “Yeah, as soon as we take care of the little problem that arose this afternoon.”

“Someone sniff your trail?”

A quiet pause, where the shifting of fabric could be heard.

“Tell Serg we have a problem. Passione’s top dogs are sniffing around my area.”

“No; surely not B-”

“Not him,” The woman cut across Emilio’s gasp, “But the gunman and the girl, you remember those two? Plus a great hulk of a man. I’ve never seen him in Passione’s ranks. I’ll have to do some digging.”

“They still alive?”

“I couldn’t fight them face-to face without blowing my cover, idiot. They were there to see one of the doctors. One of the Don’s guys. I sent my stand after them to see what they were up to, but someone sniffed her out. Tricky bunch.”

“Yeah, figures… They see you?”

“No, just my stand. I got a shot in on the girl, though. The other two were preoccupied after that; I sent the big one on a wild goose chase for a while. They know a hostile is in the area, but they don’t know who.”

A heavy sigh. “Look, you’re gonna need to tell Serg this yourself. I’m already in hot water because of him. The Don will most certainly search your area again because of that bad call. I’m not taking the heat for that. “

Silence, except for the boy’s unpleasantly rasping breaths.

“I killed the doctor they were after, too.”

“Gianni-”

“They know,, Emilio. This wasn’t just sniffing around for the source of drugs; that would be fine, expected, even. But they were asking for names, people, information about- you know who. But there was no mention of substances, or junkies, or how the hospital was doing, it’s like they didn’t even care-”

“HOW would they know?”

“I DON’T KNOW!” The woman was shouting now. It made the ringing in his ears elevate to a nauseating pitch. “Maybe it was the new guy, alright? Maybe Serg was just sloppy. I said I had to do some digging. We’re still missing information about select members of the Don’s squad. But like it or not, they seem to remember everything now. I don’t even think they know about the drug yet, so they can only be looking for one thing.”

Emilio cussed softly. “We’re in big trouble…”

“Yeah, no shit…”

A metallic sting suddenly made its way through the boy’s stuffed sinuses. What was that smell? Keeping his eyes squinted shut, he flicked them towards the floor. Nothing was in his field of vision. He heard the shuffle of feet, before a pair of clogs- what strange pants, too - stomped past his eyes. Canvas dragged across concrete. A black bag was pulled into view.

“Figured you could use this for studies. I had to keep it quiet when I took him out; it was done on the way home. Pushed his car off a bridge after I did it; all the windows were open, and I broke the windshield, too. They’ll be looking for a body in the water for days. Would be bad if they found a stabbed victim in the water after, so I brought it to you.”

Emilio’s shaky hands worked their way to a zipper, and the bag was peeled back to reveal the stiff, pale, once-kindly visage of an old man. He was still wearing what the boy now recognized as scrubs, and the white lab coat was stained cherry red with blood. The boy quickly snapped his eyes shut, feeling the metallic tang putrify the air in the room. He willed his rolling stomach to remain calm, but a small, distressed noise escaped him. He shifted slightly, hoping to cover his slip-up as a normal sleep habit.

Relax, you have to relax…

All movement paused. They boy felt eyes on his back.

“Gia, go talk to the boss yourself. You’re his favorite, he’ll take it better from you. I’ll handle what I can. Tell him… if we increase distribution, it may throw them off. We can use it as a smokescreen to keep them on their toes. As it is, they’ll be distracted; Without their healer, that girl is out of commission for weeks. Kill or incapacitate who you have to, I don’t care; but run it by Serg or I from now on, ok?”

“Alright.”

***

“Stay with me, baby, it’s gonna be alright-”

Jotaro winced at the shrill cry that wretched through the house. Mista had not stopped pacing for the last forty minutes, and Jotaro was starting to suspect a dent would be dredged into the kitchen floor from all his fidgeting. The young man had utterly failed at any simple task once they had carried Trish into the house, delivering her to an anxiously seething Abbacchio and Fugo and quickly getting kicked out of the makeshift operating room (actually the dining room). Mista’s hands were still sticky and red with blood, as he had stayed in the back of their van with Trish, trying to stem the flow of crimson that leaked from the wound in her lower abdomen. His blue shirt was now muddled morbidly in fingerprints of red, and he didn’t seem to realize the mess he was making, instead carrying on with a thousand-yard stare and misty eyes, pacing the floor of the living room.

The cereal from this morning was still on the kitchen table. Jotaro wasn’t sure why that stuck out to him so much; perhaps it was the dichotomy between the morning’s antics and the afternoon’s reality.

Another cry from the dining room. Mista flinched aggressively in response. Jotaro itched for a cigarette. He opened his mouth instead.

“Sit down, Mista.”

The young man whirled around to stare at Jotaro. Eyebrows raised, Jotaro gestured to the seat across from himself on the bar, pushing the offensively cheerful cereal box out of the way. Mista jerkily made his way over to the seat, falling into it as though it was automated instead of a willing movement. Unperturbed, Jotaro studied him, ignoring the noises that spilled into the kitchen.

He held his hands out. Mista stared at them, uncomprehending. Jotaro sighed, before pulling out a handkerchief and dipping it into a nearby water glass. He gestured again for Mista to hold out his hands. This time, the young man complied. He placed the sticky mess into Jotaro’s hands, leaving streaks of crimson in its wake.

It was 1989. His hands were stained in blood. He had spent fruitless hours holding a wound closed that had long since claimed the life of its victim. Blue and green didn’t look so different, when they were doused in blood. They both became dark, muddy, and dead.

Jotaro exhaled sharply, ignoring his wandering mind. “You’ll have to wash that shirt,” he said, “Soap and c-”

“Cold water. I know, Trish told me.” Jotaro inclined his head in acknowledgement, dipping the handkerchief back into the water and dragging it across the marred flesh he held. The sticky mess became staining streaks. The spots he scrubbed at remained stubbornly tinted red, the blood working its way into the cracks of the skin like watercolor on toothy paper. He couldn’t get it off. It was 1989, and he couldn’t get it all off, and neither could Joseph, there were bodies in the next room-

But it was 2002, and there were no bodies in the next room. Just a crying girl, who would likely pull through. Mista probably didn’t see it that way, though.

“This can’t be the first time someone’s been shot.” Jotaro frowned.

“It’s not. I used to get shot almost every mission. It’s just harder without…”

“Without who?”

“It’s not important. Trish… we usually keep her away from injury. She’s like a little sister. So yeah, we’re all a little shaken up.”

Jotaro nodded, wetting the handkerchief again and moving to the next hand. They stayed like that, in silence, mirroring the past. Except, instead of Joseph’s wrinkled hand holding the towel, it was Jotaro’s own calloused one that took its place.

It was strange, being on this side of things.

Both men whipped their heads around when a loud clatter echoed through the house. Bruno stomped in, face set into a stony, grim visage, while Narancia trailed helplessly along. Bruno Shoved Narancia towards Mista and Jotaro unceremoniously.

“But-”

“Later, Narancia. I know you have a panicky streak. Go help Mista.”

Bucciaratti blew through the living room, barely giving Jotaro a sideways glance (it had been a fun phonecall, with Trish crying out in the backseat, telling the Don that his team member had been shot on his watch-)

Leaving Narancia standing awkwardly in the room as the dining room door slammed shut. Muffled voices started.

Unable to do much else, Jotaro continued scrubbing Mista’s hands. Narancia’s eyes burned holes into his knuckles, widening at the pink shade of the now-tinted water glass.

Jotaro cleared his throat awkwardly. Narancia sat down, his movements resembling a scuttling spider more than his usual zany erraticism. He jerkily placed his hands on the table, palms down, staring nervously at Jotaro.

“So. Giorno was your healer?” Jotaro continued the previous conversation. It was unusual for Mista to divert a conversation so obviously, so the only clear conclusion was that Giorno could heal with his stand. After all, Jotaro reasoned, he already knew that his stand could affect animals and plants. Why not humans, too?

“Yea-” A loud thump sounded up from the floor, and the table jerked a few inches to the left. Narancia let out a small yowl, which was quickly cut off by Mista slapping a hand over his mouth.

Considering the dismal state of Mista’s hands, Narancia’s wide-eyed look of horror was astute. Narancia would look like he shoved his face into red food dye once the hand was removed.

“Save the dramatics for after this mess is behind us,” Mista hissed, uncharacteristically serious.

Jotaro stared at the two gangsters impassively. Stomach sinking, he uttered the words he had been suspecting all day:

“You don’t trust me.”

Mista, at least, had the foresight to not look guilty. Narancia was about as skilled as a toddler when it came to hiding his facial expressions.

The boys glared at each other, then back at Jotaro. Mista slowly released Narancia’s mouth.

“What about it?” Mista growled.

Jotaro sighed, rapping his knuckles on the polished table. ( One Two, One Two…). Honestly, He should’ve expected this, especially after the conversation with Abbacchio that happened last night. His behavior hardly indicated a warm feeling towards their missing friend. It was even more obvious during this horrid afternoon, where Mista obviously kept a close eye on him and actively blocked him from walking behind Trish. But still, he had at least hoped the reasons he gave upon their first meeting would be enough evidence to gain their favor.

“I feel like I’m playing tug of war with this group. Do you wish to find Giorno or not?”

Almost identical expressions of indignation followed that statement. Narancia was the first to recover.

“What do you-”

“I want to know why you are so interested myself, Kujo.” Fugo stood testily in the doorframe of the kitchen, bloody towel slung over his shoulder. He leaned against the frame, red eyes glaring at Jotaro with a terrible force.

“Speedwagon-”

“I’m not interested in Speedwagon, Kujo.”

“The Joestar family-”

“I’m not interested in them, either.”

“Giorno himself reach-”

“THIS IS ABOUT YOU!” Fugo roared, and the other gangsters shrunk back. Fugo stomped over to the table, slapping the towel down (ignoring the spray of red such an action emitted) and leaned over until his face was inches from Jotaro’s.

“You and Polnareff are hiding something from us,” Fugo hissed. “I’ll give Polnareff the benefit of the doubt, because he’s helped us more times than I can count. But I asked some questions today, and he seemed concerned over your role in our current mission. Thought it would make you upset. I dug up some dirt on you today, Kujo, and I find your potential motivations disturbing. “

Fugo disappeared from view briefly, and Jotaro heard the slamming of a drawer. A large file was thrown on the table, soaking up little spots of red as it skidded towards Jotaro’s fingers. Fugo’s furious voice filled the room once more.

“We thought it was strange, how you clamped whenever we mentioned him. Did Giorno even know he was talking to one of his father’s killers?” Wide eyes, like headlights, on his face. It was 1989, and he was suddenly realizing that he was now a murderer, and he didn’t feel sorry about it, not one bit-

“Are you even here for your family? Or are you here for some petty revenge? You were lying, weren’t you! You’re going to kill him, too!”

“No, Fugo, I-”

Fugo barked a laugh. “You expect us to believe that? You said it yourself, you’ve been following Giorno for a while. You’re just here to neutralize a perceived threat!”

“I am not.” Jotaro replied, calm demeanor quickly chilling to icy when he realized that it wasn’t exactly the truth. After all, only a handful of months ago, he was sending Koichi to investigate Giorno as a possible threat, scared that he would bash an innocent kid’s brain out if he looked into his face himself and saw too much of Dio-

-but now he was here, begrudgingly looking for the same kid, wishing that he could just leave him to rot, because he was vindictive and cold and had lost everything to his sire decades before. And now he stood accused, wishing he could deny wishing harm on Giorno wholeheartedly. Truthfully, though, all he knew of the teen was his violent and jarring ascension to Passione’s throne. Jotaro normally trusted Koichi’s judgment, but when Dio was involved, Jotaro only (barely) trusted himself. If Giorno turned into a threat, Jotaro trusted himself to take care of it swiftly.

“You were the one that actually killed him, weren’t you? Why would they send you, out of all the family, unless it was to play cleanup?”

Jotaro was losing control. The years were starting to blur together, and it made his tongue sharp.

“Maybe I am here to play pickup. I have no way of knowing if Giorno is truly honorable-”

“YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT HE’S LIKE!” Fugo screamed, “HOW COULD YOU SENTENCE HIM TO DEATH OVER THE ACTIONS OF A LONG-GONE MADMAN?!”

“I LOST EVERYTHING TO DIO!” Jotaro bellowed back, “AND I WAS PERFECTLY FINE WITH GIORNO’S EXISTENCE, UNTIL HE JOINED YOUR LOT!”

Fugo let out a wordless sound of rage, kicking one of the chairs so hard it crashed back into the wall. A hazy stand began to materialize next to him, a horrid, wailing wheeze issuing from its stitched up mouth. Mista and Narania, who had been watching the whole exchange, dumbfounded, gasped and backed away.

“Fugo.”

Abbacchio’s bulky frame slid into Jotaro’s line of sight. He remained a respectable distance away from the stand, but the teen still turned to him, seething.
“Outside. Now. Before you vaporize the house.”

The stand slowly vanished. With a weary gait, Fugo stepped out, with all the air of a defeated warrior. Abbacchio seemed to ignore the dramatics, instead pinning his piercing, eagle-eyed gaze on Jotaro.

His next word took Jotaro completely by surprise.

“You resent him. I did, too, once.”

Screaming fit forgotten, Jotaro followed Abbacchio’s calm gait, sitting down once more and sighing deeply.

“You two- out. Keep Fugo company. Don’t bother Trish, she needs to rest and Bruno is with her.”

The two boys shuffled out obediently, unusually complacent. Abbacchio sat down in Mista’s vacated chair, shoving the bloody towel out of the way and grimacing at the red streaks it left behind. A hand disappeared back towards his pocket, and returned to reveal a pack of cigarettes.

“I usually save these for emergencies,” Abbacchio said lowly, “And Bruno will have my head for smoking in the house. Good thing he’s upstairs right now. Want one?”

Jotaro numbly took the cigarette and allowed him to light it.

“So,” Abbacchio said, huffing a cloud of smoke, “You were one of the assassins they set after Brando in ‘89?”

Jotaro stared at him flatly. He opened the file in front of him and winced.

…in 1989 a group of five stand users went to confront…resulted in a messy public fight resulting in several casualties, including civilians…

“Yes. How did you find out?”

Abbacchio shrugged. “Fugo interviewed Polnareff after we found out you two were connected. Polneraff didn’t say anything, but he did tell us he was worried for you. That your involvement in Giorno’s case could be dangerous for everyone, especially you and Giorno.”

“And then…”

“We went through some of speedwagon’s databases,” Abbacchio continued. “Fugo’s quite the little hacker, when he’s not imitating the eruption of Pompeii. It must’ve been rough, manning an assassination at the tender age of seventeen.”

“No worse than what your kids have done.”

Abbacchio didn’t seem offended in the least. He merely inclined his head, amber eyes glinting.

“Still, though. Our kids, aside from Trish and perhaps Giorno, had tasted that life long before they joined the fold. We took in street rats and inmates; you were just a neighborhood delinquent.”

Jotaro laughed quietly. “Yeah, you could say something like that.”

“Records said that you killed Dio personally. The account read like you blew up half of Egypt trying to get him.”

“He wasn’t a good man,” Jotaro said quietly.

“And I’m here to tell you, as someone who actively hated Giorno, once, that Giorno is not Dio. Not even close. Not based on what I’ve seen.”

Silence. A clock chiming from the next room over.

“Who did you lose, then?”

“What?”

“If you had gotten out of the confrontation with Dio scot-free, your opinion of his son wouldn’t be so convoluted. You lost someone personal. Who was it? Was it one of the people you mentioned earlier? One of the other people in your squad?”

Jotaro took a long, slow drag out of his cigarette.

“Yes.”

“What were they to you?”

Jotaro studied the young man before him intently, weighing his options. If he didn’t tell the truth, his tentative alliance with Passione would go up in flames. Not to mention, all the best stand users in Italy would go after him. Denial of this information could indicate that he was untrustworthy and wanted to harm Giorno. That sentiment had to die. Even if he felt personally obligated to prevent Giorno from following Dio’s footsteps, open hostility would never abate unless he was honest here and now. Truthfully, though, his reluctance to help was nothing more than residual grief. He had to make that clear.

“He killed my best friend.” The words were quiet, almost too quiet. “Another one of my friends, too. Almost killed three generations of Joestars. Me, my mother, and my Grandfather.”

Jotaro took a deep, steadying breath. “I told you when I first arrived that I had already investigated Giorno as a potential threat. That wasn’t a lie; and initially, I didn’t think he was one. Then Speedwagon got news of the bloody havoc you guys were wrecking over Italy.”

“I won’t deny it to you; that scared me. It reminded me of Dio. And when I heard about how quickly you rose to power, I got even more concerned. So I reached out. I hoped that if I met Giorno, I could tell him the story of his father. His response would dictate my actions against him.”

“But now…I don’t know what to think. Giorno’s not here; he’s in trouble. You barely seem to know him better than I do. And a part of me that’s more interested in keeping myself safe is wondering if I should leave him be. What if he ends up being another Dio?” Jotaro looked pointedly back to Abbacchio.

Abbacchio sighed, snuffing out his cigarette and rubbing his temple.

“Kujo, Giorno is nothing like that madman. Our rise to power was entirely due to him, that’s true, but his reasons for it were entirely altruistic. Him and Bruno…they wanted to end the drug trade. To clean up the city.”

“I don’t blame you for wanting to protect yourself. But I do blame you for being willing to put a kid in harm’s way for fear. Giorno… we don’t know where he is. And I can promise you this- as crazed and violent as we may seem to you, he is nothing like Dio. He doesn’t deserve whatever’s happening to him.”

A puff of air escaped Jotaro’s mouth.

“I already swore I would help you. To be honest, I would probably be excommunicated from the family if I didn’t do everything in my power to help Giorno. Joseph- may grandfather, you probably read about him too- would never stand for it. As for Giorno, I can only vow that I wish no true harm on him. It’s clear that none of you have contact with any of Dio’s old associates, so I’ll let the boy speak for himself, when the time comes.”

A sweet, sardonic smile bent Abbachio’s mouth.

“Believe me, he’ll talk you in circles.”

***

The alleyway was dark, and rain slid unpleasantly across the filthy pavement. Fingers slid against the slick wall, before jumping back to the air and snapping, the clear, sharp noise cutting through precipitation’s melancholy warble.

“Nice to see you back, gentlemen. Two hundred, per hit.”

“You want me to be broke?”

A crescent-moon smile, thin and lip-less as the Cheshire cat himself.

“I wasn’t talking to you, numbskull. This shit may twist your brain into knots, but all the real effects will only work for him.”

The two silhouettes, standing in front of the looming cat-smile, looked at each other.

“What do you mean by that?”

The dark man scoffed, and the silhouettes froze.

“I’ll cut you a deal. Do a favor for me, and you’ll have a free supply weekly. You’ll need it for what you’re going up against.”

Silence, but for the dripping of rain.

“Who do you want us to kill?

A hearty laugh echoed through the alley.

“Tell me, gentlemen; is there any love lost between you and Passione?”

Chapter Text

Bruno frowned as muffled voices echoed from downstairs. It sounded like Fugo was having a go at Dr. Kujo. That couldn’t be good; he and Abbacchio must have discovered something. Hopefully Abbacchio could handle it. Bruno’s hands were busy.

Trish shifted in his arms and squeaked. Bruno glanced down, and was surprised that blue met blue. The girl smiled at him, exhausted, and snorted.

“Don’t give me that look, Bucciarati, you’ll make me cry.”

Bruno shifted his gaze back up to the hall, walking towards Trish’s door.

“I’m surprised you’re awake.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

They made it to the door. Painted cream, nested between the room Mista and Narancia shared and Fugo’s own library-like quarters. The door had a small scattering of stickers on the front -stars, symbols, band logos- and a messy drawing that Narancia made tacked on the front, titled The Weekly Column. Notes were scribbled all over the paper’s margins. Almost everyone’s handwriting was on the paper. Bruno even saw Abbacchio’s hasty scrawl.

Hey T, look what I drew!

What is it?

It’s a cat.

It looks like a starved wombat. (Ever so eloquent, their Fugo, especially with the current screaming fit happening downstairs)

What even is a Wombat, dude?

A large, furry animal, just like you, Nara (Rather harsh, now, Mista.)

Hey!

“You reading the weekly column?” Trish’s sleepy voice asked. Bruno chuckled.

“Yeah. Fugo always knows how to kick up a fuss.”

“Hmmm. So I hear.”

Bruno winced in sympathy as he heard a wordless shout, the screaming wail of furniture being disturbed echoing up the stairs. Did Fugo just throw a chair? Things might be more out of control than he thought.

He shifted to open the door, pausing when he noticed how stiff Trish had gotten. He grabbed the handles and pushed, hinges protesting, before shouldering through.

“Sorry if that hurts,” he said quietly. “It might sting a little when I put you down, too.”

“It’s fine,” Trish said in a breathless whisper. “Bucciarati, where is my bag?”

Bruno frowned, settling her down on the rosy duvet. “It should be in the dining room. Why? Did you pick up something important?”

The girl nodded quickly, wincing as she shifted on the covers. Bruno walked over to her dresser and grabbed a pair of sweatpants. They had already changed her into a clean T-Shirt after the rudimentary operation to remove the bullet from her side, but the waistband of her skirt was still dyed a rusty red.

“Think you can get those on?”

“Yes, Thank you.”

An empty glass rested on the bedside table. “I’ll grab you some water. Be right back.”

Bruno stepped out into the hall. There was no more shouting; instead, Abbacchio and Dr. Kujo’s quiet voices rumbled from downstairs. Bruno wrinkled his nose. Cigarettes. In the house. When Trish was taken care of, Bruno was going to get them for that.

The bathroom was directly across from Trish, next to Giorno’s empty room. Bruno walked up to the tiled threshold and paused.

Giorno’s door was still dusted. The room was still full of dead flowers. It was no place to come home to; it screamed of neglect, lack of care, of being forgotten.

Bruno could never allow Giorno to come home to a place like that. He had already ruined enough.

All that time, feeling something was off, and no action? Some boss you are. Even now, your actions show that you don’t care.

Mouth set into a grim line, Bruno pushed into the bathroom, filling the clear glass with water.

He refused to let Giorno be forgotten about again.

***

Burning.

Her side was burning.

It shouldn’t be this hard to put on a pair of pants.

Letting out a quiet groan, Trish finally adjusted the loose sweatpants Bruno had grabbed for her. They were twisted in every which way, but she couldn’t muster the energy to care about the seams being messed up. She pawed at the dirty skirt lying at her side and threw it weakly against the rosy pink wall. It smacked onto a poster (Duran Duran, Thank You, 1995), and landed in the waiting laundry basket below with a soft thump.

Job done, she laid her head back and panted. It figured that she’d get shot on a mission that was little more than an intel session. Normally bullets were no problem; she could just use Spice Girl and they were little more than rubber pellets. But there had been no warning between finding the stand and the gunshot. She was just lucky that it didn’t hit anything vital, and that the bullet didn’t shatter on impact.

The most insulting part was that the mission had almost been a complete bust. Their doctor had almost no information about Lorenzo. He could only say that he might’ve worked with him on the same floor, perhaps while Ciocolatta was doing clinicals? It was all very vague and unhelpful. He did prove useful once she asked about the local drug crisis, though.

“There’s something new on these streets, my dear,” he said. “We’re not sure what it is, exactly. It’s definitely a stimulant. People seem to be overdosing left and right. Some are hallucinating. Its chemical makeup is certainly not anything our labs recognize, and it hasn’t appeared over the border at all either.”

He eyed them warily.

“I know Bucciarati too well to suspect you. Are you working on it?”

She had reassured him that yes, their team was working on it, and no, it wasn’t Passione’s doing. She promised they’d track down who was dispensing it within Passione’s borders. The visit had confirmed her gnawing suspicion that the object she had picked up was a new drug. It was a shame. That area had seen enough pain in the last few years from drug rings.

She heard a gentle tap on her door.

“Come in!” She called, shifting the twisted fabric of her pants. Bucciaratti padded quietly in the room, placing a glass of water gently on the bedside table. Her bag was slung over his shoulder.

“Now,” he said, dragging a stool over from her vanity and settling down. “You said you found something. Is it in here?” He pulled the bag down and opened it.

“Wait!” Trish gasped, lurching up and wincing. “Don’t touch it! It does something strange, I don’t want you to touch it.”

Bucciarati stared at her, eyebrows creeping up towards his bangs. He handed the bag off to her when she reached over.

“What is it?” he asked, peering at the bag held between her shaking hands.

“A new drug that some nitwit got that area hooked up on; I wanted Fugo to look at it. I think it could be linked to Giorno’s case.”

Bucciarati stared at her for two beats, expression blank. He exhaled softly and rubbed his chin in thought.

“That hospital is close to where the Canestrello drug ring operated.” He said. “It was the last case Giorno worked on before the attack. A connection would make sense.”

The thought hadn’t even crossed her mind. It was a clear motivator in kidnapping Giorno. The Canestrello had been a nasty ring, almost single handedly dragging a struggling community down into the dirt. It was composed of some ex-Passione gruntman, and a few stand users, too. They had throttled the town into submission through addiction, abduction, and other scare tactics. It took over six months of careful planning before Bucciarati’s team could infiltrate the ring and take it down.

They had been working on revitalizing the town before Giorno was taken. Strange; the project had slipped all their minds…

“Bruno,” she gasped, a realization searing into her skull. “Did we work on the Canestrello cleanup at all after Giorno was taken?”

If Bruno seemed taken aback by the direction of the conversation, he didn’t show it. He contemplated for a few moments before answering:

“No; That’s actually very strange. I don’t imagine it would’ve slipped my mind…”

“Exactly! Bucciarati, bear with me for a moment. All of our other projects, even ones that Giorno was working on with us, remained active after he was taken, right? We didn’t stop them once our memories were erased. We just carried on without him.” The words sent a knife through her chest, but they were true.

“No, you’re right…”

“So then why would all of us neglect the Canestrello cleanup? We dedicated six months to that mission! We wouldn’t have forgotten about it unless-”

“Someone forced us to.” Bucciarati finished. “Which they wouldn’t have to do unless our current enemy and the Canestrello ring were connected.”

Trish nodded weakly. “That, and whatever this drug is. My stand said something strange when I came into contact with it.”

“What did she say?”

“She said… that it was covered in Giorno’s aura. Whatever that means.”

Bucciarati paused, before getting up from his stool and beginning to pace. For a moment, he looked to be in deep thought, but his face soon morphed into something more distressed. Trish stared at him pacing across the carpeted floor, gaping, before another question was thrown her way.

“You said you came into contact with the drug. Did it do anything to you?”

“Y…Yeah,” She replied, thinking back to a fall that seemed to last hours and birds hanging stagnant in the sky. “It was almost like time slowed down completely. I could see everything in extreme detail, even study it…”

“It didn’t hurt you at all?”

“Well, no,” Trish said hesitantly. “It didn’t even burn. Everything just felt…strange. And slow. And I didn't even ingest any; I just touched it by accident.” Her eyes tracked Bucciarati’s fervent movements. His pacing led him back to her bedside, where he unceremoniously plunked down onto the edge of her mattress.

“Trish…” he said hesitantly, “Do you mind if I look at your wound?”

Confused, Trish nodded. He gently pushed up her T-Shirt, peering at the newly bandaged injury. His calloused hands carefully picked at the edge of the gauze, and he pulled it up to reveal the smear of gore underneath. Most of it was already scabbed over.

“Funny,” He murmured, his words echoing Trish’s own thoughts: “I thought it would be bleeding more than that.” He turned his piercing blue eyes onto the bag sitting in her lap.

“I have a suspicion that this substance will heal you,” he said. “Given your already alarming recovery rate, I think your stand was correct in saying this drug came from Giorno. Whatever amount of it you came into contact with seems to be barely wearing off.”

He gently pressed the gauze back down. Trish felt her breath quicken, pieces soaring into place to create a horrific final picture.

“You think they’re using him to synthesize a drug?” She asked, clutching the damning piece of evidence closer to her chest.

“I suspect.” Bucciarati corrected. “I’d want to get it tested for other substances before we use it, but if it does heal you, I’d wager we’d also be able to find traces of his DNA -what your stand probably saw as an aura- and soon we’d have another solid lead. Well done, Trish.”

Her heart soared, but her smile soon shuddered and cracked. It could take days to get results back. She couldn’t afford to be sidelined for that long; Giorno had already waited too long for help. She looked up into Bucciarati’s face, so warm with approval, and asked:

“How long would it take to find the test results?”

His expression faltered slightly. “It could take a week to find all the information we need. I can cash in some favors for a rush job, but it still may take two days or more.”

Trish hummed. “But if this substance is capable of healing, then it’s likely from Giorno?”

Bucciarati’s eyes became sharp. “Yes,” he said enthusiastically. “If that were the case, I would be almost positive it’s coming from Giorno. The effect you described was exactly like one of Gold Experience’s lesser-known abilities. Giorno used it on me once. If the drug can cause both sensory overload and healing, that’s one too many correlations to ignore. Especially if the healing also replaces non-living substances with living tissue.”

“So what I’m hearing is this: If I touch this drug and the wrappings replace the tissues in my bullet wound, it’s definitely taken from Giorno?” She unfurled the bag’s flap to look at the writhing, golden mess within.

Bucciarati frowned and began to reach over. “Trish-”

She plunged her hand into the sticky mess before he could even finish.

***

Cold metal crushed against his numb fingers, murky liquid inside sloshing onto his chest. Ignoring the questionable shade of the water, he quickly guzzled the container, tongue burning from the unnatural metallic tang. The cup was snatched away before he even finished. Distantly, he heard a sharp, cigarette-infused laugh.

No one in the room was smiling.

“Stay there,” Emilio growled. He turned his back, shifting through the cabinets that sat opposite to the boy. The boy huffed and leaned against the cold wall behind him. The other two walls were each occupied by a door, making the rectangular room seem like a stunted hallway. At least this room was cleaner than the other ones, although the mattress he had been thrown on was disturbingly stained and musty.

Nothing I give you is ever good enough!

The boy’s head snapped towards the corner. The vague shape of a woman, towering despite her distance from him, leered back. Her voice was familiar. He had heard it before, when his hair had been cut.

“Should be good to go,” Emilio grunted, and the boy distantly recognized the flash of a needle in his hand. It wasn’t important. They had taken blood and injected things into him before. What was important was the familiarity boiling in his veins. The shadow…reminded him of his lighter. It had an air of right to it that everything else was sorely missing.

Emilio was now kneeling in front of him. The boy ignored him. He was too entranced by the woman in the corner. Sometimes, he thought he saw the flash of nice fabric, and heard the click of a polished shoe. But no matter how hard he stared, he never got to see her face. Emilio began to snap just below his nose, perhaps to gain his attention, but the boy found himself enraptured.

Could this be a missing part of himself? Who was she?

Creepy fucking stare. Get off of me! I never wanted to be your m-

“HEY!”

The shadow flinched back. Emilio’s gaze trailed back to the corner, his eyes tracing over the shadow without settling. He shook his head, oblivious, and turned back to the supplies he had gathered.

“I swear. Boss must’ve given you some permanent brain damage. Staring off into the fucking corner like that…”

The needle stung as it pierced his now-clean forearm. The boy wasn’t better yet, but apparently his infection had gone down enough for them to resume collecting blood samples

I never wanted to be your mother.

The words were shouted, but to the boy, they could have been a whisper. His ears were ringing so much that all the noise in the room was drowning. Even Emilio’s usual droning was muffled beyond recognition.

Mother? Who was his mother? Was that her?

She didn’t seem to like him very much. None of the shadows did, but one.

He hoped they weren’t real. He wanted to see its face.

“Are you even listening, you ungrateful little bastard? I said the Serg ordered a prisoner transfer, so you’ll be kept up here from now on. Apparently I’m too untrustworthy for his tastes.”

The boy’s distracted gaze latched back onto Emilio, unimpressed. If there was one thing Emilio was bad at, it was keeping him alive. He usually didn’t get this sick, but it was hardly the first time he’d gotten an infection from poor practices. His expression must’ve crossed a line, though. Emilio’s square jaw cracked and clenched, gray-green eyes flickering rapidly. Blood rushed to the man’s head, and as the skin under stubble reddened, strong fingers wrapping around the boy’s neck.

Lamb, meet wolf.

A golden head slammed into the stone wall. Hot breath wafted on his face, and rage-dusted eyes bored into his own.

Now this is familiar, isn’t it?

“Watch your fucking attitude, you little shitstain.”

Familiar, yes.

Was that defiance bubbling in his throat? Injustice? Or just the tight grip of the man in front of him?

A small hiccup escaped his throat when he tried to speak, confirming that yes, the grip was indeed tighter. There was more, though. That voice was screaming again, insisting that something was wrong…

He hated it. He deserved better, somewhere, he knew-

“Got something to say? Earth and stars above, is that intelligence in your eyes?”

His eyes tracked over Emilio’s shoulder, to the shadow that now seemed to take up half the room. He couldn’t breathe. He hated this. Her face was clear. He couldn’t breathe! Green eyes stared back at him, uncaring, and her shiny, tinted lips grinned. Time seemed to slow.

”Just what you deserve, love,” her voice crooned, clearer than ever before. Her auburn hair shimmered as she turned away. His heart dropped to his feet, breaking in a way that hurt more than any infection, cut, or bruise. His chest ached, somehow having nothing to do with a crucial lack of air.

I thought I deserved better.

She disappeared through the door. It didn’t open; she phased through it, vanishing from sight completely. Suddenly, his body was filled with the overwhelming need to follow her, to beg her to stay, because there’s no way his mother could be like that, he thought outside was supposed to be better than this-

Emilio cried out, reeling back with a stunted lurch. The boy was thrown back onto the mattress, gasping. Twin trails of red oozed onto the floor, where a coiled snake lay, hissing. Emilio froze, and the boy stared at the snake, equally confused.

“Motherfucker,” Emilio spat, and he snatched up the snake by the neck. It writhed around his arm, spitting at the indignance of it all. Emilio whipped his eyes back to the boy, and for half a moment, he believed that Emilio would kill him. The madness in his eyes frothed and rolled like the spittle on his chin. In that moment, the boy distinctly felt as though he beheld all the raging glory of a sick dog ready to pounce.

Thankfully, the moment passed. Emilio spat another curse, aimed a lousy kick at the boy’s arm, and growled out a barely understandable “Stay on the fucking floor, brat.”

There was still a chain around his ankle, wrapped around the ancient heating system in the corner. It prevented him from moving more than two feet in any direction. If his mind wasn’t so convoluted and confused, the boy may have petulantly jangled the chain to wordlessly point out as much.

Emilio stalked out of the room, opening the door that the shadow had disappeared to. The boy caught a glimpse of old, tiled floor, peeling wallpaper, and-

and-

Light. Actual sunlight, spilling out onto the floor through what must’ve been a window. He couldn’t see enough to tell. But it was sunlight, and it had all the shadows of a windowpane, and windows meant glass, and glass meant something in this forsaken building was breakable. Actual light; not just a measly zippo lighter buried in the dust of a basement, which now, the boy realized with regret, he would probably never see again. Real light.

The door slammed shut, and the distinct snick of a padlock falling into place followed. The boy let his head fall back, spinning and miserable. The solitude was far from ideal, but it gave him the opportunity to noisily suck in some blessed air. His throat ached with effort. He was cold.

What had happened to the blanket? It was gone from the mattress. All that was left was the stained, squealing box. It might’ve been white at one point, but no such luck graced him on the current day. He couldn’t recall seeing Emilio take it… but that was far from the most upsetting thing that happened.

The boy’s forlorn gaze traced back to the now-empty corner. His mother… He never would’ve guessed the voice he heard was someone so integral. A kind word had never passed from that shadow’s lips. Not when he woke up, nor when his hair was cut, not even when he was being throttled to death. If his belief that life outside would be better was so right, then why is everything about his mother so wrong?

He didn’t know anything, did he? Perhaps the voice that kept him alive for so long was wrong. Maybe it was just a mark of desperation, and what he was actually wishing for was a new kind of hell.

His eyes stung. He screwed them shut. Buried his head into his knees.

“Useless…”

***

Heavy footsteps suddenly turned into the slamming of a door. Frowning, a dark man with scars pulled a pipe from cracked lips.

“Breaking and entering, Emilio?”

A hissing snake was thrown onto his desk. It lunged. Long, slim fingers stopped it in its tracks, wrapping like a noose around its neck. The snake thrashed fruitlessly.

“We’ve got a problem, Serg. A big fucking problem.”

Serg frowned, scars pulling into a massacre of craggy flesh. Skeletal hands jerked, and small bones crunched into dust. The snake stopped thrashing.

“This type of snake is from the Americas,” He noted dully. “Not natural here. The pattern on its back imitates a rattlesnake, but it’s completely harmless. Hardly an event that garners my attention.”

Cold eyes flicked to Emilio judgmentally.

“This better be important, Emilio. Otherwise, behind Bucciarati, you’ll be most-wanted on my shitlist.”

Emilio’s meaty hands slammed onto the desk. The jolt jostled the snake to the floor.

“The kid made it,” he snarled. “With the sheet of his mattress. I thought you took care of this, Boss. Babysitting is one thing. If he recovers his stand-”

“- We’ll be in luck.” Serg interrupted. “Not trouble.”

The cold eyes were shining.

Chapter Text

The body was back.

The putrid stink of old blood offensively tickled the back of his throat, stinging the sore flesh. Eyes locked on to the corpse, the boy absently rubbed at his bruising neck, ignoring the twin sets of eyes boring into him.

The corpse was rotting. Its skin had stretched, dried, and putrefied. Rigor mortis was giving way to a decomposer’s paradise. The kindly old face had warped into a mask of swollen flesh. If he wasn’t so accustomed to filth, he may have gagged.

Questioning, he flicked his eyes towards Emilio, steadfastly avoiding eye contact with the tall, dark man who stood beside him. He rarely saw the boss anymore, but his mere presence was suffocating. For safety’s sake, his eyes would stay down.

“Fix it.” A voice echoed through the room. It wasn’t Emilio’s. The chain on the boy’s foot rattled. He looked down, away from Emilio’s red face, and held himself stiffly.

A boot hit the rotted skin with a squelch. Liquid and maggots pooled on the floor around the offending boot. He felt an unexpected well of anger rise in his chest. The old man deserved none of this. He was a doctor, based on his clothes (which were now soaked through with bodily fluids). His murder was likely to remain unsolved, and resulted in a horribly undignified death. If anyone deserved to be in a better place, it was the doctor.

“Fix. It.” The cold steel of the boss’ voice cut through the room once again. Willing the shake to leave his legs, the boy swallowed, and continued to ignore the request. He had no idea what The boss even wanted. Fix a corpse? Stitches would hardly do much to fix liquefying skin. He had been given nothing to help, either.

Two footsteps echo across the floor, and a hand whistles through the air. The boy’s head whips to the side, the appendage cracking across his face viciously. Two hands grab his own as they rise to his face, attempting to stem the slow trickle of blood now coming from his nose.

His wrists are pulled up, and the boy’s blurred vision reaches the face of the boss. Serg.

The man’s long, bony fingers squeeze his own, hard enough to break. The boy gives no indication aside from a sharp inhale, which turns noisy thanks to his blood-filled nasal passages. Anger is replaced with fear. The shake in his legs reaches his core, causing his whole body to vibrate with small tremors. His eyes remained dry and downcast. He wouldn’t cry. Not while he was coherent, aware. It never helped. He never stopped.

Nostalgia’s a dangerous drug, right?

“Emilio, show him the snake.” The boy’s brow furrowed in spite of his fear, and he turned his head to see the indicated animal. Its rusty red spots were lined with black lines, surrounded by beige…

A type of milk snake. Imitates the region’s rattlesnakes to scare away predators. Ultimately harmless…

Now where had that come from?

He always loved biology. It was his favorite subject. He would sit in a classroom with yellow walls and specimen jars and read and read and read and read about other ecosystems so he never had to go back home to-

A strangled gasp cut through the memory. His head rolled forward, narrowly missing Serg’s chin. A sting had wormed its way deep into his brain, a tugging sensation that was as irresistible as any drug. It was like the whole room faded away; the stench, the hands, the snake…

He needed more

“Boss, you sure you should be touching him? It could-”

“Anything that comes back to him during contact will be gone the second I leave this room,” Sergio growled back. “What we’re doing now is more important. I have other forms of containment, you know.”

Comes back to me? The boy questioned, turning over the phrase in his muddled brain. He resolutely ignored the horrendous possibilities that “other forms of containment” could include.

Why am I remembering things now? What changed?

The boy’s eyes trailed up to Sergio’s hands, still pinning his hands skyward. The boss had never touched him before, certainly not for this long…

He needed more

How could he make it permanent? How could he make the memories stay?

Sergio leaned inward, his noxious breath overshadowed by the swollen mess of a body on the floor.

“Golden Boy, I’m not sure what can still make it through that thick skull of yours anymore, but if you don’t listen to me nice and clear, you’ll be getting up close and personal with Mr. Doctor over there. We know what you did last night…

The sting in his skull had turned to ringing had turned to a crescendo. The boy could hardly focus on noise between his racing thoughts and the agonizing smell. Something warm and gold was beating in his chest, back after what felt like years, screaming to Make the memories last.

The boy reared his head back and slammed it into Sergio’s awaiting nose.

***

There was chewing gum stuck to the underside of the table.

The rickety wooden leg that the grayish muck stuck to was gritty under his palms. He sat on the dusty tiles, legs drawn carefully into a criss-cross. He was a little too big to be under the table, but that was beside the point. He had to be tucked away, not in eyeshot, out of sight, out of mind…

The click-clack of heels interrupted his musing, and his mother’s ( his mother’s!) offensive cocktail of scents assaulted his nose. Cheap perfume (all she could afford) cigarettes, and alcohol, churned together to form a concoction from hell. Each smell was so intertwined with the other that it was barely distinguishable; it created a nauseating cloud, following her like a poisonous fog.

How fitting.

“I’M LEAVING!” She hollered. Costume jewelry jangled as the front door (broken, always broken, the hinges squealed like a starving dog whenever it) opened and then slammed closed. One of the few photos that hung on the yellowed wall fell. Broken glass scattered across the floor, shining like teardrops on glass.

“KAORI!” A man’s voice bellowed. His heart rate spiked, but his eyes were dry. They were always dry. Tremors ran up his arms. It was just from the floor. It was just from the floor. It was always the floor. It trembled under (fathers’? ) feet, like the earth at a fault line, buckling under his tremendous weight.

“KAORI!!” Another raspy bellow. Bare, cracked feet rounded the corner. Toughened soles walked unsteadily down on broken glass. The man bleated in agony, slamming down into the floor. A pair of shorts and an ill-fitting tank joined the narrow view that the boy had from under the table.

“Fucker…” The man rumbled pathetically. He was drunk (always drunk) and had few wits about him. It was hard to feel shame when you were seeing double and alcohol felt like ichor burning through your veins, the boy supposed. Mean, bloodshot eyes sat deep in a pig-like face. The eyes flicked up, catching something of interest.

Something of interest was him.

“Haruno,” the man growled, vision tunneling. “Fucker. You did it on purpose, didn’t you?” His (father’s…?) voice cracked every other word, strangled by a drunken stupor.

Wordlessly, Haruno shook his head. No.

But denial never helped. Not in this house.

The man towered to his feet, staggering around the shards of glass and pulling on the long, thin piece of leather that made up his ill-sized belt. His shadow crept along the floor, eating the light that rested on Haruno’s? My? feet.

“Come out from under the table, you little roach,” He wheezed. “Come out and act like a man. Did I raise a coward?”

A hand reached into his sanctuary, wrapping itself into the folds of his shirt. The world jerked, and soon he was face to face with his not father, a monster- and the smell of cheap whiskey was burning his nose.

“Found you,” the man purred, and he shoved Haruno? That didn’t seem right… to the floor. His arm drew back, and a crack whistled through the air before-

***

A thin, reedy whine echoed in his Haruno’s? ears. It sounded pained and pathetic, and echoed across the bare walls of the room. His back burned with remembered injuries, and he fought whatever restrained his hands to reach back and see, how was it here after so long, he left, he left, he thought he would never see him again-
But it wasn’t his father in front of him; it was another monster in human skin. A shame, that both men inspired such a wild fear, even while inhabiting sections of his life so far removed from each other

(Were they really?)

Serg’s eyes had blown wide in shock, red dripping from his nose. Bizarrely, flecks of gold swirled lazily inside the liquid. Wildly, Haruno wondered if Serg knew what he just done; what would be the consequences for stealing a precious memory back? He stubbornly tried to quash any residual shock, even as his body trembled with past (and recent) injuries.

“Now would you look at that!” Emilio breathed, eyes trained with interest on the ground. “Not what you were hoping for, boss, but I think that’s promising!”

Small weeds had sprouted all over the floor. They rapidly increased in size, reaching toward a non-existent sun. Sergio turned, looking at the offending plants. Haruno’s concealed fear was joined by a sense of bewilderment. Where had they even sprouted from?

Sergio’s eyes widened in realization, his scarred face slowly turning back to Haruno. He suddenly felt himself being hoisted onto unsteady legs, chain clattering against the floor. Haruno felt his bare feet scrabble for purchase as Sergio practically carried him, leaves licking his tattered, dirty soles. A step, then two, and the noxious smell of decay was unbearable. Haruno refused to look down at the old man’s drawn, dead face, which now sat less than a foot away from his feet. A stab of anxiety flashed in Haruno's chest, sharp as a bullet, as he contemplated what Sergio could possibly do next. No matter what happened, he couldn't lose his resolve in front of the boss.

The plants at his feet began to flower, greenish bulbs swelling like a sore. Sergio, still half-hoisting him up in the air, glanced down, a thoughtful look overtaking his scarred features.

“Hey, Emilio,” he began in an oily voice. “What exactly were you doing when the bedsheets turned?”

Emilio hummed. “Havin’ a discussion, that’s all.”

Sergio cocked his head with interest. Feather-light fingers danced across the delicate flesh of Haruno’s throat, splotched in painful red and mottled purple.

“A discussion,” he repeated. His nails into Haruno’s neck, hard enough to itch.

Then they vanished. Haruno’s upper body was pushed into a vice grip, pressed harshly against Sergio’s side. The stink of cigars filled his nose as it was buried in his musty jacket. For a brief moment, Haruno basked in the wretched scent, as it was almost enough to drown out the festering stink of rotten flesh. The relief was short-lived. Haruno’s face exploded with pain, his already bloody nose protesting at being pressed harshly against Sergio’s bony side. Curiously enough, Sergio had only restrained him with one arm; the other arm had found itself preoccupied by a gun, of all things.

Trained at Emilio, no less.

Fingers brushed against Haruno’s tender neck once more, finding the fluttering beat of a panicky jugular. Sergio flicked the safety off of his handgun, and the click echoed like an explosion in his ear. Blood rushed, and Haruno knew there was no hiding the deep tremor in his muscles from Sergio. But he would not panic.

The flowers began to bloom.

“You know,” Sergio crooned, “I don’t take kindly to people who interfere with my projects.”

Ready, Aim, Fire!

The bang was loud, louder than anything else Haruno had witnessed in this place. But the squelch of blood and death was somehow louder. Sergio flipped Haruno around, presenting the gruesome sight of Emilio choking on his own blood. The bullet had found its home in his throat, the location perfectly mirroring Haruno's bruises. The man had minutes- no, seconds- of life left before bleeding out or suffocating.

“In this case, I salute you; while foolish, your actions gave insight.”

Emilio let out one last wretched gurgle, blood bubbling past his lips and splashing to the floor.

There were two corpses in the room now. Sergio let out a sigh, and retracted his gun to rest next to Haruno’s temple. His large hand trailed up to the blood covering his chin, smearing red and gold across an angular jaw. The icy chill of a gun’s barrel cut through The boy’s senses.

“I should have known,” Sergio chuckled. “Fear was always a powerful motivator for you, wasn’t it?”

He laid under the table after it ended, staring up at the chewing gum and ignoring the stripes in his back and the unshed tears in his eyes. He was so tired of being afraid. He had to get out, to leave, the streets would be better than living under the roof of a miserable drunkard and a-

Flowers were blooming from the broken glass on the floor…

Haruno gasped, looking around at the veritable garden that the floor had become. Was he doing this somehow? Is that why Sergio wanted him to fix a corpse?

“You’re a tough little bastard, I’ll give you that,” Sergio grunted. “Even with a gun on your head, you’re barely even trying to do as I asked.” He examined the blood on the pad of his free hand. “Perhaps I should’ve expected some… leeway to be given, considering the nature of your abilities.”

How can he expect me to reanimate a corpse? Haruno thought hysterically. He only now realized it was him growing the flowers. How would he even- the nature of his abilities?

“So,” Sergio continued, seeming gleeful over Haruno’s oncoming visible panic. “Based on your reaction, I’d say you remembered something important, right? I think it’s time to increase your motivation.”

It seemed so slow, in the moment. Sergio’s bony hand tensed, and then Haruno found himself falling- no, being flung- onto the ground below.

Only, he didn’t land on the ground. He landed on something soft.

(wet)

Squishy. It smelled like death.

It was dead. There were maggots in its mouth and eyes and liquid pooling-

Pooling out of the bloated flesh that-

-the bloated flesh that Haruno had landed on.

The old man. The doctor.

He was laying on the old man’s corpse.

“Use your newfound memories well,” Sergio Cooed.

A flower had grown directly above the old man’s head, growing taller and rounder until the bulb was ready to burst.

All at once, the overwhelming stench overtook Haruno’s senses, and he gagged. Distantly, as though he was seeing it from somewhere else (please, let me go somewhere else!) he felt a wave of nausea and vomited (not on the old man’s face, to the side, he deserved better, but Haruno didn’t-)

The flower bloomed, and its petals glowed a bright, cheerful orange under the fluorescent lights. Its sickly sweet perfume tangled with the corpse-flesh and vomit, and Haruno coughed on the cacophony of smells assaulting his senses. There was maggots and blood on his hands and face and clothes and in its mouth-

“Now.” Sergio loomed over Haruno, his bony silhouette an echo of a man long abandoned (but still alive, in a back alley-bar somewhere-). He raised his hand slowly and pointed to Emilio’s gurgling corpse.

“We got lucky. I think it’ll be easier to try with a fresh one.”
The gun was raised, cocked, and aimed.

“You’re too important to kill,” the madman admitted, “But you can be maimed. We both know that you can heal from more than most men.”

Haruno’s eyes finally tore themselves away from the sight of maggots and bile, gazing up at Emilio’s corpse. The shine of a handgun flashed in the corner of his eyes.

“Fix him.”

***

Quiet voices and cigarette smoke fluttered out from the screen door. Narancia sighed, arms balancing on his kneecaps and face shoved unceremoniously into his hands. He absently tapped his foot against the ground, making a little dancing rhythm with the flat of his shoe. Trish had noticed the nervous habit a few weeks back, and had teased him over it relentlessly (in a good way).

You’ve got nervous dancing feet! You should become a tapper.

I think he’d do better in the ballet, myself.

Tryouts for the nutcracker are happening in the city. I think he’d make a good rat.

Screw you, Abba!

He glanced up at the second-floor windows, seeing no movement from the inside besides a flutter of curtains. That’s to be expected, though. Trish should be asleep. She should also be okay.

Hopefully.

Eventually.

A gush of air blew into his face, bringing a guttural sigh along with it. Narancia turned to see Mista, who had settled next to him on the porch step. Mista flashed a tired but goofy grin.

“I tried to talk him down,” he whispered, jerking his head towards the wider garden. “I don’t think it worked.”

“I can hear you, you know.”

Mista’s grin cracked wider at the petulant response. Narancia looked at Fugo, who stood in the center of the dying overgrown garden, tapping his foot impatiently. If the receding redness of his face was any indication, Mista had managed to get him marginally calmer. Narancia felt his own spirits lift at the sight.

“Hey, hey!” He drawled playfully, wanting to rid himself of all the tension permeating the house. “Look, Mista, he’s gone from lobster to mild sunburn! You gotta tell me your secret, man, you calmed him down in record time.”

“I do not look like a lobster, you idiot-”

“Coulda fooled me. You should see how red you get when you yell, right, Mista?”

“Mhm. He looks like he’s fresh out the pot whenever he lectures you about math.”

“Hey! I don’t-”

Narancia giggled. “We’re just cheesing you, man. Nice to have you back with us without being vaporized.”

Fugo huffed, blowing his unruly bangs out of his face. He stiffly marched over to the porch and abruptly plopped next to Narancia.

“Don’t joke about that.”

“Sorry.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes. The thick tension from before coiled around Narancia’s lungs. The house was quiet. The garden was dying.

Giorno was (dying?) missing.

In a theatrical explosion, Narancia groaned, throwing his arms around Mista and Fugo. Both boys tensed as Narancia unexpectedly squished them into his side.

“Oh noooo,” Narancia wailed, putting emphasis on the drama of it all. “I’m in a gangster sandwich. I’ll never make it out this time.”

“Let go of me,” Fugo grunted. There was no heat behind the words.

“I think we all need to cheer up. Sure, today was bad, but it coulda been worse. Bruno and I got some good information!”

Fugo sighed and relented, allowing Narancia to fully manhandle him into a half-hug.

“I’m just worried, that’s all. I don’t trust him.”
Ah, him being Dr. Kujo.

“None of us trust him, Fugo,” Mista laughed. “Not really. We trust him to get us where we need to be, sure. But that’s not the same as real trust.”

“Yeah, see?” Narancia added “We’re just co-operatin’ until we get what we need”

“Cooperating.” Fugo mumbled.

“Whatever.”

“I doubt Bruno will even fully trust him until we have Giorno, safe and sound.”

“Mhm.”

“Then after that,” Mista stage whispered across Narancia’s knees to Fugo, “If he ends up being bad, I’m sure Bruno will let you vaporize him. If you want.”

“I don’t know if that’s something I should want.”

As the conversation took a more playful turn, Narancia felt himself tuning it out. The return to slight normalcy was a relief. Ever since their memories returned… no. Ever since Giorno vanished, the whole team had been in a weird flux. The empty gap the blonde left in their lives felt more like a canyon, even before they could recall his name. Narancia thought back to a moment, about two months back, when he had found himself standing in this very garden, gazing at the various plants. Bruno had walked up behind him and handed him a pair of gardening shears.

“It’s fine that you have a new hobby, but gardening requires a lot of discipline. If you forget about it too long, it’ll wither and die.”

Those words had struck a chord with him, although he hadn’t understood why until months later.

“If you forget about it too long, it’ll wither and die…”

How much his head had ached, trying to puzzle out where the garden came from! Even Bruno seemed confused when he handed the shears back and insisted that he hadn’t touched the garden. He killed cacti on the regular; Bruno should’ve known a whole garden couldn’t come from him. But a haze had taken over and they had both wandered off, instead, unable to confront the confusing tinge reality had taken on in Giorno’s absence.

It will wither and die…

And the garden was dying. The afternoon haze of summer had washed the garden out in golden hues (ha!). Despite the time of year, the leaves had turned from green to the crusted brown of bad bread.

Narancia sighed and picked a leaf off the ground. The discussion behind him had evolved into a lighthearted squabble, but Mista’s bubbly voice blended into Fugo’s raspy alto until they were unintelligible as the crickets singing at nightfall.

It was crunchy and crumbly. It had the limp remains of a flower bud attached to it, but the color had long leached away. It was sad.

“- anyway. I don’t blame you, dude, I spent the whole afternoon putting myself between that bastard and Trish, but it seems like he’s okay…”

He could almost imagine the new life springing forth, the way Giorno effortlessly grew flowers upon flowers, twisting them up and down the fences of their small villa.

“-cia, dude, what are you doing?”

“What?” he mumbled. “I-I was just-”

It was then that he realized that something unusual had happened. The leaf he was holding was no longer crunchy and brown. Held limply between his fingers, a venomously orange flower pulsed.

“What?” he gasped. “What’s going on?”

The grass thickened and curled. Gray bushes pulsed with sudden life, their vigor so aggressive that birds flushed from their nests. Narancia scrambled to his feet, tugging his shoes loose from a stray vine that had begun to creep over the lip of the porch. Mista and Fugo followed suit, the latter swearing violently.

“What the FUCK!” Yelped Mista, who had unfortunately backed into a rather spikey rosebush, that had previously been so dilapidated that it was little more than a branch sticking out of the ground.

“Dude!” Narancia yelled, turning to Fugo. “What does this mean? Is Giorno nearby or something?”

Fugo didn’t answer. A pale, anxious sheen overtook his face. He turned, ripping the wailing screen door open so aggressively that he pulled it clear off the track. Abbaccio would be pissed.

“Abba!” He yelped, scrambling into the house. “Abba, something’s going on!”

Footsteps thundered from inside. Abbaccio appeared, gaping at the scene. A cigarette hung limply from his mouth in shock.

Bruno will be pissed that he’s smoking in the house. Narancia thought absently.

Dr. Kujo appeared behind him, taking the scene in with a calm but impressed demeanor.

“What’s going on?” He asked mildly. “Are we being attacked?”

“No.” Abbacchio cut in. “This has to do with Giorno, this was made with his stand; But what on earth-”

Then, quickly as it had begun, the garden began dying again. Flowers pulsed with golden light, before shriveling and receding into husks. Petals fell to the earth live snow. Branches became brittle and moldered into dirt. The sickly-sweet rot that had permeated the grounds increased tenfold.

“-is going on?” Abbacchio finished in a hushed whisper, gazing at the massacre of plants.

No one had an answer.

***

At the same time, far away (but closer than the team realized) a teenager had been thrown onto the corpse of one of their dear allies. The boy couldn’t remember that the man was Bucciarati’s friend, of course, but as the blood and fluid soaked into his clothes and a gun was trained on his head, he tried desperately to resurrect the dead.

He recalled that, long ago, he held a strong conviction that he deserved a better life than what he had now. That something happy waited for him beyond these familiar walls. It was a treasured idea, a golden idea, and it had dimmed significantly. It was almost smothered now.

With fear rising in his chest like vomit, and tremors wracking his frame, he pushed desperately at something, anything to help him achieve this impossible task.

To his surprise, a golden glow answered.