Midler fan ( I need merch pls Araki )
link to my AO3 : https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faz_girl/profile
I draw, write (when the planets align) and can s
peak eng/fr
Don't be scared to message me, I'm slow to respond but always opened
Multi fandom :
Gorillaz, JJBA, CSM, JJK, MCU, ALST, Bibliomania PJSK, Vocaloid, Arcane, TLOZ, Pokemon, TOH and a lot of random stuff I can't remember
I'm trying something since I struggle a little with my fic
For the context, it's a AU where Midler join the Crusaders and after the even she wants to live with Avdol ( go check my blog if you're interested)
This one shot takes place in the future ( everyone lives )
His last day of high school, Jotaro was almost surprised that he managed to arrive that far or rather he’s surprised the teacher supported him that long. But hey, from now on he just has to wait for his confirmation at this Florida college and finally he could be free from his groupies and start his dream career.
He almost thought about skipping the diploma ceremony but he decided against knowing Holly will be harassing him till the end of time if she didn't have beautiful framed pictures of her sweet and perfect son…..She will only get him in his classic uniform, not this classy bullshit everyone will be wearing.
“Jotaro ? Darling ? Did you re-fall asleep ?”
“...........No mom, …get the fuck away…”
“Okayy !!”
Maybe he will leave the hat behind but it’s just because she deserves it, nothing more.
Now finally dressed, the beast left his room, walking in the kitchen. His father was already here, somehow finding a way to assist at his son's graduation at least.
They didn't exchange a lot of words but the look in his father’s eyes was enough for him to know that he was really proud, with this small trace of sadness and apologies from not being that present.He just shrugs and sits.
A few minutes later Holly was back with three full plates of a traditional American breakfast. Holly usually prepares the Japanese one but every time a special occasion happens, she goes back to her roots and serves breakfast from her Childhood. Younger Jotaro always tried to create new celebrations just to have it more often, he was almost shameful….the international shark’s birthday day….she definitely knew it was bullshit.
"Stop thinking so hard Jotaro and eat, you don’t want to be late !!”
she punctuated her sentence with a small kiss on his forehead, before cleaning the dirty plates and stoves.
Jotaro took his time, knowing Kakyoin was soon coming : her mother practically begged for him to come earlier so she could take a picture of them before the graduation. The student in question just arrived from what he could hear : his mother drowning him in compliments and squealing so loud the whole house resonated with the sound.
And now Kakyoin was stepping in the kitchen followed by his mom, who kept nagging at his sleeves telling him how beautiful he was. Holy knew his parents will be away so she proposed to them to take pictures of Kakyoin. So just before he could sit beside his friend, she dragged him to take some in “the most perfect frame in the house, you’re going to be so cute !!”. Seeing they weren’t back after 10 minutes Jotaro finally decided to go stop his mom and to, by the same stone, avoid being late.
He went to the zen garden, guessing they should be there since every pre-school photo shoots were taken there since he was 3.
“Mom, we need to–”
“Come here !! I’m going to do a duo one !!”
So he was dragged just beside his friends, give him quite the laugh.
“So you’re still never going to do this photoshoot ?”
“For the last time mom, we’re going to be late, let us go…”
“Just a final one please please please !!”
“No, Kakyoin we’re leaving”
“See you later Miss Holy”
Jotaro opened the door and pooufff
“HAPPY GRADUATION !!!!”
His face was drowned in confetti and behind the two canons were Polnareff and Midler, with iggy on her shoulder. A little behind he could see his grandpa and grandma Suzie with Avdol laughing at the scene.
“Surprise you two, bet you weren’t expecting us !! ha ha !”
“ Look at his face Jean !! he’s so colorful hahaha come on Jotaro give us a smile”
Star platinum took form beside his user, making the two lovebirds running away to hide behind Suzi Q.
“Please miss Joestar !! Protect us !!”
“Yeah Jotaro isn't cruel enough to attack his granny right ?!”
Jotaro wasn't really angry at them, he just needed to get used to those two personal space eaters. But maybe he was a little angry about his uniform…. confetti are a hell to get rid of. No, he was totally angry at them.
Fortunately for them, Kakyoin finally spoke :
“Haha what is it with the face Jotaro, I know you're happy to see them…”He softly hit Jotaro's shoulder before greeting his old comrades.
Jotaro was dusting off the colorful papers when he felt two hands lowering his head and felt a small kiss on his cheek. His grandma managed to get free from the two dumbasses.
“Look at my big boy…..I remember when you just started to walk and talk…”
“......................”
“Hey hey Jean loookkk !!! He’s blushing like a tomato!!!! Told you he was a Mama's boy !!!”
Okay that's it Midler is biting the floor. Star platinum throw a decorative rock at her, while Jotaro walked in her direction.
The ceremony went mostly well, he only got one fan girl, the rest too shameful to act in front of their parents. And thankfully he didn't have to take the mic to make a speech. They were smart enough to give it to Kakyoin since he was a student delegate. It was a pretty good one, not too long nor too boring. He give him a 7/10.
Now he could just go back home and try to rest a little. Holly knows how to occupy the guests. It’s not that he didn't want to see them, it's just that it was his day and he wanted a little time to himself, to finally assimilate what was happening to him. Maybe starting his luggage for Florida.
So what was his surprise when they were all just waiting in the parking lot, and his grandpa was smiling. This old geezer is hiding something. A van arrived and everyone sat in.
“What are you hiding old man….. ?”
“Always so tense Jotaro, breathe a little I just didn't want you all to walk back….”
The look Joseph received made pretty clear how his grandson didn't swallow a single word.
“Ha ha…. don't look at me like this Jotaro….”
“ohh come on, no need for mystery Mister Joestar, it’s just a karaoke night….”
A loud silence fell, the whole group staring at Polnareff while Jotaro was glaring at his grandpa.
“Polnareff I swear it’s the last time we give you a secret”
“I'm not going to a fucking Karaoke !”
“Come on sweetie, you finish high school only once !”
“You knew Mom ?!”
“Oupsiee”
Now it was clear why he was sitting between Midler and Polnareff, I can't open any door….
“Mmmm mmmm mm!!!”
“I’m not taking Priestess off til we arrive Jean, you lose your speech privilege”
Jotaro felt Iggy jumping on his lap, his mocking face on. This night is going to be the longest of his life.
This night is the longest of his life, the room was cramped, the lighting full of neon color and multiple empty bottles were on the small table..the vestige of Midler/Polnareff/Joseph drinking contest. Avdol declined, saying how he tries to avoid those things, Kakyoin tried one after their insistence and for Holly, Suzi and Sado a glass was more than enough.
Meanwhile the other three started to see who could handle the most explaining why Polnareff was now half awake on the floor and why Midler and Joseph blasting get back with only one word fitting the lyrics once in a while.
The torture finally stopped after Joseph fall at the end of the song.
“Hahaha The great Midler won !! 7 bottles was nothing for The High Priestess hahahah !!”
She walked back to the couch with difficulty handing the mic to Holly and Suzi, the next song being a daughter's mother's choice. "The one that I love" from Grease or something like that, a song Jotaro couldn't stand anymore.
“I’m not listening to that mom…..I need a cig”
“ohhh…”
“Jotaro…come on”
“It's okay Miss Holly he just needs to come back at the end for your mom son song..”
This sneaky fox, Jotaro, almost liked him as much as he hated this face of his personality.
“Yeah sure….”
Outside, Iggy was playing the good dog, charming a few college students. He passed without sparing the dog a glance and went outside to finally light up his cig. What he did expect was his father stepping out just after him. He took a cig out too and Jotaro lit it up.
“I thought your mom was joking when she said you smoke….”
“Shut it Dad !”
Sado visibly froze before just laughing off and looking away. Jotaro wouldn't say this silence was a comfortable one. It felt more like when you collide with someone in the metro, excuse yourself and then spend the five next station wondering if you should start talking or not. This kind of silence…
“I….I never saw myself as a father but….your mother…. she always had a way with me…..and how could I refuse her…..I never truly knew how to interact with you once you passed the age of wonder and where everything I did was exceptional.”
For the first time in Jotaro doesn't remember when, his father was the one to turn at him
“But I want you to know that I'm still very proud of you and what you become”
He took out a small ornate box and passed it to Jotaro. Inside, there were seven different gold pins all ocean themed.
“When your mom told me you were going to Florida to study marine biology, I was a little lost …..but I remembered the time we forgot your shark plushie at the record studio. 10 hours of straight crying….haha…. that's when everything clicked…..”
Jotaro's only response was silence and staring at the shining pieces. But his father could see the red tainting the top of his ears
“Now stop ruining your evening with your boring and lame father and go enjoy before they’re all passed out and whining."
Sado almost expects to receive the box in his face followed by angry screaming and a ruined evening.
The night was finally done and they managed to find taxis to drive everyone back home.
Jotaro just stepped out of the kitchen with his bottle for the night in hand.
In the living room, Avdol and his parents were chatting softly. He was handing them all the gifts they brought for them and exchanged on multiple topics.
From what he heard his grandma went to sleep with his grandpa to avoid him roaming around like he usually does when drunk.
On his way to his room he found Iggy just waiting in front of a door growling, mad that his two friends left him outside. He simply slid the door letting the dog enter. Inside, Polnareff was laying on his back half on the futon half on the floor, his haircut totally falling apart while Midler was covering him almost like a blanket, her hand grabbing his top. Iggy pulled her hand away and put it on his head.Almost immediately, she caressed him, the dog letting himself fall asleep too.
Jotaro slid the door back in place and finally reached his room, just to receive a pillow on his face.
“I swear Kakyoin, I'm going to kill you “
“Relax I’m leaving soon, I just wanted to open our gifts together and all”
“.........I don't want you ever in my personal space for five months”
“Okay okay, You're really sense when you want too”
Jotaro sat, back on his wall.
“Just hand the gifs and let me sleep”
The first one was easy : a pair of earrings for each with a small notes “Promise I didn't steal but you two need style to impress future students”
“Midler ?”
“Definitely Midler…You really think she didn't steal them….?”
The second was an envelope, Kakyoin recognized Avdol signature :“First of all I assure you those earrings are earned legally ( we worked on this, don't worry anymore ). Secondly you will find inside of this envelope some money for those vacations, just enjoy your last summer as kids without worrying about money alright ? Ps: I also slipped some pictures from Cairo and Polnareff visits”
The first picture was Midler drawing on Polnareff's face while he was sleeping.
“I swear this woman loves putting herself in danger….”
The next one was two beautiful caskets with a small card with mountains on it
“Mes chers amis !
You are now fully grown men. And soon you’re going to start doing some classy things, you can use your lame student's pen at all. That's why I offer you those two Mont Blanc pens.
En vous faisant la bise, Pol”
The rest of his name is hidden by a small ink paw.The two took a look at the pens.
“This look expensive…..I never had a pen like this”
“I think the old man add one of them back in New York”
“You went to New York ?”
“Yeah”
Jotaro ignored his friend's curious look and picked the last letter, the one from his grandparents….
“ ?!”
“What is it Jojo ?”
“This crazy old geezer…..” But those words were followed by a soft smile.
“Let me look…….an apartment in Florida and another one in Tokyo ?! Everything is entirely paid ?! But ahh ?!”
“Okay now out we’re done”
“Hey come on wait”
Star platinum lifted Kakyoin out and closed the door.
So I wanted to make a request, I really love your baby Jolyne art ( She's so chubby and cute !! And I wanted to know if you could draw her with Midler
( her if you don't know )
Cause I have an AU where she's a crusaders and all bla bla bla
So I throw a bottle at the sea but could you draw like Baby Jolyne doing her makeup pls ?
Either way, have a good day/afternoon/ evening !!!
Thank you so much for your kind words! I had no idea midler had a canon design in the game, how fun! I liked the idea a lot so I did her doing midlers makeup and vice versa. Thank you for the request :)
“From the dusty mesa, her looming shadow grows,
Hidden in the branches of the poison creosote,
She twines her spines up slowly towards the boiling sun,
And when I touched her skin, my fingers ran with blood.”
wc: 15.5k
JOJO'S BIZARRE ADVENTURE MASTERLIST
PENDULUM MASTERLIST
MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION
It was a picturesque day for disaster.
Against a cornflower-blue sky, the sun shone vapidly behind a singular cloud, illuminating the river birches lining the dirt track. If you unfocused your vision, the white-barked trunks looked like corpse fingers: straining towards something just out of their grasp.
You ran your tongue across your teeth nervously. There was nothing unusual: the birds were chirping in their perches, as they did; the grass still clung onto the traces of morning dew; and the horses briskly marched on, as content as you’d ever seen them. The day droned on, and the rocking motions of walking were lulling you into relaxation.
Nothing.
“—listen to me, you stubborn ass-mule. Had Raskolnikov simply kept his mouth shut, with his illness diagnosis, he would’ve gotten away with the murder!”
Except, naturally, for the argumentative tone of Zeppeli interrupting your careful scans of the blissfully quiet surroundings.
“But that wasn’t the point of the story! The point was that it was a commentary on the growing lapses of morality in the youth, and about the systems that cause it!” Johnny argued back, impassioned.
“Well, he did a piss-poor job at that. Reading that dull drivel was so uninspiring I almost fell asleep—and when I finally did, I had nightmares of its bleakness,” Zeppeli shuddered.
“It’s meant to be bleak!”
“And what I’m saying is that he spent the majority of the story playing word-games with the detective, only to repent because of a Bible story? Ludicrous,” he scoffed. “He had the perfect excuse to not be a suspect, and he shot himself in the mouth at every opportunity. A most unsatisfying story.”
[Foot. It’s foot.]
“It’s not meant to be satisfying!”
You watched, incredibly entertained, at the prospect of the King’s executioner appearing to defend a fictional murderer: a criminal who would’ve almost certainly been punished with the full weight of the blade had he been in the Kingdom of Naples.
“He could’ve at least owned his actions! Why get sick with regret not even a whole hour later—why throw away your spoils—why deliberate the murder and not the consequence!”
You sobered slightly.
“Guilt is a strange idea,” Johnny replied, sounding somewhat deflated. “The text isn’t meant to be picked up as a light read or entertainment, but rather a lesson about not just the lawful punishment for the crime, but the impacts it has on the psyche of the person forced into the circumstances to commit such a thing.”
The other man wasn’t stupid. He considered the words, regarding Johnny for a long moment, before he shrugged.
“Whatever, man. Just don’t recommend me such depressing books again,” he acceded, and it was a defeat of sorts. Unfortunately, Johnny didn’t look remotely satisfied—just contemplative, like there was something unpleasant ruminating in the back of his mind.
The silence didn’t last long: broken by the sound of liquid sloshing inside a metal flask. The executioner carefully measured a dram or two out into a small cup and passed it along to Johnny, who took it without saying thank you.
“Want some?”
You looked at Zeppeli skeptically, and he poured out another measure into a different cup without waiting for you to respond.
“Try it,” he encouraged, lagging behind slightly so he could pass the mug over.
You looked at the pitch-hued liquid, then back at him.
“This is tar,” you said disbelievingly, tilting the cup this way and that. It was viscous, somehow. “You’ve created a non-Newtonian fluid.”
“I’m impressed,” you added as a quiet afterthought, but the genuine awe in your voice earned you a vicious glare from the flaskbearer. “What is it?”
“Coffee,” he answered venomously, and you took a tentative inhale of the concoction. “Nothing like the dirty water they serve here. Pretenders, the lot of you.”
There was a rich aroma coming from the roast, but it was so unbelievably strong that your eyes couldn’t help but water a little. But it was only a few mouthfuls. You took a deep breath, bringing the cup up to your lips behind the fabric, and chugged the coffee.
“So?” he asked expectantly, while you tried not to cough at just how concentrated the flavour actually was. You swallowed, feeling your lungs burn slightly.
“Well, that’s definitely woken me up,” you muttered, handing the cup back, and he took it with a self-satisfied grin.
“I make a mean cup of coffee, yes?”
“Very mean,” you acquiesced, and you could see Johnny’s shoulders tremble slightly at the acknowledgement.
“Quality coffee,” Zeppeli insisted.
“Even just a whiff blew me away,” you admitted. This time, Johnny’s shoulder trembling was punctuated with a short cough that was masquerading as an exhale that had attempted to hide a laugh.
“Yes yes, exactly,” he nodded emphatically, stowing his mystery liquid back into his container.
You missed the watery coffee back at the office: the different syrups you and Diya had once spent an entire afternoon sampling; the paper cups that burned the shit out of your hands when holding them; and the kettle that had a thin layer of perpetual limescale on it.
Cheap instant coffee: the mighty beverage of interns.
[Absence truly does make the heart grow fonder, I guess? Yuck.]
You sighed.
“The fuck?”
You looked up at the muttered imprecation, and the same thing immediately crossed your mind at the sight of a strung-up cow carcass, half-gnawed by beasts and sporting a massive hole through its side.
Zeppeli didn’t waste any time. His hand was already holding a knife when you glanced at him, and you recoiled at the sight. “Want some?”
“Absolutely not,” you replied immediately, studying the punctured carcass. In this warmth, with who-knows how many flies and creatures had nibbled on that thing, there was no way you were consuming this suspicious meat.
“Gyro, I wouldn’t touch that—there’s an owner.” From your peripherals, Johnny was pointing at some spot on the carcass, but you had ridden around to examine the bullet hole more closely. It looked as though it had been shot clean through with a rifle round, judging by the diameter of the exit wound. Who had strung it up? Where had it been shot? Your mind couldn’t help but latch onto these questions, even if they were ultimately useless.
“Look at this closely, Johnny… the coyotes already ate most of it. I’ll just take a half-kilo or so—before it’s all gone!” Zeppeli tapped his head with a pragmatic sort of composure, and you grimaced. Yuck.
You backed Group Four up, wheeling her towards the forest. “Stinks here. I’m going to go ahead.”
“Suit yourself. Don’t come begging after— you’re leaving me here too, Johnny?” Zeppeli asked, appalled at the sight of Johnny following you. “It’ll only take me a minute or two!”
His incredulity was ignored.
“I’m not touching that shit personally. Who knows if it’s poisoned?” you muttered to the jockey. “What happened to his distrust for free food?”
“Yeah… he’s got meat on the brain,” Johnny pulled a face.
You inhaled the air that no longer smelled like dead cow.
“Dumbass,” you sneered: a punctuation mark to end the discussion.
“What did you say?” Zeppeli’s voice cut in at that moment, sounding somewhat out of breath as Valkyrie jogged to catch up to the two of you. There was a faint crinkling as he slid oiled paper full of the looted meat into his bag. “I think I misheard.”
“No, you heard right. Don’t be surprised when you get attacked for eating someone else’s spoils,” you retorted, and he had the audacity to grin in your face instead.
“You worry too much.”
“You think too little.”
His smile turned into a momentary scowl. “Are you trying to start an argument?”
You considered the question, and thoughtfully pieced together your response. “No, I’m just trying to have the last word.”
His scowl deepened. “What is wrong with you?”
“I’m not the one eating suspicious meat,” you noted politely, and you heard his teeth grit in frustration.
“Guys, shut up,” Johnny said, and his urgent tone interrupted whatever insult Zeppeli was about to unleash upon you.
“There’s someone there.”
. ⁺ ✦
(You play with the cigarette carton your mother left behind in her coat pocket, lining up the sticks against it and knocking them down again. And again. And again.)
(The same question repeats in your mind: a sickening, recursive laugh-track that someone’s left on loop in the theatre of your mind. There’s no way to turn it off, no way to calm yourself to the point where you can think through it rationally.)
(Your fingers find the sleeve of her woollen coat, tugging it in the way you used to when you were a child. There’s no resistance. No force that roots her in place, for she does not exist right now. Not here. You can’t ask her if she’s guilty. You can’t even ask her if she’s real.)
(The past is made up of mere fragments. Like glass, they’ve shattered in your mind, and you must brave cutting your fingers, to pick them up and make them whole again.)
(The memory in question is from the year after you found Dr Amsa’s body in that cramped alleyway. She’s gone for a month—no notes, no indication whatsoever that she still remains on the mortal plane.)
(When she returns, she’s almost a completely different person. Colder, if that were even possible. Her movements are far more calibrated. You don’t dare to ask where she was.)
(You should have.)
(Instead of suffering through microwave dinners in silence alone, fork scraping against porcelain, you should’ve plucked up the courage to ask the most basic of questions long before any of this happened: who are you?)
(Before, you could at least count on an irregular meal. She’d take her time with the meals, slicing into the meat and vegetables with a detached, mechanical sort of grace. After that month, however, she was hardly home. You’d find traces of her after you rose from your bed and padded around the apartment, yet the waking world never welcomed her home.)
(When your bouts of insomnia began, she seemed to dissolve into the wind. Calls went unanswered. She faded in and out of your life like smoke. Fleeting. All too short.)
(Is she a criminal, though?)
(You wonder. Factually, you know she’s not. There’d be some sort of indication, surely, but you can’t prove it. You can’t ask her, either. She’s a ghost in your life.)
(You don’t know why you reacted so strongly to the implication. It’s natural for children to defend their parents, but there is nothing to defend except an expensive coat and the cigarettes resting on top of it. There’s no proper relationship tying the two of you together, no obligation you feel at this moment to care for your mother.)
(There’s nothing.)
(You curl up within the thick coat as though it were a shield, inhaling its fragrance to mimic what it might’ve felt like to be held as a child. You cannot remember for the life of you.)
(It works. Somewhat. You grow drowsy, and dream of rain.)
(You’re cold. Water drips onto your face mercilessly, and you watch the sky with empty, unseeing eyes. You know this day like you know your hand: achingly so.)
(You can’t sit up. The body prevents you from doing so—sluggish, corpse-like. You lie there, motionless, staring up at—)
(There’s the barrel of the gun. You haven’t quite seen this perspective before, and you focus on the smoke dissolving in the pelting downpour. It leaks into your lips, and you taste the acrid, disgusting sting of gunpowder.)
(The city lights peek through the crevice between the two buildings, flickering with empty promises of politicians to fix them. But they’re enough to shine a light on the manicured fingers that hold the trigger, they’re enough to spot a glimpse of a face that is no more than a wandering ghost.)
(What’s your mother doing here?)
(The question flicks through your head before you remember how cold it is. It’s a terrible sort of chill, but it’s dissipating quickly in the face of an endless weightlessness.)
(You shut those dead eyes, and smile at this peaceful darkness.)
. ⁺ ✦
“Look, it’s him—he’s coming this way,” Johnny warned, and your head snapped up to the person approaching. Who?
You squinted.
“What the hell does he want? Is there anybody with him?” Zeppeli muttered.
Johnny peered at the speck on the horizon with his telescope. “He’s a lone wolf. An American, with his age and real name unknown. On a good horse, too. No hillbilly, by the way he carries himself.”
Who?
“Should we talk to him?” Zeppeli asked sceptically, and you finally saw ‘him’ come into focus, in all his pink glory. You lit up.
“No, just ignore him,” Johnny whispered as the rider approached, holding three… ropes?
“Hot—”
Your greeting was interrupted by the swish of rope as three nooses dangled from the branch of a tree, tossed over expertly.
“Good day to you three. Let’s skip the chit-chat and get straight to the point,” he said in his rough, clipped voice. He leveled an even stare at each of you in turn, though when his eyes met yours, he looked almost disappointed.
[The hell?]
“I will now ‘hang’ you three from this tree.”
There was a stunned silence.
“You ate my cow, didn’t you? It was a cow that I paid for in advance to graze on this course. The penalty of cow theft is to be ‘hanged’. Put these ropes around your necks,” he established matter-of-factly, as though he were making the small talk he so hated. “There’s no need for a trial.”
You shot a glare at Zeppeli, but he was looking at the freeze-brand on Hot Pants’ horse. There was a visible bead of sweat on his face, and he swallowed audibly, holding up his hands. “Ho— hold on, I don’t know the laws of this land too well, and…”
It seemed he, too, was trying to excuse his crime while feeling guilty. It would’ve been more fascinating to watch, had you and Johnny not been lumped in with his sins.
“Look–” he tried again, but it was too late. Hot Pants had vanished from his saddle, and reappeared above Zeppeli. He had leapt through the air in a whirl of pink, and Zeppeli’s immediate lunging for his spheres was met with a torrential downpour of pink, flesh liquid that merged his hand and weapon together.
Neither you and Johnny were safe, either.
“What the fuck is happening?”
Hot Pants deftly moved between horses, spraying both you and Johnny in the face with the— flesh? Stand user!
You had no time to react, desperately activating the slot in your mind to reverse the numbing blindness and blockage of your throat.
Come on, come on, you prayed, listening to the sounds of viscous scuffling.
“Shit— and he’s spraying the flesh onto me!” Zeppeli swore loudly, and you heard a loud collision. It was silent, and you heard a painful sounding crack.
“Johnny—now! Shoot—I’ve locked both of his arms!”
[First slot activated: Personal Jesus. Countdown has begun.]
“Fuck— hurry— or Mercury— shoot because my breathing’s about to stop soon!”
You gasped. The relief was immediate, but incomplete. The flesh was aggressively worming into your face, and the only thing you could do was fight it off on your mouth to get an air supply. You were still blind, forced to rely on pure hearing to work out what was going on, but you were hurriedly scanning through all the questions you gathered when examining the carcass.
“Hot Pants— there was a bullet wound on the cow. It was already dead!” you yelled, and you heard the rattle of that damned lighter as it creaked in his hand. And then, there was the careful whizz of shots as Johnny fired into the dirt. A warning.
“You have a gun,” he gritted out, and you could feel the accusation and something else dripping in his tone. Disappointment? Resentment? Begrudging concession?
“The exit wound had too large of a diameter to be from my pistol,” you argued. “That was a hunting rifle, which none of us possess. It’s a few inches across! Even point-blank, it doesn’t have that much ballistic power! Besides, we came across it recently—the wound was old enough that coyotes had already picked it mostly clean!”
Your words were hurried and garbled, interjected with Johnny’s fervent adlibs that backed your point up.
“For fuck’s sake, shoot him! I can’t even scratch this shit off—stop wasting time begging!” Zeppeli shouted desperately, but the red-tinted flesh from your vision had cleared.
You breathed heavily, watching Hot Pants stand there—who, in turn, regarded the three of you with a suspicious silence. The brassy lighter flipped in his hands, and he slung it easily into the holster at his side. “True…”
“But you did eat the meat. You ate my cow! So, I’m not going to apologise.”
You fought the urge to kick Zeppeli while he was down, but by technicality, he hadn’t eaten any of the meat either.
[Yet.]
It was a very precarious ‘yet’.
“What an odd group,” he added, and his eyes turned to you. “Why are you with these fools?”
He didn’t wait for a response, mounting his horse swiftly with threats of hanging under his breath, towards whoever had shot his cow.
“Wait!” Johnny called out after him, and the rider slowed slightly, glancing back with a serious gaze. “Where did you gain that Stand ability? Was it in the Arizona desert during the second stage? Devil’s Palm?”
He turned his head more fully now, looking Johnny up and down with a critical eye. “Not that I’m really interested, but… are there others like that?”
Answering a question with a question—it seemed, characteristically, that he would keep his cards close to his chest.
“Well… we don’t know. Not a clue, really,” Johnny lied smoothly, and Hot Pants merely scoffed and kept riding. You watched him disappear past the hill in the distance, and only when he was out of sight did Zeppeli finally speak.
“I would have shot him. What if he was tricking us?” he kicked the ground in frustration, practically tearing at his hair. It was clear the sore loss had ripped the wind out of his sails, and he mounted Valkyrie with a huff.
“We could’ve been toast, but it doesn’t seem like he knows anything about the corpse. He doesn’t seem to be an enemy, nor a terrorist or from the government,” Johnny interjected. He looked resigned as he said it, acknowledging each of your weaknesses with his words.
“Maybe. One thing’s for sure—I hate his guts,” Zeppeli seethed, then turned his attention to you. “You know this guy?”
“I saw him several times before Syracuse. We camped together for a night. He’s a straightforward person,” you thought aloud, and Zeppeli’s expression only grew more sour.
“Yeah?” He came closer, jabbing a finger into your sternum. “You sure took your sweet time talking then, didn’t you?”
You took your time in watching his expressions cycle between frustration and pure malice. It was clear that he hadn’t expected such a quick defeat: for the three of you to be overpowered so easily by a single person. It was humiliating—over meat. You weren’t enough of a dick to start gloating, even if he did take some. After all, only Zeppeli had taken it (and hadn’t yet eaten it). Hot Pants had indiscriminately attacked without verifying any of the facts.
Inhale.
You were frustrated too, damn it.
Exhale.
You grabbed his wrist, wrestling with his wiry strength to direct his index finger away from your solar plexus. He froze, off-guard, which allowed you to force his hand back to his side. You brushed the dust off your jacket, levelling him with a cool expression.
“You weren’t the only one with flesh stealing his air,” you countered, and your tone was cold enough to leave his mouth opening and closing like the fish he wasn’t able to catch. There was no malice in your cadence, though: merely a detached neutrality that hit him more than an argument could. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.
“There’s another thing, though,” he muttered, rubbing at his neck. His right eye flashed a blinding gold as he directed the light at his arm. “I realised it thanks to him, when I was checking his spine with the spin scan…”
[Was that what cracked?]
Depeche Mode seemed mildly horrified, as were you. You watched the letters coalesce on his sleeve with no small amount of trepidation.
“In Latin, turbō can mean ‘cyclone’. But there’s no such word as ‘turbō’ on our route anywhere. There doesn’t seem to be any name it can be associated with, and I couldn’t figure out why it was turbō in the first place… but then it occurred that maybe the word itself isn’t the clue.”
He held his arm out, and both you and Johnny drew in closer to look at the patterns inside the letters. It looked remarkably like—
“Binary,” you realised aloud, and though Zeppeli didn’t look up, you could see his eyebrows raise faintly at your proclamation. “Base two numbers.”
“Exactly,” he murmured softly, tracing each letter with a reverent finger.
“Okayyy…” Johnny drew the word out in a drawl, looking between the two of you with a strange expression on his face, as though he was trying to figure out where he was being left out in this equation. “What in tarnation does that mean?”
“Our current decimal system is a base ten system—so it uses exactly ten numbers to represent all numbers…” Zeppeli trailed off, still not looking up. He was simply staring at the numbers and muttering, and you decided to explain what you’d learnt in your programming lessons instead.
“The binary system uses two numbers instead—twos and ones. With the decimal system, you have your ones, your tens and your hundreds and so forth. Ten to the power of zero is one, ten to the one is ten, ten to the two is a hundred—ten is the base and forms each ‘place-value’ that then gets added together. In the same way, a base two system has two to the power of zero—one—then two to the power of one—two—then so forth, getting four, eight, sixteen, et cetera. The zeros and ones indicate which of these place-values is turned ‘on’, and then you add them together,” you explained slowly, pulling out a notebook from your bag and a pen to jot down the things you were saying. “It’s an addition game. You can have practically anything as a base—like, the Babylonians used a base 60 number system.”
“Right,” Johnny nodded slowly, but you could tell his mind was whirring at a speed a bit too quick to actually absorb what you were saying. “I… kinda get it?”
“Give me that,” Zeppeli said, and you handed him the notebook wordlessly so he could draw the word out. He worked quickly and precisely, with surprisingly neat handwriting, tongue out the entire time in his focus. “Thirty-nine… six… twenty-four… ninety-four… six… forty…”
“Coordinates?” Johnny guessed, and the answer was clear when Zeppeli pulled his map out and shoved it towards him.
“Look it up—I’ll read it off. The ‘T’ at the beginning means ‘horizontal’ line in Latin, so…” He furrowed his brow, and you watched quietly, somewhat amused.
“Thirty-nine degrees, six minutes, and twenty-four seconds North… ‘B’ means next, so… ninety-four degrees, forty minutes, and six-seconds West—” He looked up at Johnny, who was tracing the map with similar focus. “—where do those numbers meet?”
Johnny’s eyes widened, and you leaned forward over Group Four to look at the map. “Kansas City! It’s at the finish line of the fourth stage—really close to it!”
Zeppeli narrowed his eyes. “Looks like it ‘matches’ with the route of this race. And that’s the location of the next part.”
His gaze drifted to you, tilting his head. “Will it be your turn to host a corpse part?”
Soft hands seemed to trail across your arms, scratching at you with their papery surfaces. You thought back to the purple arm that you held: its fragility, its constant exploitation, the promise of death that had never reached it in the end. A wave of sadness washed over you, and you swallowed.
“We’ll see,” you may have said, but your tone suggested that you didn’t accept the very notion of this happening.
“But… is it possible for an old saint to know about latitudes and longitudes?” Johnny asked worriedly, and your shoulders slumped in relief as Zeppeli turned to him.
“Numbers have a constant quality. The base system has existed for many epochs, and it wouldn’t be far-fetched to have a saint with the gift of prophecy.”
“Ah—Dio! Will he realise the same thing with his left eye?”
“Unless he’s a lazy idiot, but that’s probably not the case. We should anticipate that he’s come to a similar conclusion. But! The terrorists won’t know—our only goal is to finish in first place.” Zeppeli lowered his head, resolutely looking forward. With the breeze tugging at his long hair, he almost looked heroic in a way. It was hard to believe he’d been pocketing someone else’s meat just a half-hour prior, and now he’d pulled it out and begun finishing it off.
“Kansas City it is, then. The next corpse part,” Johnny muttered quietly, and the goal hung in the air between the three of you. You wondered if this meant that you were now obliged to spend the rest of the stage with them, and you really hoped that wasn’t the case.
The next corpse part.
One step closer to Valentine.
. ⁺ ✦
“We’ve passed this house before,” you remarked dryly.
It was a rickety old shack, utterly nondescript. The light wood had blended perfectly into the dusty dirt-trail winding through the forest, and you originally hadn’t paid it much thought. That was the problem, though. You should’ve paid it greater attention, now that you were squinting at the broken shutters and wondering if you were hallucinating.
Zeppeli scoffed. “Houses around here, y’know—they’re built all the same.”
“The windows were broken the exact same way,” you pointed out, irritated by the heat and the landscape. “Same mailbox, same broken railings. You led us back to the same place.”
“No, you must be confused,” he bared his teeth threateningly.
“Look— Gyro!” Johnny’s startled yelp caused his face to drop, and he snapped his head to where the jockey was pointing. As did you, feeling nothing but incredible trepidation at the cry. You squinted, and rubbed your hands over your eyes in disbelief.
It was that damned cow that had gotten you into this mess.
“Damn it—we’re back where the meat is!” Johnny cursed, and his blue lips had turned down into a trembling frown. “We’ve come back the road we came from!”
“Shit—wait, wait, wait, wait…” Zeppeli pulled his worn map out of his pack to study it incredulously. “Where the hell did we go wrong! Shit—that stronzo went to the right when he left, and we followed like damned fools. We were going the opposite direction!”
He looked up and around him, and cursed as he saw you staring at him impassively; the choice words he might’ve otherwise shot at you died on his throat as he looked back at the map. No, he had to resort to muttering under his breath as he tried to figure out exactly where he’d gone wrong. “That guy is a plague! I can’t believe this—is this what I get for eating just half a kilo of meat?”
“In that case, why are we here alongside you?” you deadpanned.
“Shut up,” he glared, and your sneer hid itself in fabric.
But you had a point. Had this been some elaborate revenge plot, only he would’ve been affected. No, there was something wrong, not just an ordinary misdirection.
“I swear, that fucker is stealing my luck,” he groused.
“But, we know the location of Kansas City thanks to him, right?”
“Johnny, are you on his side or something?” Zeppeli stared at him dubiously, turning his head to glower at you for good measure. “I’ve already got one traitor here—this was all his scheme! He went right on purpose to trick us! The correct direction should be that way.”
His pen made experimental marks on the map.
“We’re going back. Straight through this orchard…”
You balanced on your saddle, picking a stray plum from a tree and eating it. There was no point in worrying. Not yet, not when you’d been the only one to realise it so far. The gut feeling you had was yet to be proven wrong.
“...turn left at the end of the road…”
Its aftertaste was bittersweet. You left a stroke of ink against the birch you passed, and its bright carmine hue looked like blood.
“…left again…”
It was too hot for this. The breeze was nowhere near enough to cool your sweat-dampened body, and you fervently wished for ice water to dump over your head.
“...and finally, ‘right.’”
You looked at the carcass, and back at your navigator. Had he realised it yet?
[Realised what?]
A short exhale left your throat. You know. How could it not know?
It was you. Your puppet. Your puppeteer.
“What the hell? Is that the same cow? The same piece of meat? Why are we here again?”
Johnny scanned the map pressingly. His hands blurred across the parchment, so fast you could barely see the fleshy afterimages. “Maybe we didn’t go back on the same road—perhaps we went through smaller paths in the orchard, and we happened to go through those without realising we were coming back to where we began!”
A flimsy explanation. It sounded ridiculous even as he spoke it, yet his pressed lips gave away a determination that didn’t want to be wrong. You kept silent, studying the monotonous journeys.
There had been no indication of a ‘cut’. You were travelling on a Mobius strip of a journey, forever continuous.
“That’s impossible,” Zeppeli firmly rejected the possibility. “We only turned at three corners. Look—there are our hoof marks; we’ll follow the tracks back and find the right way.”
He leaned forward and spurred Valkyrie on, swearing all the way. “Shit—another twenty minutes lost! Forty minutes total! We’ve wasted forty minutes in a single day—Dio’s going to get way ahead of us!”
There it was again in all its glory: that rickety house. You exhaled. The worry you’d been suppressing was back, stabbing painful pinpricks in your chest.
“You’ve got to be kidding me! We’ve only turned once on the road we’ve come—we’ve just been looping around!”
A loop.
Sweat seeped through the seams of your gloves, and you gripped the reins tighter. Your teeth were chattering, and you were both too hot and too cold.
A loop.
Space and time was warping once again, and this time, you couldn’t even pretend to have a semblance of control of the situation.
“Are you two lost, too?” The rough voice of Hot Pants came from behind you, and you almost cried tears of joy at the sight of him several horselengths away. The strip had introduced a new variable. “How many times has it happened?”
The very air seemed to still, bearing down upon the four of you with its oppressive weight before Zeppeli raised his finger to point: trembling with an incandescent rage all the while.
“Stop right there!” he barked out commandingly, yet his body betrayed his hesitation at reengaging with a futile fight: leaning decidedly away from the pink rider. “Don’t you dare come any closer—this is a warning!”
From his pocket, Hot Pants drew out a compass, and Zeppeli flinched: hand instantly moving to rest on the sphere on his left hip. He watched warily, as the once-enemy glanced around the eternal landscape, then back at the instrument in his hand.
“I’ve lost nearly an hour here. No matter which path I take, I come back to this spot. The plums here contain a fair bit of iron… could be the reason the compass isn’t pointing in the right direction.” His grey horse paced in place, taking a cautious step forward, and Johnny’s hand shot out—much like Zeppeli’s.
“Hot Pants! Don’t come any closer—we’re thinking that you could be tracking us!”
You sincerely doubted it. The two of them were grasping at straws—trying to rationally explain this irrational phenomenon. There was just no way he was tracking the three of you—from the little you’d seen of him, he was the type to do things directly. Besides, what purpose would tracking the three of you even serve?
You met his gaze, and you could almost see your exasperated expression reflected in it.
“This is the fourth time I’ve come back here. Look at my tracks—they pass through here four times, don’t they? Why? I’m the one that wants to know,” Hot Pants continued, half-speaking to himself; his eyes continued to train themselves on your person, watching how you kept quiet rather than accuse him.
“What’s that to us? Get lost already!” Zeppeli gesticulated angrily. “We’re never going to trust you anyways, got it?”
Those fuschia eyes still hadn’t left you. A thick brow raised.
“Then, I’ll be the one to trust you,” he decreed, and his face was proud and stern. “The three of you don’t seem to be bad people. If you were, I’d already have killed you. How’s that?”
[What a way to put it.]
Yeah, you thought grimly.
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” Zeppeli muttered to Johnny, and his furtive gape swivelled momentarily to you as he tracked exactly who the rider was looking at.
“We’re all lost, so we might as well work together to find an exit,” Johnny thought aloud, and Zeppeli’s glare transferred viciously to him at the idea of cooperating with the cause of his humiliation. “I’ve said it before, but I really don’t think he’s our enemy.”
“Tell him to go eat shit, Johnny,” Zeppeli bit out. He looked agitated: hackles raised, mouth open in a snarl, and hands kept defensively by his sides.
He looked cornered. Not scared, necessarily, but you’d never seen him so defensive before. It was a good look on him.
“Tell him yourself,” Johnny dismissed.
“Are you scared?” you taunted, and he wheeled his scowl onto you, before dejectedly cupping his hand around his mouth.
“Eat shit, asshole!” he hollered. Each word packed an impressive amount of hatred. “Fall off your horse!”
Hot Pants looked rather tired. He waited for Zeppeli to finish his tirade before he cleared his throat. “Aren’t we looking for the same path? Let’s just cooperate until we find the main road!”
Zeppeli’s chest rose and fell rapidly after his fervid outburst, and he seemed to have lost the steam to continue his yelling. Green lips pressed together in displeasure, but he appeared to be weighing his options—no longer shaky after he let his emotions out.
[One can almost respect him for it.]
Begrudgingly, you mused.
“So, let’s say we do trust you,” he began, far more composed than you assumed he’d be. “What’s in it for us if we cooperate?”
Quid pro quo. You laughed at the simplicity.
This was the language that Hot Pants spoke fluently. Out of his pack he pulled a paper parcel, tossing it like he’d expected this question—which he most likely did. “I’ll let you have some quality food if you’re with me.”
Zeppeli caught it easily, unwrapping it with a hungry expression. Was food truly that valuable to Hot Pants? Would they only give or receive it in exchange for a more formal allyship? It was precise: mechanical, even. You raised a brow.
“Holy shit—is this what he eats every day? A roast beef sandwich, with onions and eggs?” Johnny muttered incredulously, and Zeppeli was gaping alongside him. Almost reverently, he wrapped the food back up and placed it in his bag, seemingly not daring to consume it yet in the event it would disappear.
“There’s no poison,” Hot Pants affirmed, but it was almost unnecessary. Someone so fastidious about their food wouldn’t commit the mortal sin of poisoning it; besides, his prowess in battle showed that it was almost entirely unnecessary.
It was comical, but comedy was ill-suited for a place like this. You sobered.
“That house… looks like there’s someone inside,” Hot Pants announced, pointing to the shack that you’d passed, over and over. The sight of it unnerved you. It had been the ‘cut’ in the continuity: the marker of another loop. The cow had been an accidental mark—the ink splatter on a river birch, another. This was the only original thing in the environment: an anchor to bind this place. “Looks worn out, but it must be inhabited.”
You bit your lip. The words bad idea formed looping patterns in your mind, iterating and repeating with no real solution.
“Let’s ask whoever lives there for directions. We’ll just be stuck here otherwise,” he continued decisively, already moving to press his horse on and approach.
“Hold on,” you murmured, and your voice carried in the rustling quiet of the forest road. “There’s something off about the house.”
“Well, surely whoever’s in there must know the ‘trick’,” he rebutted, arching a flinty brow.
“Perhaps. Why would they share it, though?” you countered back, wracking your brains to find any scrap of information that you could distill into a proper deduction.
“Then what do you suggest we do?”
You looked up, startled at the lack of argument. He’d simply accepted your words without any pomp and circumstance, and was listening without fuss. But your head dropped in shame.
“I don’t have any suggestions as of now,” you admitted, twining the braided reins around a finger. He let out a long exhale. “However, we’ve been on a continuous loop, and that house has been the ‘burr’ in the fabric: the counter that breaks us from our stupor. We’d be wise to tread carefully. There may be no ‘trick’, but rather a deliberate phenomenon that was designed to keep us here.”
You glanced up, and he locked eyes with you. From his expression, each twitch represented another conclusion drawn. His rosy lips compressed into a thin line.
“Are you insinuating that this is a Sta—”
“Shit—here, again? That son of a bitch—this same place again!”
Hot Pants straightened, clamming up as another rider emerged from the bushes. He wore almost entirely tan clothing, and his face was partially covered by a sombrero. A light sheen of sweat covered his face, and his eyes swivelled wildly across the forest before they landed on your quartet.
He was terrified.
“You guys—are you guys lost too?” he almost pleaded, and though his hands on the reins urged his horse to still, the steed was pacing and breathing terribly hard.
“Hey, hey, who is this?” Zeppeli muttered under his breath, and his face was wrought with suspicion once more.
“‘Gaucho’,” Johnny answered immediately. “Finished tenth last stage.”
“Look at you,” you marvelled, and Johnny suppressed his smile in the gravity of the situation.
“That son of a bitch again! Always at the curtain by the door… that damn curtain—I’ve asked him over and over again… how to get out of this damned orchard…” His breathing was spiraling into hyperventilation, and his irises shook as he stared at that shack. “…’n this is what he says each time: ‘You’ll find your way out after you kill me.’ “
You swallowed.
[Stand user?]
Gaucho? Don’t think so, you thought, but you had a sinking feeling that he wasn’t the person Depeche Mode was talking about.
“That’s it!” Gaucho ground out, and he dismounted from his horse with shaky legs. “I can’t stand this—I’ll give him what he wants!”
“Wait—” you tried, but your warning was lost to the wind and his roar, and the back of Zeppeli’s hand that caged you in place. Better him than us, it seemed to say. You tasted hot iron as you bit into your cheek.
“Get your ass out here, you liar—I’ll shoot you dead, just as you wish! Show yourself, coward!”
The breeze accepted the challenge, rustling the curtains beyond the broken window in a soft invitation. From the dark house, a hand emerged to still the fabric, and a man appeared in the doorway.
He was a pale ghost amid the shadows shrouding him, draped with garments that shone almost silver as he emerged from his mausoleum. Though his gloved hands carefully held a newspaper, everyone had turned their attention to the heavy pistol that peeked out from behind it.
Gently, he folded the paper, and tossed it onto a chair. He took his time adjusting his gloves, and took his time once more to straighten. His eyes were like a placid lake as he observed his opponent.
It was an intimidation tactic.
It worked.
“Then…” The stranger had no need to shout. The quiescent atmosphere was enough to hark his words, however little he had to say. “I humbly suggest that we begin.”
You could feel the weight of your own gun pressing at your hip, but your desperate look was met with a firmer press against your sternum by Zeppeli’s hand.
It was clear. Gaucho had initiated a ‘duel’, and under the merciless heavens, he had to face it alone.
“Don’t fuck with me! If you want to be killed so badly—I’ll do it! This is your last chance; tell me the ‘real path’ that’ll get me outta here!”
He was agitated. Shooter he may’ve been, with a rifle on his pack and a pistol at his hips, but his shoulders were en garde and his legs were unsteady in his confusion. He wasn’t a Stand user. The stranger on the other hand…
“I’m no liar,” he asserted calmly. The wooden planks of the stairs creaked under his weight as he took measured steps downwards, away from his tomb. “If you want to get out of here, you must kill me. That is the path that is to be taken—a decision that must be made eventually.”
Those eyes of his reflected the firmament above him as he traced them over his challenger, and at the four of you far behind him. It seemed that Gaucho was not the only one being addressed in his guidance.
“He’s not normal,” Johnny murmured under his breath, and his teeth worried away at his lips as he assessed the situation.
No, he’s not, you thought. Was this the singularity—the anchor point—of this loop?
Over his shoulder, you made eye contact with Hot Pants, and for once, he seemed wary.
“Is that what I think it is?” Johnny kept murmuring, but any response was drowned out by Gaucho’s yell.
“Ha! Your hands— your hands are shaking!”
And indeed, they were. The stranger’s right hand was experiencing tremors, yet the provocation was met with the same tranquil stare.
“Yes. You are right… perhaps it is because of fear,” he acknowledged thoughtfully, yet he kept his focus trained on his opponent the entire time. “It is possible that the excessive strain on the body could cause it to freeze against one’s will. The decision must be made.”
His eyes wandered to the pistol still in Gaucho’s holster. “But allow me to speak of something equally important. That gun on your hip is an eighteen-seventy-three Colt. With this much distance between us… hmm… our bullets would likely not reach their targets.”
He spoke with the offhandedness one would employ when perusing a menu, and now, he would speak his recommendations.
“I need you to take five more steps in this direction,” he invited in his low voice, though he himself was still on the lowest step of the shack. “Although I’m in your range, the distance will cause your bullet to land approximately ten centimetres to the right. It will take you five more steps to accurately hit me. Your chances, as they stand, are limited when you are ‘five steps behind’.”
Gaucho’s breathing was becoming more and more erratic.
“What will it be?”
He shook in his boots.
“Were you lying when you said you’d shoot me?”
“This looks serious,” Hot Pants breathed, yet none of you could move.
Two opponents, two guns.
“It’s your decision, should you choose to quit. But in that case, you would be the liar, not me,” the stranger rationalised, and it seemed to be the final straw for Gaucho.
“I can’t stand this any longer!” he thundered, drawing his gun, and lightning-fast, the stranger did too.
Bang. The first shot grazed his shoulder, shattering the lantern behind him.
“Gyro—” Johnny yelled out, but what could Gyro do?
The four of you were transfixed by the sight: the bleeding stranger, who still pointed his gun straight, even as Gaucho charged at him with a last-ditch scream. He shot once, twice—and each bullet missed its mark.
And then, the pale ghost cocked the hammer of his own pistol, and fired.
It was a clean shot. A hole appeared on Gaucho’s chest, and he collapsed into the dust, coughing up blood desperately.
Your heart jumped into your throat, watching the stranger callously examine his own wound in what appeared to be complete apathy.
“‘Five steps’,” he iterated, glancing back at his felled opponent. “The shots are accurate from this distance. Alas, the ‘power’ is weak; the resistance of the muscles and chest bone slows the bullet down, and although it has reached the heart, it didn’t destroy it completely.”
He let out a sigh, disappointed.
“One more step,” he promised, and his foot did as he said. He raised the gun that had dropped next to his thigh with his hand.
“Hey—stop, youuuu!” Gyro yelled urgently, but it was too late.
Two shots rang out. Gaucho had fired, but his weakened muscles forced the bullet into the dry ground. The other shot barrelled into where the initial one had been.
Twice-pierced was Gaucho’s heart, and he curled into himself, no longer moving.
You stared and stared at the blood that seeped into the Earth, and finally felt Zeppeli drop his hand from your sternum. It’s over.
It was over for the rider.
[Don’t.]
Your tense body stayed in place, watching the stranger shakily take a bow to the corpse.
“I thank you,” he panted. Just like that, he turned on his heel and strode into the shack once more. The door slammed shut behind him.
There was a stunned quiet in the forest.
“Bloody hell—who’s that guy? What’s he doing in that house?” Johnny muttered, and his eyes flickered between the dead man and where the stranger had disappeared. “A racer was just murdered! Gaucho! What the fuck is going on?”
“A Stand user?” Zeppeli murmured, and his widened eyes locked with yours.
“He must be the one linked to the loop,” you responded morosely. It wasn’t a solution. The four of you hadn’t gotten anywhere closer to escaping, and the only thing you had to show for it was Gaucho’s dead body.
“‘Murder’?” Hot Pants finally replied to Johnny’s delirious ramblings. “None of that was against the law.”
“You know, we really don’t give a shit about that,” Zeppeli glanced in his direction derisively. “If you want to get involved, go right on ahead. In fact, he’s probably the one who killed your cow, judging by the rifle strapped to his horse.”
He sat up straight, reining Valkyrie to turn her away from this accursed place. When he spoke next, his eyes landed only on you and Johnny. “Come on, you two—we can’t stay here forever. Let’s get out of here!”
“And what if that man was telling the truth?” You held his gaze, and the question seemed to tug on his nerves. “What if he’s actually linked to this cycle?”
“Do you want to try your hand?” he shot back irritably. But then, his eyes fell onto the holster by your side and your stillness, and he shut his eyes and let out a long exhale to calm himself. “Actually, don’t answer that.”
You did not, in fact, answer.
“There must be something we missed,” Johnny chanted to himself, and you didn’t think he was aware that he kept repeating the words.
“There’s nothing we can do here now,” Hot Pants murmured to you, as if he was concerned after you didn’t seem to acknowledge what Zeppeli had said. “Confronting that man again should be our final resort.”
You let out a noncommittal noise.
“Let’s go. Andiamo,” Zeppeli announced, and the futile journey began once more.
“Yo, Hot Pants, at this point it’s useless to trace the hoofprints. We’ve been passin’ the same place over and over—our prints are jumbled together now. The compass won’t do shit either,” he commanded, and Hot Pants sighed before sitting back up in his saddle. You quietly followed.
“Every time we make a turn, we’ll ‘mark’ a tree. Where are we getting lost, exactly? We’ll move carefully and precisely,” Zeppeli directed, and you heard Johnny let out an affirmative grunt.
“After we go straight through this path that’s in front of the house, we’ll go left at the next corner…”
Dutifully, Johnny marked a tree.
“And then we take the next left again…”
And another.
“And then, finally, a right…”
And another.
The four of you stared at the map, and back at the shack that loomed ominously ahead.
“Shit!” Zeppeli cursed, and the parchment crumpled in his enraged fists. “Johnny, we’ll try this again—we’ll definitely get out of here! We need to follow the ‘marks’ on the tree; we’ve already lost two hours!”
He swung his head around, but continued glaring at the map as if it had personally wronged him. Which, it had.
“I’ve.. I’ve already found it,” Johnny mumbled, and the strained quality of his voice prompted your head to snap in his direction. “It’s this tree—the first mark is on this tree.”
Beads of sweat were beginning to coat his face, and he looked utterly lost. “But… I don’t understand—what’s going on? I have no idea what’s happening. When we made that turn, this was the only tree that I marked.”
Nobody responded, waiting.
His fist banged against the trunk, and he repeated himself. “This is the only tree that I marked at this turn!”
And there was the problem. The four of you stared at the junction, and each tree bore Johnny’s carved signature in the trunks.
“Johnny, what the hell are you doing?” Zeppeli had almost completely destroyed the map by now as he yelled. “I told you to only make a mark when we turn!”
“He did,” you spoke up then. “It takes some time to etch one. How could he have gone through all these trunks in that time?”
Johnny looked grateful at the defense, but the situation quickly dampened his smile once more.
“What the hell?” Zeppeli pinched the bridge of his nose, and his tone had shifted to wariness behind the anger. “Who made these other marks, then?”
“I have no idea—” Johnny choked out, and he let out a ragged gasp as he traced another mark. “It’s… it’s all my handwriting! I made all of these marks! How could I have made a mark on each of these trees?”
You had a bad feeling.
“And they’re all pointing in different directions!”
You had a very bad feeling.
“So… our enemy is that man in that house, correct?” Hot Pants interrupted your brewing premonition, and he sounded far too matter-of-fact about it. “A ‘Stand’ attack, yes? One that creates these loops, manipulating our perception of space.”
You swallowed.
Space. It felt familiar.
“I don’t know what his motive is—why did he have a shootout with Gaucho? If he is an enemy, why the fuck would he want us to get lost?” The mind of Zeppeli was whirring, and you could see the cogs clash against each other.
Lost. But, were you really lost? The space was not warping in on itself. It was the same space, marked to remember each loop, but it was not continuous.
What went hand in hand with space?
[Time.]
The pocket watch on your hand burned, but you could not be sure. Your mind was ravaged by the very possibility of it, and you didn’t know whether you felt scared or hopeful.
[Don’t.] Depeche Mode’s voice inside you was subdued, and you wondered what exactly it meant. [It won’t work out the way you think it could.]
“Then, what do you propose we do, Gyro Zeppeli? Do you want to roam around here for a bit longer? How many more rounds do you want to make?” Hot Pants pulled you back into reality, and you glanced between the two with uncertainty. “If you want to go, fine… but I’m not going to wander around anymore. That man told Gaucho: ‘You cannot leave unless you kill me.’ Yes? No, wait… ‘unless you kill me’, was that it? What did he mean by that? Well, let’s go back and have him explain!”
His eyes were shadowed by the brim of his hat, and he looked uncharacteristically evil. Or maybe that was just Hot Pants for you.
“If we’re convinced he’s our ‘enemy’, we’ll take him out, ‘four against one’... good plan, yes?”
The slightest shiver shook Zeppeli’s back, and he could not help but stare at the man, somewhat on edge. “I thought I told you that I don’t trust you.”
Hot Pants furrowed his brow, and he looked angry at the obstinacy.
“Gaucho was killed. This is no time to be talking about trust and fairness.” Each word was steeped in a gravity that forced Zeppeli to shrink a little on Valkyrie. “We should do what we can, with the minimum risk… if we’re going to kill him, all four of us must do it.”
“Gyro. If this keeps up, we’re going to be here when the sun sets—and we have to avoid that at all costs…” Johnny whispered hastily. “I don’t know where Dio is at, at this time, but he’ll be a full day ‘head of us if we waste any of the time we have now—he’ll get to Kansas before us.”
Zeppeli looked defeated. Though he was muleish at times, the truth had become abundantly clear, and it was time to proceed to the ‘last resort’.
“Anything… anything but that! No way—especially not by him!” Johnny practically begged, but you could see the other man had already been convinced, purely by how his spine had lost its prideful set.
“Listen, once we know for sure he’s an ‘enemy’, we ambush him. I’ll take care of that, while you three distract and talk to him,” Hot Pants instructed, and his voice carried no wavering. “While you do that, I’ll take his back, and finish him off. Four against one. Are you fine with that?”
“You’ll take his back?” Johnny probed.
“You can really do that, huh? He’s not a sleeping cat, you know,” Zeppeli commented wonderingly.
In response, Hot Pants had already deftly pulled out his brass lighter, spraying the flesh while his left hand shrank in on itself. A long, pink rope stretched from the metal, and when he flung it, it boomerang around itself and stuck to the wooden roof of the house. You let out a low whistle.
The hand reforming itself on the roof seemed to give a thumbs-up. You felt strangely encouraged.
“‘Cream Starter’—my ‘hand’ will get behind him. Now, go talk with him… let’s get this over with, and let’s leave.”
The stranger was digging a grave when you approached alongside Zeppeli and Johnny. Hot Pants had lingered near the other side of the house, and the stranger cast an eye over the four of you.
“Who are you?” Zeppeli asked warily. “You’re going to have to tell us your objectives. Why did you kill Gaucho?”
You breathed in not air, but rather the caustic scent of gunpowder and dried blood.
“If we are to converse, I would prefer it to happen one at a time,” he spoke politely, setting down his shovel. Within the hole, you could already see the half-buried body. “Would two of you kindly move back, to where the other gentleman is standing?”
You felt sick.
“Listen up. Whatever you’re trying to pull—we don’t care, got it?” Zeppeli canted his head, staring down at the man. “Just answer my goddamn question.”
The stranger’s placid expression grew chillingly cold. “If we were to engage in a shootout, you would not be able to defeat me.”
His eyes traced over you and the gun at your hip, and he scoffed lightly, almost smiling. Then, he looked to your left at Johnny, and his expression shifted once more.
“The gentleman on the ‘left’ stands a chance. So you, kindly step back. The one I’ll converse with is him.”
No one responded to him, and he tilted his head.
“This is for your own good… step back. Would you like me to explain it a bit more?” He seemed somewhat baffled that his good advice wasn’t being taken. “The gentleman on the left has a ‘dark determination’—he wouldn’t hesitate to kill me, if the situation called for it.”
He examined Zeppeli closely. “But you are not the same way—this is your ‘nature’. You hesitate where it counts. Move aside. That is my reason.”
“That’s a Chamelot-Delvigne 1874 at your hip.” His gaze had affixed itself onto you now, and you didn’t dare look away. “It’s a good weapon, with a good marksman.”
He shook his head ruefully. “There is an emptiness within you. Cultivate it well, and your aim would be perfect with the flourishing of killing desire.”
Bile rose in your throat.
“With time, you could have a fighting chance,” he continued. “But not now. And maybe not even then. It would be a hollow determination, and you would be a mere puppet to it.”
There was a faint ring of pity in his cadence, and he shook his head once more.
With time, you could have a fighting chance.
The words looped, over and over, in your mind.
“You are trying to figure out a ‘countermeasure’ lest I attack. That is what has been ingrained in you.” He trained his gaze on Zeppeli again, with a more profound derision. “On a level of skill, you are very talented… but mere ‘self-defense’ will not be enough to defeat me. Passive ‘observers’ are not needed here.”
His fingers stroked the wooden grip meaningfully. It was a warning.
But it was too late for him.
A twig snapped underfoot, several metres away; with inhuman reaction speed, Zeppeli unclipped his holsters and flung the green metal sphere. In turn, three bullets pierced his body, and you were about to trigger the slot when—
Nothing.
He looked harrowed, with his hand still on his holster. Hadn’t he heard the signal? What happened to his bravado? His body shone with the light sheen of sweat, and his breathing had become quick and desperate.
What was that?
“What the hell do you want from us? Are you a terrorist? Are you linked with the government?” Johnny called out, brows drawn together in a defensive knit. He looked nonplussed, and thus you wondered what the hell raced through Zeppeli’s mind to be behaving like this.
Had you missed something?
“I apologise for the delay, but allow me to introduce myself.” The stranger bowed his head momentarily with the meaningless platitude.
“My name is Ringo Roadagain. I am a ‘Stand user’, and I developed my ability three years ago in the desert. I call it ‘Mandom’. Please recognise it as such.”
You inhaled sharply. Here it was.
From nothingness bloomed a featureless face, with golden pins marking each intersection that criss-crossed its head. The rest of its body seemed to be a leathery strap that mimicked a watch’s, and the Stand curled silently around the stranger named Ringo. From its docile body were pink tubes that punctured the man like veins and what appeared to be a clock hand, but just as quickly, the Stand shimmered out of sight.
“Only ‘six seconds’. Not a second more, not a second less. For precisely six seconds I can rewind time. That is my ability,” he continued.
Rewind time. That was the only thing that had stood out to you, and your mind was racing with excitement as—
As, what? What would rewinding time do for you? What would six seconds do for you?
A heavy weight pressed inexorably onto your shoulders. The crushing despair took the breath out of your lungs, and it was all your fault for getting your hopes up in the first place.
[Press it. Now.]
“While you were on your horses, all I had to do was rewind time, for only those six seconds. Yet, you didn’t realise this subtle oddity—but still, you retain the memory of having travelled the whole way…” he explained patiently to his horrified audience. “That’s why, instead of turning at the intended route, you turned in front of it, and since you couldn’t tell the scenery apart, marking the trees had no effect. Instead of the tree you intended to mark, you marked a tree in the spot six seconds before, and then took the turn. And this is repeated… as long as I left more than six seconds worth between my rewindings of time, I could continuously keep on turning the clock backwards.”
You did as you were told. The familiar whirr calmed you down, even if you didn’t know exactly why Depeche Mode wanted you to execute its command.
[We’ll be testing if the ‘time’ is the same for you and him. Now that we’re aware of it, the perception could be attuned to this.]
Depeche Mode had hidden itself, miniscule, in the folds of your jacket, and you assumed it didn’t matter which one came up. That was good. Far from acting out of terror, it was the sensible thing to wait and make your observations, testing its hypothesis.
[Slot one activated: Personal Jesus. Countdown has begun.]
The countdown. Would the seconds turn back? Would that be your indication of the time leaping back? Or would you be unaware that the seconds had brushed forward in the first place?
You swallowed.
4:58
“And that is why you will never be able to escape from this orchard,” he finished gravely, and his words felt utterly punitive.
“What’s your objective? Why would you want us to get lost?” Johnny stalled.
“I want you to attempt to ‘kill’ me. A fair duel will allow me to grow as a human being. Devoid of pettiness… a murder attempt with the darkest of intentions…” He seemed to savour the possibility, and the last shreds of sanity you thought he had vanished into the wind. “It will raise me towards new heights. I am yet incomplete, as a human. These are things I must overcome. ‘Divinity’ is a pursuit—and that is why I have not hidden anything from you. My ability, my objectives; I have no reason to lie.”
How could you even begin to respond to that?
“I humbly request your cooperation. What will you do? The choice is yours.”
[Mind the seconds.]
You didn’t quite know what that entailed. Breathing deeply, you focused on the pulsating beat of your heart, then past it. When you weren’t paying attention, the passage of time went unnoticed—but now, you surged past it and grappled with the syncopation of the seconds.
The clock was ticking. You simply had to focus on it.
“This is the true man’s world. Do you want to condemn it as backwards? This world we live in—it seems our values are leaning heavily towards one of spoiled indifference.”
You disagreed. Spoiled indifference was ignoring the plight of the dying, and mindlessly benefitting from the systems that brought gain at the cost of the poor and weak. What did senseless killing prove?
3:56
“Hey, I quit—let’s go! He’s obviously lost his mind, and if we keep going slowly, we’ll definitely be able to make it out of here without making mistakes!”
It was Hot Pants.
“I’m not putting up with this shit anymore—don’t indulge him any further,” he continued, but as Ringo looked sideways at him, you realised that his acting was incredibly and unfortunately terrible.
But it was enough.
The distraction did its job, no matter how poor it was. Cream Starter dropped from the roof and sliced his hand off at the wrist, and his gun crashed unceremoniously against the floor.
“Alright—I’ll leave the rest to you guys! Don’t let him pick up the gun with his left hand! Do it!” Hot Pants yelled, but Johnny had hesitated, seeing his face so twisted in pain.
Too late.
“Don’t let him get the gun!” Hot Pants called out, desperately, but Ringo had already dived while Johnny was distracted. On his broken hand lay a watch that you hadn’t noticed before, and your mind slingshotted back to the countdown.
3:05
Johnny fired, but the bullets never reached the—
You blinked, feeling a disgusting static in your hand and head. Checking the time, nothing seemed to stand out to you: three minutes, eleven seconds left. There was an absence of anything, save for the slight resistance you’d felt in your hand.
“I’m not putting up with this shit anymore—don’t indulge him any further— what?” Hot Pants spun on his heel just as Ringo sidestepped the Stand that had just dropped from the roof.
What? Your eyes were glued on the hand that lay uselessly on the ground, trying to comprehend how he’d known.
Unless—
[Idiot! He’s rewound! You won’t be able to see it in the countdown, but if you pay attention, you should feel the rejection!]
Rejection. Depeche Mode, in its haste to scold you, had given you a clue that you would have to chew on for a while to decipher it.
Depeche Mode was inextricably tied to function. Even if it could be overridden, the purpose of the countdown was clear—to mark the time limits of your slot ability. If time wound back, the ‘real time’ your body experienced would be six seconds more than what was shown in the countdown. Thus, these two conflicting ‘times’ had created a dissonance—and forced a resistant static in your body.
“What the— that was? He just—” Johnny spluttered, aghast at the unfolding situation.
“Impossible! What was that? My spray definitely got him!”
Their voices coalesced into a haze behind a veil as your mind raced. Your mind wouldn’t be privy to the time changing, no, but your body remembered, just like he’d said.
With time, you could have a fighting chance.
“Six seconds… I can rewind six seconds in time. I was ‘fair’, and have already explained to you, in all fairness. I merely twist the knob on this wristwatch the correct amount. That is the trigger for my ability, Mandom,” he interjected stoically. “I will ask as many times as it takes—what do you choose? You will never be able to escape, unless you kill me!”
Calmly, he raised his pistol and shot the fleshy hand that was lying motionless on the ground. A piercing scream tore from Hot Pants’ throat, and you didn’t dare move.
The hairs stood up on your nape at the sudden chill that you felt coming from your side.
Johnny. When you looked at him, his gaze was clearer than you’d ever seen it: pure, unmasked hatred. All the abhorrence he held for the world and its denizens had coalesced into a look so full of malice that rooted you to the spot.
He raised two steady hands, and Ringo aimed his own gun.
“Johnny—” you choked out as the jockey fell backwards off Slow Dancer. There was a crater right on his forehead, and his eyes were distant as he slumped into the ground with a sickening crack.
He aimed once more, calmly, as Hot Pant slung Cream Starter in his direction, and the rider collapsed into the broken wooden railings behind him as his body was pierced once more.
Desperately, you pulled out your own gun, but there was a sudden pressure in your wrist, and then an intense blooming of white-hot agony.
You fought back the guttural scream of pain that threatened to tear past your lips as Personal Jesus began its urgent attempts to mend the mangled flesh.
Group Four surged at the sound, as if she were convinced if she ran fast enough, she could take you to safety. She couldn’t. It was futile; her jolt had dislodged you, and you couldn’t hold on. You slipped off the saddle and crashed, hard, into the ground, but Johnny was in a far worse position.
You heard Zeppeli shouting something, but all you could focus on was crawling to the broken Johnny, despite the metal pooling into your mouth, despite the colossal waves of darkness that were urging you to let go and bleed out into the warm autumn light.
A divine hand had stretched out to the collapsed mortal in the dirt, and Depeche Mode bridged the distance between the two of you.
[He’s alive.] It sounded unusually grave. Your arm burned.
Precious seconds slipped past your fingers as Depeche Mode assessed the damage and began the arduous work of stabilising his head. The bullet was lodged in his skull, and the flames were beginning to spread across your torso.
Through bleary eyes, you watched as two shots rang out violently. Zeppeli was on his knees, but Ringo was missing an ear.
Your mouth was full of molten lead.
“Gyro Zeppeli… as I thought—you are a mere conformist!” Ringo’s disappointed tone was verging on anger: so uncharacteristic that your hazy eyes briefly focused on him rather than the man lying unconscious before you. “You threw those weapons, even when you were out of range! You threw them out of range for losing your friend—disgusting! You will never be able to kill me with something like that!”
The seconds pulsated like war drums in your mind, warring with the rapid beat of your heart.
Your body was callously brushed aside as Ringo grasped Johnny’s leg, and you weakly clawed at his clothes to try to stop them.
With time, you could have a fighting chance.
You did have a version of time, but it had proven to be utterly useless.
“J–Johnny—” Zeppeli coughed up, and you could hear the wet sounds as blood dribbled past his lips.
“I still have one shot left in here—but I am only inclined to kill those that desire to kill me, with that all-encompassing ‘dark intention’… there is no need for me to waste my time in finishing you off.” Ringo cast a cursory glance at the scattered bodies before him, but he hadn’t seemed to notice Depeche Mode that was still hurriedly trying to stabilise the jockey.
“There is no need for me to waste my time in finishing you off…,” he continued, and his voice was filled with contempt. “Get out. I will release you from these orchards.”
It was an escape—but at what cost? You could feel your consciousness ebbing and flowing, and you wondered if you’d make it out alive, even with his concession.
“My only objective is in my training: to become a human, worthy of being useful to this world.” His voice had lowered, as though he were thinking aloud. “And to the man who valued my stand ability, to the man who sent me here. I am indebted. The corpse part that Joestar has—I will take it and return to him.”
Valentine. Who else could it be?
A surge of loathing overcame you, and you stared and stared and stared at his retreating figure with something primal and vehement. Precise abhorrence washed over your drowsiness. You were more alert than ever, more responsive to the waves of pain that battered your arm and mingled with the incandescent heat of the injury.
“I thank you.” And he bowed after his performance, twisting Johnny’s body into an awkward angle. It had been a sickening show, and the curtains shut with the creak of the shack. You could feel the bilious film of vomit coat the innards of your throat—
[Too far.] Depeche Mode phased back to your side, still wearing its stupid Personal Jesus getup. Out of range. You could feel its focus drift to your wrist instead, where the veins and capillaries began their slow knit together. You gasped at the sensation, and a shadow fell over you.
“He’s still alive?” There was only one answer Zeppeli would accept.
“Somehow.”
“That gun was an 1874 Colt. Its firing range had been a step farther than Johnny. His brain could still be intact. The bullet should have stopped, lodging in his skull,” he muttered, like he was trying to ground himself in this reality.
His eyes were bloodshot, and he’d somehow gotten to his feet with bullets lodged in his torso. Depeche Mode glanced between the two of you, and hesitantly drifted over to begin healing his more grievous internal injuries instead. Yet, his raised hand stopped your Stand from approaching.
“No,” he rejected quietly. “Not yet.”
You let out an affirmative noise, shakily rising to your feet yourself. You could feel your wrist tie its sinew and flesh together, but the fierce heat remained.
“You’re staying? Coulda left trouble behind if you left now,” he slurred slightly, from where the thick sanguine had filled his mouth. When you didn’t move, his expression shifted to something you couldn’t quite pinpoint—before it morphed again into something terrifying.
There was an utter coldness in his eyes as he stared at the door.
“He’s going to die,” he said in a low voice, before he tilted his head with a frightening calm to amend his previous statement. “I’m going to be the one to kill him.”
00:00
His time had come to an end.
“—I’m far from being a sentimentalist! That bastard thinks I’m a conformist? Pig-headed asshole talking big—”
He seemed slightly delirious, staring into the sky like it could give him answers. And then, his seeking gaze turned its attention to you: aware of your presence once again.
“Your theory was correct,” he said bitterly, but his cadence lacked the desire to argue. “He was the epicentre of the loop. Did you figure anything else out?”
Despite his despondent expression, there was still a desire to fight in his eyes. You could not fault him; it was entirely mutual.
“There’s a dissonance between my countdown and the time he winds back—like an aftershock, almost. Something here lags when the countdown is ‘forced back’; there seems to be resistance when it tries to fulfil its function,” you explained hurriedly. He listened without interrupting, without blaming you for being unable to catch it earlier. “He doesn’t seem to continuously use his abilities either.”
“Can’t, or shan’t?”
“If he was being truthful, six seconds is the unchangeable limit. Turning time back multiple times in a row would violate that rule,” you reasoned, but your mind was anything but rational. Johnny’s mutilated body was floating through your brain, staring lifelessly at you.
From the ground, you picked up your dropped gun and secured it in your holster. It was still full, as though it had never been used in the first place, and its weight was extraordinarily heavy.
You could feel two green eyes affixed on your face, staring at the worry that had formed between your brows.
“We’ll win.”
His low voice sounded inexplicably like a reassurance, and your brow furrowed even more, incredulous. You had no way of replying, so you didn’t. Instead, you quietly pressed the big red button in your head, already knowing what your chance would land on.
The familiar whirr was comforting.
[Second slot activated: Words Like Violence. Countdown has begun.]
The soreness in your arm bled away as the tapes wrapped tightly around each finger and around your wrist. Time seemed to slow as your adrenaline spiked even further, and your body dissolved into transient smoke. You felt almost shamefully light, but you knew your time was limited. The boundaries of Words Like Violence had been breached by you to extend past ten minutes, but there were still walls to this ability.
“Mm.” Your hum sounded distant to your own ears, as though you were drowning in endless water.
His eyes drifted down, and a bloodstained hand clasped your limp wrist, closing the loose digits into a tight fist. Your heightened senses could feel every scar, every sword callus that had been etched into his palm, and you swallowed thickly.
“Are you doubting yourself?”
You hesitated.
“Are you doubting me?” he asked, stung by your lack of human response to his attempts at motivation.
You grimaced, and your eyelids pressed together into sceptical crescents. “A little.”
“Well, don’t,” he sneered, and his hand knocked your clenched fist into your ribcage with a dull, fleshy thump before he let go. Your fist stayed upright in a parody of a guard, and he turned on his heel with a swish of his cape.
“We’ll win,” he repeated, and in his hand spun a green sphere, embedded with an ocular centre. His right eye shone with golden, righteous fury. “I’m already getting the sensation of our victory.”
And he flung it. From its coating blossomed a metallic, verdant humanoid that disappeared into the wood of the shack just as quickly as it had its genesis, and you blinked. Zeppeli’s stand?
In the shadows from the roof, the sphere hovered in midair, and Zeppeli had stilled almost completely as he observed the situation inside with the corpse’s eye.
“He’s definitely still alive— that map— Kansas City? He knows where the next corpse part is!” Zeppeli muttered to himself aloud, tone coated with an unmistakable urgency. You watched him with similar urgency, wondering when he’d succumb to the iron seeping out from him.
“Does it matter? None of us can back down—the first to make a bad move will lose,” he continued, scoffing wryly.
And he flung the other sphere that had idled away in his holster. Its path was inevitable: crashing in through the rotted wood before it spun into Ringo’s face and—
You froze. Zeppeli wound his arm back to lob the other sphere, and you could feel your heart palpitate at the static coating your arm.
“Time—” A strangled squeak escaped your lips, and Zeppeli furtively glanced at you before his gaze turned back to the house, hardening.
“Still here… your actions are meaningless to me. I’ve already expressed this,” Ringo called out, and the wood made no attempts to stop his words from seeping through, like poison circulating through blood. “I can rewind time for six seconds…! I can do it as many times as I wish. My employer would likely tell me to dispose of you, but doing so is worth nothing to me. I will let you two leave this orchard alive. Take the unconscious gentleman with you.”
It was strangely honourable, if honour could be extended to those working for Valentine.
“Go, go!” he urged emphatically. “Return to your race—do as you wish.”
Do as you wish.
You made no move to flee.
“Y’know, it may just be me, but I’m getting the feeling you’re looking down on us. You said you fiddle with your wristwatch to turn time back, but… I threw that steel ball to check your body,” Zeppeli drawled, and the sphere with the eye was now in his hand once more, blinking towards the dilapidated house.
“I’ll tell you, to be ‘fair’,” he continued, measured despite his words slightly slurring with the beginnings of delirium. “My steel ball scan found an old wound in your left collarbone. In my next attack, I’m going to aim for that collarbone. And that impact, to that old wound, will most definitely paralyse your whole left side. And I don’t think you’ll be able to turn the knob on your wristwatch with a paralysed left hand.”
You couldn’t see Ringo, but you felt a strange calm listening to Zeppeli’s words.
“Not just your left arm, but your left leg. Even your left eyelid will droop. You won’t even be able to speak. Even if you wanted to, there would be no redo. No more six seconds back in time. The paralysis would stop your heart, located in the left side of your body.” His fingers spun the ball, tossing it experimentally as he delivered his threat. Languid. His behaviour was coated with it, like he’d returned to being an executioner faced with a crushing verdict.
He approached the house, climbing the worn stairs slowly, and you followed. There had never been any other option.
Glancing to your left, you saw Hot Pants still sprawled over the railing: chest rising and falling in the merciful hold of slumber. You fought the urge to run over; what could you even do without Personal Jesus activated?
The door splintered as he kicked it down, stepping through the crushed glass with sickening crunching sounds.
Behind Ringo’s expressionless form, you saw Johnny still bleeding out on the panels. You could feel your breathing spiral, and the small waves of anger and uselessness you’d felt had now coalesced into a monstrous tsunami. Cold wrath had tempered your hesitation.
Johnny.
“And from this distance, nobody will miss.” Zeppeli’s words were equally as furious, but they were tightly restrained as he towered over Ringo, who stood from his kneeling position over Johnny. He stared at the Zeppeli: face a mask of unwavering indifference. “We can’t back down. It no longer matters what we wish anymore.”
The silent man slowly canted his head until he could see you from where you stood a pace away from the other man.
“What about you? I really would prefer for this to be one-on-one.”
You found it all ludicrous. Did it matter? He had an arbitrary view of honour and dueling, for what? All to work for the scum of the Earth? To find his so-called ‘true man’s world’, through senseless killing?
“He is a passive observer,” you said contemptuously, which earned a swift glare from the man in question. “I am a mere puppet. Neither of us are good enough for you to duel against, but what about together? Do we measure up to be a worthy opponent, if we’re two unworthy halves?”
He soaked in your words, mulling them over with his mouth slightly parted: tasting each syllable, the spiked cadence of it all. He took in your stance, your healed wrist, and the tapes over your hands.
Would he be amenable to your reasoning? Did it even matter if he wouldn’t be?
He let out an exhale, a shade too polite to be an exasperated sigh, but it was close enough. However, his expression had shifted. There was a sliver of respect in his eyes where there hadn’t been before, at least at your willingness to exchange verbal arguments before resorting to physical ones. You had that much decency, at least.
“I suppose it doesn’t matter, either way. I gave you the option to leave, and you scorned it. The two of you will die, never worthy, without seeing the end of your race,” he finally answered, almost sounding disappointed. “It will be a shameful, dishonourable death.”
Three people stared at each other in that room, savouring the last second before carnage.
And the silence broke.
You were lunging, body exploding with repressed tension.
Where your fist connected with bone, you felt the spin of a metal green sphere as it cracked against Ringo’s collarbone. Searing, wet heat bloomed through your chest: pain exploding with the brutal realisation that you had just been shot.
You collapsed, and the pale ghost in your claws collapsed with you: left side now seizing, just as Zeppeli had warned. You ignored the pain, you ignored everything as you loosened your tapes to tighten them around his neck. Asphyxiation. Unconsciousness was the last mercy you could give him before he died.
It was dishonourable. He’d want to die standing, knowing his time was nigh, but death was not an actor on the stage he danced on, and didn’t behave like one.
Your body was barely cooperating, and that was your error.
You could feel his arms twitching, but you were too late. Too naive. Too foolish.
You could feel it before you heard it: the abrupt bang that spun back the knob, the calculated move to shoot a wristwatch with the hand that wore it.
The time—
Three people stared at each other in that room, savouring the last second before carnage. You panted, feeling the pressure of your heart force blood out of your nose.
And the static—it was awful, pressing into the walls of your cranium with no mercy.
“—it’s gone back!” you choked out, but there was no need.
Ringo’s face had gone slack as a faint afterimage lunged forth and hit his collarbone, and wound fabric around his neck. It was weak enough that he only stumbled, but there was a red mark around his throat, and he clawed uselessly at the mirage before it vanished. The static had turned to faint buzzing, and you felt horrified at the feeling of Depeche Mode smiling in your mind: pleased with its evolution at fighting a time-based stand.
“You—” His tone was, for the first time, incredulous.
With time, you could have a fighting chance.
“I now have time,” you gritted out, pinching the bridge of your nose to attempt to quell the blood flow.
The incredulity gave way as he realised what you meant. You and him were alike in the worst possible way for him, but you were incredibly unlike him.
“You won’t ever kill me,” he breathed, lucid and critical. Yet, it was utterly ludicrous.
“I don’t have to kill you,” you rasped. “Nor do I wish to.”
There was one more enemy he had to deal with, and said man was looking more and more irate.
“One more time!” he yelled, interrupting the stare-off you were participating in.
“Both of you are ‘conformists’! Even with the chance you created, you did not attack while you were aware of the slippage,” shouted Ringo, his eyes still fixated upon you and your guarding hands.
“That’s not for you to decide! None of us will back out now!” Zeppeli vociferated, angry. His words echoed in the quiet, and three faced each other once more in a second of peace.
The whir of the steel ball was the only warning you got before Zeppeli was shot through the chest and the metal collided with Ringo’s collarbone. And there was a searing pain in your throat, except—
He’d missed. The pain bloomed in your shoulder and forced you to crash back against a wall, several feet away from where Zeppeli had landed.
Shit, you cursed as Ringo lowered his lips to his trembling arm, except he couldn’t. His arm was pinned to place against his chest by a large shard of wood that had splintered off from the door when Zeppeli had kicked it in.
But he was almost—
You scrambled from your collapsed state, fighting through the tears and pain of your shoulder that screamed out in agony, and tackled him, wrapping around him just as—
It was too late. The duel had been bastardised into a game where the winner only had to be a little faster, to ignore the pain and it would be forgotten just as the knob was turned—
And it was. Your collision had wrenched his arm slightly more upwards with a nauseating snap, and through his sobs of pain he managed to close his lips over the metal.
But you were ready. You imprinted your body with the memory of ‘moving’ by pressing forward, and his other hand jerked upwards with the gun, firing just as time—
You existed in two places at once. You were moving, falling forward towards the spectre as the phantasm of yourself restrained him like a marionette. There was no need for your reflexes, as your mind had remembered the time, even if unconsciously.
The afterimage of you contorted his body like a marionette, and was fading away into wisps when his hand was forcibly raised and he misfired under the faithful guidance of his puppetmaster.
A strangled, guttural scream tore through your throat as the bullet lodged itself in your ribs, and just before you fell, you felt something press against your hips and lighten; the pistol, robbed from its leather cage, was wielded by Zeppeli as he held it up and fired without hesitation.
Once, twice. Three times he shot Ringo, as black ebbed and flowed across your vision and hot iron leaked from your mouth.
His arms had been rendered completely useless, and his body was jerking uncontrollably as he bled out in his tomb. You couldn’t celebrate, no, for you were in a similarly awful position: collapsed on the dirty floor and fighting to stay breathing and conscious.
“Perhaps…” He drew in weak, rattling inhales. “Perhaps I was wrong. I was one step behind you, after all.”
“If you hadn’t been guarding yourself with one arm, you would’ve definitely hit our vitals. Someone as capable as you…” Zeppeli muttered, and you heard a dull thud as he leaned against the wall, then a metallic ringing as he dropped your pistol into the rubble.
“That— would’ve brought the match to a ‘duel’—” the dying man wheezed. “And it would’ve never ended. Though… it seems like those six seconds— are already… up. A gun suits neither of you, in the end.”
His head lolled onto his shoulder, and he made considerable efforts to lift it.
“Stop it. You don’t get a second shot,” Zeppeli panted, sliding down the wall onto the broken floorboards. “Don’t try anything funny. I’m satisfied—there’s no reason to finish you off.”
He could’ve ended it, clean to the head like he did to Ferdinand. Your hand twitched with faint phantom pain, and the memory of the metallic stench seeping into the sand.
“That’s why you are a conformist! Find the ‘path’ of light! The shining path one must tread…” he hacked up, and his eyes were beginning to dull. “These are societal values and also, a ‘true man’s values’. They used to be synonymous, but no longer are. Man and society have evolved to have completely different ideals, but the true road to victory requires embracing the true man’s values. The two of you should be able to see it now… Continue the race, and find out for yourself… the path of the light… That is what I will pray for. And… I thank you.”
His hand twitched, and the reflex caused his gun to fire once more into the floorboards: a final tribute to the man known as Ringo Roadagain.
He drew in a weak breath, and you knew it would be his last.
“Welcome… to the ‘true man’s world’.”
The sun peeked into a broken home, warming your face as you finally slipped into your own, temporary unconsciousness.
. ⁺ ✦
“—heal him, damnit! You’ve done it before, why can’t you do it now? Depeche Mode, was it? Your user is on the verge of—”
There it was—the familiar baritone that washed over you in your faint lucidity.
“I can’t! They need to activate the slot themselves—without that, I can’t do anything!”
The monotone Stand sounded strangely impassioned. You stirred faintly, and a pained sigh left your lips.
“You’re useless, damn it. Hey, stronzo—wake up. I’ve put Cream Starter into Johnny’s wound and that bastard’s, but yours is in too deep to simply push out—”
A hand brushed against your forehead, and it burned. Everything burned, licking at your body with neverending flames.
“—could use Zombie Horse, but these are far from ideal conditions to operate. If I use some strong liquor, it should allow me to anaesthetise you without too much—”
The same calloused hand forced your chin up. In the background, you could hear the faint sloshing of liquid against glass. Your parched lips suddenly felt wet and cold, yet the burn left on your tongue persisted, and then your throat as a thumb circled around it to force you to swallow.
Ow.
“—shit. Your stupid scarf is stuck to your face with blood. Sorry not sorry, I’m going to have to remove it and see your ugly mug—”
Something was peeled off your face, and you sighed at the cold air washing over your damp, sticky skin.
“What?”
His voice was quieter now, and his hands stilled, but each sensation was growing fainter by the second as the warmth fired up every vein and stole you away.
There was the distant sound of a glass bottle breaking, and then, blissfully, there was nothing.
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