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The summer of 1986 changed the world. Beyond political climates and political tensions building can barely hold a candle to the sickness that rocked the world. Spontaneously, people of all walks of life came down with a sickness- some were unfortunate, the sickness ravaged them, their fever burnt them from the inside out, or their bodies simply couldn't withstand the changes they endured for so long preceding it. Others, survived. Be they lucky or not is a personal preference- their lives would never return to how they were before. Walking within every human who survived the sickness and a select few born during or after it- is a manifestation of their soul. A semi-tangible manifestation of the individuals spirit walks the earth side by side now with each person afflicted, and only the people who can see the spirits are ones whose spirits can manifest by their side. Each manifestation is a reflection into the individual’s spirit.
One such individual saw his spirit and the image that looked back at him filled him with terror. A terror so great, he locked himself away- moved into a prison on the water and kept himself secluded from the world. Even then, this manifestation still appeared, purple and blue and wrapped in muscle. The spirit looking like a more wild version of himself with dark brown hair hair brushing his shoulders and tight, black fingerless gloves studded with smooth golden domes studded into the leather. The image frightens the individual, day in and day out, even when the spirit brings him gifts- soda’s and meals, coffee and tea, whatever he can find, really. He never meets the spirits dark brown eyes.
The individual lives halfway in fear, afraid of himself and the thing inside of him, but he keeps it tucked away in his chest and tries to forget where the key is to that part of him. Even when his mother calls, he pushes it away, he ices the fear from his voice and straightens his back and denies her. He picks at free laces on his shirt to ease his nerves, payphone pressed between his ear and his shoulder as he listens to her talk about what he’s missed. She always asks if he’d like to see her only to be told no once more in no uncertain terms. She tells him his classmates miss him still and send him get well cards and care packages, she asks if he’d like to have them and with a lump in his throat, he says no.
Two months pass like this- and when he tells his mother no for the eighth time, she doesn’t melt into another topic, she pauses and sighs, and hangs up. His blood runs cold and he’s scared- a momentary feeling, but it shakes him. Days pass and he’s afraid- not of himself, but of the bars around him- the absolute helplessness of a cage floating in nothing.
A baton scrapes the bars in front of him and he wakes up in a slight panic, the blue glow surrounding him once more for a single second.
“DeAngelis?” The voice asks.
“What do you want?” The individual replies. The person outside the bar scoffs.
“It’s rude to answer a question with a question, you know.” The person mutters. “You’ve got a visitor.”
The individual sneers and looks up at the person outside the bars- a guard, with another guard in tow, quaking behind him.
“I don’t get visitors.” He mutters, lowering the brim of his hat over his eyes.
“You’ve got one today- says he’s your grandfather.” The guard says nonchalantly, unlocking a door near the end of the hall the individual is sat in. “And he’s already here so- you two’d better get along.” The guard grins. A man broad and muscle bound takes a few easy strides in from that door, a short, lithe girl behind him. The man stands confidently in front of the bars, and grins something sideways and wicked.
“Hey James- long time no see,” He’s too cheery for something before nine am on a ship filled with criminals, “spirits, huh?” He asks. James’ blood runs cold.
“How do you know about my spirit?” James asks on the defensive.
“Your mother told me- she’s worried sick you know. I told her I knew a thing or two about spirits like yours and she insisted we see each other again.” The man isn’t smiling- but his demeanor stays lightbeat and positive, the girl flanking him leans against the wall behind him and the guards and sinks down to the floor.
“I’m being possessed so unless you know an exorcist this visit- is over.” James is short and curt with his words but it doesn’t seem to phase this man.
“Look, James,” The man starts, “I’m not leaving until you get out of that cage.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “I’ve got all the time in the world you know.” He yawns.
James flexes his fist, the blue glow surrounding his hand and the studded leather glove obscuring the faint bruising around his knuckles.
“I don’t want you here- I’m not getting out of this cell.” He spits, flexing his fist and standing now beside his cot. “Fuck off, old man.” He spits.
His grandfather rolls his eyes and glances back at the woman shuffling through cards at the back of the hall.
“Vicky? Would you be so kind as to get my grandson out of this cage?” He calls over his shoulder to the woman. She looks up and shrugs.
“You gonna get my dinner or breakfast this time, Brett?” She asks, rising to her feet with a trained ease.
“Whichever comes first.” Brett waves his hand and leans against the wall she was sitting against. She slips the cards into her pocket and grins sweetly at James who only offers a scowl in return.
“So, you’re James?” She asks, stretching her arms up above her head, fingers laced together and joints softly popping. “And you’ve got a spirit possessing you?” She asks. He’s taken aback for a moment as a red dancing light starts to absorb her frame. “Show it to me.” She says cooly.
“I can’t.” James says in a gruff voice, glaring at the floor before looking back to Vicky. She rolls her eyes and raises her right hand.
“Magician’s Red-” She says, a phoenix headed woman bursting from her back and soaring above her for a moment, landing powerfully by her side, “-last chance to do this the easy way, James.” She hums.
“I told you- I can’t make it come out!” He’s scared and his voice cracks, and he takes a step back.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Vicky waves her finger from side to side and grins sideways. “Go, Magician’s Red.” She points to James and the phoenix headed woman phases through the bars and a fire that springs from her mouth singes the hem of James’ pants. He screams, jumping out of the way as the blue glow surrounds him again. A gentle gasp passes Brett’s lips and Vicky can’t help but let her satisfaction show. The bird headed woman swipes at James and the blue and purple arms of his spirit manifests in an X shape in front of him, the heat half a foot from him but still personal. The blue form tries to lunge forth- only it’s upper body makes it out of James’ torso, and he screams.
“Oh,” Vicky’s eyes widen, realization dawning on her. “His stand’s pretty strong, Brett- I’m gonna have to get- a little rough.” She glances back at Brett and the man takes a deep breath and nods. “Magician’s Red-” She looks back at her stand, evading the swings dealt out by James and his spirit and fire shooting from it’s hands and clawed feet at any opportunity. The phoenix looks to Vicky and in an instant is by her side again. The hold their hands out in unison and James for a moment, is satisfied.
“I told you- I’m not coming!” James laughs, halfway hysteric.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Vicky shakes her head. Before he can get comfortable once again, James is blown back to the wall opposite the bars. He’s pulled up a foot and a half and transparent manacles form around his throat and wrists and ankles. Fire surrounds the manacles and James yelps, expecting to be burned but instead being met with a cold so breathtaking, the burn doesn’t set in until after his skin is beyond numb. He tries to cry out but his mouth is dry. He looks frantically to Vicky, the woman beside her gathering a ball of flame between her hands about a foot wide. He struggles against his binds- the blue glow around him manifesting into more.
“Five seconds to show me your spirit, James.” Vicky taunts with an air a little too playful. James glares at her for a moment before being pulled back by the gravity of his situation and strains his limbs against the manacles. The arms and upper body of his spirit jump willingly from him; barely a second passes before one leg is freed and the other follows suit. James gasps and stares at the spirit, fully formed and floating in front of him. He gasps, mouth agape as the spirit utters a single sound. Vicky smiles, wicked and awe-struck and she mimes a throwing motion. Magician’s Red throws her fireball and the feral looking spirit in front of James pulls him out of the manacles and dodges the fiery blast. Without a second thought, the two of them scramble to stand, the spirit looming over his shoulder and James glaring at Vicky with fire in his eyes.
James stares into her as he gets closer to the bars, the spirit beside him yanking the metal apart and carving a path so he can exit, taking a piece with him and watching Vicky as she takes deliberate steps backwards and falls back, sitting against the wall with her legs crossed.
“Get up-” He demands, his back to the bars, “-we aren’t through here yet.” He growls through a clenched jaw, the metal bar his spirit pried off in his hand.
“No.” Vicky answers simply. “My job’s done.” She doesn’t look up at him- she reaches into her pocket and pulls her cards out again. “Your grandfather owes me pancakes.” She looks away from her cards and looks up at James with a broad smile across her face. “Nice stand by the way.” She looks at him and the blue and purple spirit next to him. “Does he have a name?” She asks with a tilt of her head. Anger confuses every one of James’ senses as he tries to make heads or tails of what she just said to him.
“Wh- What?” is all he can manage to say. The heat in his face an embarrassing blush and his rage screwing itself up into confusion and diluting itself with curiosity.
“Your spirit; it’s called a stand. Does he have a name?” She asks again.
“I don’t think so,” Brett chimes in, taking a few steps closer to the two of them, “-oh put that thing down already.” He grabs the pole from James’ hand and tosses it to the side. “She’s a friend and only did it to get you out of your shell, she’s not going to attack you. Again.” Brett lingers on the last words and James exhales, the spirit by his side pouting and crossing his arms.
“I think,” She hums, “your stand, should be called, Star Platinum.” She holds up a car with the face of the purple and blue man painting onto a five-pointed star with a dark background. His expression is unreadable at best and the font labeling the card even more so.
“Did you come with that- pre-painted?” James asks with a slight laugh.
“No.” Vicky hums, shuffling the card back into the deck, offering no further explanation.