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He was not the usual sort one would expect sitting in a grubby English pub. In terms of his outfit, he looked rather put together. He wore a crisp black suit, with dark sunglasses clipped to his lapel, and a checkered bowtie (a bit out of place, but still sensible). In tastes he matched his attire, ordering the bartender to fill his glass with red wine. In manner, it was a different story.
He rambled, "... and I told Tom Petty, I told him, 'ya know, black just isn't my color, can't I wear a white suit instead?' He told me it was ‘employee dress code.’ See, that's what I don't get. We're supposed to be nondescript, but a bunch of fellows in black suits and Ray-Bans crowding around a crime scene or whatever is really suspect. I mean, people have taken to calling us 'the Men in Black,' for cripes' sake! Recognition is the exact opposite of what we want! I mean, after I brought my complaints to him, they allowed for flexibility in neckwear, which was nice, but still-- another round, signorina -- I think we should abolish the dress code altogether…"
She poured out another glass, "Say, pal, I'm not gonna end up on some government list just by listening to you, right?"
He cradled the glass in his hand and chuckled, "It's funny that you think I work for the government."
She gave him an odd look as he drank, but she had a job to do, and it wasn't to pry. As she attended other bar patrons, two younger men in black suits entered the establishment and walked up to the man.
"Led, what are you doing? Getting drunk on the job?" asked one. The words themselves betrayed some humor, but his tone was severe as his dower expression. Really, his whole appearance gave off a gloomy vibe. His hair was long and black, some stray locks even hanging over his face, and a sizable dark purple scarf was wrapped around his neck and shoulders.
"Come on, you know it'll take way more than that to get him sauced," said the second, the joking nature of his remark much clearer. Standing next to each other empathized the contrast between the two figures. This one was muscular and tanned, while the other was slender and rather pale. His hair was light blonde and stood straight on its ends.
"Dire, it's not my fault that you're a bunch of lightweights," spoke the seated man before wiping wine from his mustache on his sleeve. "So what brings you here? Is Straits going to finally loosen up for once?"
"You wish," countered Straits as he pulled a file out from the folds of his scarf, "We just got a new case."
He took the manila folder and opened it. Upon the top of the page was typed:
Mission Briefing for Senior Agent Led Zeppelin and Joint Investigative Agents Dire Straits: Containment of Paranormal Incident at Joestar Mansion on November 7th, 20…
Why were these things always so droll? He'd been a member of this organization for over 25 years and they never changed. He placed the file on the bar, not even bothering to read on. He'd probably done a million containment missions before, and the procedures melded together like a bland broth in his mind.
"Look, you two are big boys now, I think you can handle this by yourselves."
"I know we can, and believe me, I want to, it's just that Dire thought this case might be of particular interest to you." He added curtly under his breath, "If you bothered to read the damn thing…"
"Particular interest?" he echoed, "The hell's that supposed to mean?"
He looked over to Dire, who was adjusting the thundercloud shaped pins on his collar and twisting out kinks in the little gold chain connecting them. When he noticed Zeppelin's gaze upon him, he stated nonchalantly, "Oh, it means vampires."
Zeppelin's body froze, before his expression grew dark and determined.
"When we get to the car, tell me everything."
There wasn't much to tell. Police had been called to the house to arrest one of the residents, Dio Brando, on charge of the attempted murder of his adoptive father posed by his half-brother, Jonathan Joestar. Every officer sent there perished, though whether this was due to a struggle during the arrest or the fire that broke out shortly after was unclear. There were only two known survivors of the fire that night: Jonathan and a notorious gang leader by the name of Robert Edward Oscar Speedwagon.
"Speedwagon?" echoed Dire with a baffled grimace, "You mean like 'Keep On Loving You' REO Speedwagon? You sure he's not an undercover agent? That sounds like a RIPPLE codename if I ever heard one."
"He's not an agent," Straits snapped from the backseat, "Given his 'occupation,' it's definitely not his real last name, though. That gangster is the one who's been raving about a vampire being involved. Considering he's a career criminal and wary of authorities, our sources on his exact claims are third hand at best."
"Oh, damn it all, of course we don't know what he actually said!" lamented Zeppelin. "What about that Jonathan gent?"
"He was in a coma for four days after the incident, only waking up recently. He hasn't spoken about it, but Speedwagon has mentioned him frequently in regards to the attack."
"Hey, Will, we're here," said Dire, peering out his window.
Zeppelin pulled up to the curb and the three stepped out and viewed the building before them. Pendleton Hospital. The hospital that one of their targets was housed inside.
"You seem nervous," commented Dire.
He adjusted his lapels. "What? I'm not nervous. I'm just pensive, is all."
"And why's that? You said it yourself, you've done this a million times."
"That's not it. It's just…" he teased an end of his mustache, "To survive a vampire attack without any supernatural abilities or training is an impressive feat. It takes a person with exceptional vigor in both body and soul, a very special kind of individual."
Straits rolled his eyes. "Talk about a humble brag…"
Zeppelin, the instance his fellow agent was referencing abuzz in his skull, gave him an intense glare, "Young man, I am not bragging. I would never boast about what happened to me that night. It was nothing to be proud of. It was a night of terror and tragedy, not some paltry test of courage."
Straits shriveled under his scrutiny with a regretful "Okay, okay…"
Agent Zeppelin sighed, "Alright then… let's get this done." Before the trio walked in, he reminded Dire, "Don't forget your whitesnake in the car again."
"I didn't forget, I have it right…" He rummaged through his pant pockets, and his overzealous smile turned to a small frown. "Aw, crap. Thanks, Will."
He opened the passenger side door and took a small white rod-shaped device from the door's storage compartment and placed it in his suit's breast pocket with a confirming pat.
When the three made it past the front desk and navigated the halls, just as they were about to reach Mr. Joestar's room they encountered his nurse, Erina Pendleton. They recognized her lovely face on sight as she was not only the hospital owner's daughter, but had a history with Jonathan, and thus her picture had been included in the file.
Agent Led Zeppelin introduced the group with lavish, emphasizing the purr of his Italian accent, "Good day, Miss Pendleton. My name is Roy Harper and these are my associates, Mark Pick and David Withers." He flashed her falsified badges. "We're part of the NCA. We're investigating the circumstances surrounding the fire at the Joestar Mansion."
She glanced back to the door. "Oh, I'm sure he'll love to help you, but JoJo has a visitor right now. A Mr. Speedwagon, I believe. I can tell you when he leaves so you can question him."
"That won't be necessary, miss, Mr. Speedwagon is also a key witness. It is perfectly alright to interview both at the same time."
In fact, it was much better than alright. It was perfect. They had both loose ends right here, simply dying to be tied up. This was a cakewalk.
Erina had to excuse herself, as she needed to check on her other patients, and wished them luck. The agents cautiously entered Jonathan's hospital room. On the bed lay a large, muscular young man covered in bandages, while in a chair pushed up beside it sat a man with long blonde hair and a prominent scar on his cheek. Upon seeing the three official-looking strangers, Robert rose to his feet, his fists clenched protectively.
"An' who the hell are you lot?" he asked with narrow, suspicious eyes.
Agent Led Zeppelin stepped forward. "Mr. Speedwagon, Mr. Joestar… we have a few questions to ask you."
It took some prodding to get the thug talking, but once they did, he would not shut up. His recollection was bizarrely detailed and he recounted the tale of Dio Brando's transformation into the undead and his defeat at Jonathan's hands with grand drama, as if an ancient Greek storyteller recounting a lost epic around a fire. Jonathan would inject his own commentary intermittently, mostly to offer insight into his emotions at the moment or to fill in for what Speedwagon missed while he was outside. He was a soft-spoken, mild-mannered man, but the account revealed him to be courageous and resourceful, to say nothing of his immense physical fortitude. What struck Zeppelin the most were intersections between it and his own vampiric encounter: the death of a father, a family member enticed by the Stone Mask's thrall, and of course the Mask itself. He was the same age as Will had been at the time, a mere 20 years old. Those commonalities cemented his plans.
He was by Jonathan's bedside when he made the call, comforting him regarding his loss. He looked to Straits. "Did you record all that?"
He nodded, holding his whitesnake. "It's all on the disc."
"Good." He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out an extra pair of sunglasses, handing them to Jonathan. "Here, son, put these on. Don't take them off until I tell you."
Jonathan followed his instructions, and the agents all turned their attention to the loose-lipped lawbreaker.
Zeppelin strolled around the bed. "Mr. Speedwagon, you cannot understand how grateful we are for your testimony. Before we leave, there is one last bit of business we need to attend to with you."
"What kinda business?" His suspicion was not quite alleviated, though significantly lessened by them actually listening to his story and not cuffing him on the spot.
He waved his hand dismissively, "Oh, it's nothing, really, just a procedural thing!" He put on his sunglasses and gestured to Dire, who held out his whitesnake to Speedwagon. It was a sleek gadget, mostly white as the name implied, but its upper tip was black and crowned. Within the black was set a circular, silver indentation with a small, currently inactive light at its center.
"Please look into the disc," Zeppelin gently ordered.
Robert did, and Dire pressed the button. A brilliant light flashed directly in the thug's face, and he sat there, dazed and mute, his eyes dull.
Agent Zeppelin detailed his cover story, "Mr. Speedwagon, you brought Jonathan to the apothecary as he asked, but due to your criminal history, you did not accompany him to the police station or the arrest afterwards. You only heard about the mansion burning down through the news the following morning. Your injuries are from an unrelated street brawl."
He finished, and Speedwagon stirred slowly, returning from his trance. He rubbed his eyes and said in an airy voice, "That's… that's not what happened… I was there that night… I just told you what I saw… ugh, what was that light…? I swear I went blind for a second..."
The sunglasses just barely masked the agents' shock. Dire inspected his device, "Hell, is my snake busted?"
"Here, use mine," Zeppelin handed over his, which was about the same as Dire's, but with a squishy frog keychain looped through a hole punched into the rubbery crown.
"I still don't understand why you have that dumb frog…" admitted Straits.
"I like frogs," he snipped back.
Dire pressed the button again, and Robert was dazzled momentarily.
"You weren't at the mansion the night it burned down," he stated simply.
Robert blinked a few times before replying, "Ya know, just because ya say it twice, that don't make it any truer…"
"What? How the hell is it not working?" Zeppelin took his whitesnake and scanned over it hurriedly, "It always works! Snaking always works!"
"Gah! Who cares about cover stories!" exclaimed a flustered Straits, and he snaked Robert a third time. "Vampires aren't real!"
"Stop doing that!" cried an angered Speedwagon, rubbing his pained eyes.
"Oh, this is bad. This is terrible. And of course it's the guy Will didn't want," rattled Dire.
"Straits," Zeppelin ordered, "search the memory disc repository for every instance of Robert Edward Oscar Speedwagon."
"I'm on it," he replied, clicking a few buttons on his whitesnake.
A hologram projected from the device like a new window on a computer. It was a list, every entry reading Robert Edward Oscar "Speedwagon" followed by a different date. Straits scrolled down for several minutes before giving up, not even bothering to reach the bottom. It seemed to go on for miles.
Zeppelin whistled at the size of it, and Dire commented, "I didn't think a guy could get snaked so many times…"
"He must have been exposed so often that he's developed an immunity," reasoned Zeppelin, "Though why he's been snaked so much, I can't figure out. I know Ogre Street is a monster hub, but even this is ridiculous for that area."
"Monster hub…?" echoed Speedwagon, "Memory disc? 'Snaked'? What the bloody hell are you blokes talkin' about?!"
Will waved a hand at him, "Shh! We're trying to figure this out!"
Just then, two of Speedwagon's Ogre Street pals, known as Tattoo and Kempo Master, burst into the room.
"Speedy! They got full-size Reese's cups in the vending machines! I jammed my knife in the coin slot and tricked the machine!" shouted Tattoo, hands full of the orange wrapped candy.
Everyone stared at them silently.
"Uh…"
"Oh crap, RIPPLE's here..." observed Kempo, looking ready to beat a hasty retreat.
"RIPPLE?" interjected Jonathan.
"Wait, you two know these guys?" asked Speedwagon.
"Well, not these guys specifically, but..."
"What are a pooka and a long doing here?" asked Agent Zeppelin.
"I'm sorry, what did you just call my friends?" he said, affronted, before adding with genuine confusion, "No, seriously, what did you just call them? They sound like insults, but…"
"They're not insults, those are their species' names," clarified Straits.
He sputtered, "Sp-species?!"
"Well, there's no use trying to uphold the charade now, gentlemen," said Agent Zeppelin with a shrug, "Mr. Speedwagon, Mr. Joestar, allow me to introduce ourselves. I am Agent Led Zeppelin and these two are Agent Dire and Agent Straits. We work for an organization called RIPPLE."
"Never heard of it!" scoffed the thug.
"Exactly. It stands for the Regulatory Intelligence Parcel of Paranormal Lifeforms and Events. Our job is to police and monitor occult activity. We maintain the normalcy of everyday life while guarding humanity from supernatural threats."
Questioned Jonathan, "Supernatural threats like… vampires? And zombies?"
"Well, yes." He listed off with a rambling hand, "Vampires, zombies, fairies, anything!"
A laugh hissed through Robert's teeth and he shook his head. "Fairies, he says! These guys are a bunch of loons! Like I couldn't hold my own against Tinkerbell! Just gimme a fly swatter!"
Straits pointed his thumb to Tattoo. "I'd hold my tongue around this one if I were you."
"Huh?"
He rolled his eyes. "A pooka is a type of fairy, genius."
Zeppelin added, "An Irish fairy of ambiguous alignment. They have a penchant for mischief, sometimes even violence, but have been known to be protective of humans they take a fancy to. They are excellent shapeshifters and can disguise themselves as many creatures, including human beings."
"W-well then, if he's a pooky or whatever, how'd you know, huh?" Robert was trying to corner him, prove him wrong, perhaps because the implications of the whole scenario didn't sit right with him and he wished so much that they were false.
"The default form of a pooka is an animal, typically a horse, dog, or rabbit. Pookas in human form retain some animal features, most often ears and a tail," he strode around the room as he verbally walked through his thought process, "The thing is, the moment I saw your friend's face here, I knew he got that big blue mark to draw the eye away from something else, something nearby. And I realized--"
"His beard," interrupted Jonathan.
All eyes turned to him, and he shifted on the hospital bed sheepishly. "Oh, I'm sorry, I was just thinking out loud…"
"No, no," Zeppelin encouraged, "Go on. What do you think, JoJo?"
He spoke cautiously, "Well, his beard, it perfectly covers the place where his ears would connect with his head. And you said they don't have human ears, right? So my line of thought is that... those ears are fake and the beard is used to hide the seam... and the tattoo, like you said, is a diversion."
Everyone was quiet for a moment, Agent Zeppelin beaming with pride. Tattoo stalled a bit before tugging at both his ears, which came off his head with a pop. His genuine ears, long red rabbit ears that blended completely with his wild ginger hair, flopped down and framed his face.
"Am I really that obvious?" he asked, self-conscious.
Speedwagon's jaw dropped.
"At least you're trying," Straits gestured to Kempo, "This long over here has his horns just... out."
Kempo put his hands on his hips. "Look, pal, do you know how many layers of glamor I have to put on to get down to this size alone? It's a lot, okay, and it takes a lot of energy. I try to find wiggle room where I can."
Robert gasped, "Those are real horns?!"
"Uh, yeah?"
"You told me they were just funky hair accessories where you're from!"
"Speeds, I was lying to you."
"Well I can see that now! It's just… this is an awful shock…" He held his hand against his head, as if processing it all literally gave him a headache. Or maybe it was residual effects of being snaked three times in a row over the course of thirty seconds.
"You say that every time…" Kempo huffed offhandedly.
"Excuse me… every time?" echoed Agent Zeppelin.
Both creatures looked rather anxious. "Uhh…"
Tattoo reluctantly took the initiative to explain themselves. "Okay so, uh, first, don't be mad."
"I make no promises."
"Fair enough. So, uh, ya know what Kempo said, how keepin' up a glamor’s hard work? We can't do it forever, it's too tiring, so we... take breaks. Lazy days. We have a layabout as our natural selves for a bit."
"We try our best to make sure it's when Speeds is away--"
"But he walks in on us. Like, a lot."
"But it's nothing to worry about because one of you guys swoops in and takes care of it! And he's the only human we're that comfortable around, so he's the only one who gets the chance to see. See? No harm, no foul!"
Agent Led Zeppelin pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration and took a deep breath in. Agent Straits had a cold glare in his eyes and stepped towards them, but Dire held him back.
"Boys, fall in," ordered the lead agent. The three huddled together in the hallway outside.
"Well, this is a complete mess," Zeppelin assessed, "Because of those two being careless, we've got a blabbermouth crook who can't forget anything. If he keeps talking, Tom Petty is going to find out, and that won't be pretty for us. Do any of you have any ideas?"
"What if we just kill 'm?" suggested Straits.
The other two stared at him.
"I mean, we could just, you know…" He made a stabbing motion with his hand, "... and dump his body in the Thames. It's not like it'll be hard."
They kept staring.
"What? We have a license to kill! We should keep the option open!"
"We're not doing that. That'll get the police involved and it'll be a-- a whole thing. Dire, any thoughts?"
He pondered a moment, then posed a question.
"What if we took him in?"
The suggestion blindsided Zeppelin.
"What? Him? He's a goon! The only way he must've become a gangster is through dumb luck!"
Straits puffed. "And you thought my idea was bad…"
Dire explained his reasoning, "You're already recruiting that Jonathan guy. Why not recruit him, too? It'll cover our asses because if he's an agent there's no need to snake him anymore. He's also got connections to one of the biggest monster populations in London. That's a valuable asset."
Zeppelin winced, for the logic was sound. "I don't know…"
"What else can we do?"
"Kill him!" Straits chimed in.
"We're not killing anyone!" said Agents Dire and Zeppelin in unison.
The three deliberated out in the hallway for a while. Meanwhile, an undisguised Kempo lay down, blue scaly body coiled around the room multiple times, head resting on the foot of the bed, taking it up in its entirety. At the same time, Tattoo in his rabbit form lay on Robert's lap, letting the man stroke his soft red fur.
"This is… bizarre," commented Jonathan.
"Kid, how do you think I feel?"
After a spell, it soon became apparent that there was no conversation on the other side of the door anymore.
"Did they just… leave?" asked Jonathan, finally removing his sunglasses.
"That's odd," said Kempo. His body tossed over and he stretched out his taloned feet with a grunt. "Usually they'll be tripping over themselves trying to keep it all under wraps."
"They're up to somethin', those RIPPLE agents. They always are." Robert scratched Tattoo behind the ear, and the pooka flopped over happily, exposing his cream-colored belly, "Aw, yeah, Speedy, that's the spot…"
Robert smiled at how pleased he was, but it faded quickly from doubt. "Ya know, I gotta wonder, if you two were keepin' this from me, how many other folks in the gang are hidin' what they really are?"
"Oh, most of 'em. Actually, I think you may be the only human in the lot."
He paused in petting him. "Really? Why would you magic folks care 'bout someone ordinary like me?"
"A good leader's a good leader, Speedy, don't matter what species they are. An' you're not ordinary, either. You're noble and loyal and all that, impossible not to like, and a great judge of character. That's a real gift, ya know. Now... can ya get back to scratchin', please?"
He obliged, his smile regrowing, now much more relaxed. Eventually, the sky outside darkened, rain quietly pattering on the windowpane. The atmosphere was tranquil, almost pointedly in contrast with the chaos those agents brought. Obviously, it didn't last.
Someone pushed at the door, blocked off by the dragon's heavy body. The grunts of struggle were feminine and familiar to Jonathan.
"Oh. It's Erina." He blinked, a bit surprised, "Huh. I… I almost forgot that I was in a hospital and everything. I mean, there's been so much news today. An hour ago, I thought Dio was unique, the only supernatural creature in the world, and now…"
"JoJo!" she called, "Are you up against the door?"
"Just a moment, dear!" Jonathan called back brightly. He tapped the dragon on the head with his foot, and he shifted back to human form. Tattoo followed suit.
Erina stumbled into the room, getting an eyeful of the human Tattoo sitting on Speedwagon's lap. "Sorry if I'm, uh, interrupting anything." She walked to her patient's bedside, "JoJo, you've been cleared for discharge."
"Oh, already? Blast..." He brushed his fingers against hers, wrapped around the rail of the bed. "I hoped to spend more time with you, dear…"
She blushed at his flirtation, then gave him a quick peck on the forehead.
Robert, Tattoo, and Kempo helped Jonathan pack up. When they reached the hospital lobby, the RIPPLE agents were waiting for them, sopping wet.
"S-sorry about the sudden shower, officers," apologized Kempo, "it happens when I unwind."
"No worries, my good long," said Zeppelin, then he turned and addressed Jonathan and Robert, "Come now, boys, let's hightail it out of here!"
"Wh-where are we going? Are we under arrest?" asked Jonathan nervously.
"You ain't takin' me alive, coppers!" cried Robert, putting up his dukes.
Led spoke easily, "Now, now, there's no need for all of that…"
Dire added, "We're going to a tailor, that's all. Hope you guys know your measurements."
"A… tailor…" echoed JoJo.
"Yes, we're getting you fitted into your suits. We bought them while we were out."
"Wait, why do we need--"
Straits groaned, cutting Speedwagon off, "Ugh, don't you get it? We're recruiting you! Led's been gunning for the both of you with Director Tom Petty for an hour in the goddamn car and I'm not letting that hour of my life sitting there go to waste. Let's go!"
The two accompanied the agents to the car and poured into the backseat with Straits. After a bit, Robert spoke up.
"Okay so, if we're gonna be a part of this whole kit and caboodle, I've gotta know: why are you guys named after 70's rock bands?"
"They're not our real names, obviously, they're codenames," answered Dire. He pointed his thumb to Agent Zeppelin, "His real name is Will, for instance. Don't ask for any more because that's all I could pry out of him. We need them not only to safeguard our identities from other people, but the paranormal as well. You know what the Fair Folk can do to you if they get a hold of your real name? It's not pretty."
Robert rubbed his chin, "Hmm…"
"What is it?" asked Jonathan.
"Nothin'. I'm just wonderin' if that's the reason my nickname caught on so fast in the gang, is all. Led did say it was a hotspot for all sorts of mystical things, and some of 'em protect folks they take a shine to…"
"Speaking of," interrupted Agent Led Zeppelin, "You two have codenames now as well. Between us five, you don't have to use them, but around headquarters and out in the field, for all intents and purposes, they are your names. Welcome to the force, Trainees REO Speedwagon and Get Back."
Both processed the names, these positions, this whole new world that was thrust upon them, nearly silent. The car drove on.
Speedwagon muttered, with a shrug of the shoulder, "Well, that's 'ardly any different than what I went by anyways…"