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Your god is a cruel god, Abbacchio thinks, when he sees skin zip apart to bone, painful screams shattering and echoing into the ceiling, to curse you in this way. He doesn’t pity Bucciarati’s victims. He knows what the boys would say, what his partner would say — that this was no curse, that this was a gift. That order, that hierarchy, that famiglia would save them. That it meant something, but Abbacchio no longer prayed to gilded gods with dreams anymore, those who spread their influence like rot through the ranks. Hungry, powerful, dangerous; seemingly innocent, save for the blood between their teeth and the chaos at their backs. Abbacchio’s no stranger to ambition — he’s seen it before, felt its influence before, been like that before. He knows the trust, the power, the ideal. The reality.

When he’s offered a new life, deep within the depths of his despair, a pale hand reaching through the rain to clasp his own, he feels confusion fill his lungs. Instantly, he recoils.

Abbacchio learns all three, in the end, through the bottom of a bottle. Shattered glass and stubbed cigarettes, fading smoke, greet his stumbling footsteps as he leans against a brick wall, half-dazed in a drunken stupor. Alcohol was his vice, his venom, his courage. Eventually, naturally, his death. That is, until he’d arrived. Clad in white and black, Abbacchio’s reaper of neutrality. Not quite an angel, not quite a demon, but Abbacchio’s reckoning all the same.

“Join my team,” he’d beckoned, and Abbacchio keened, helpless to the certainty of his voice and his grip, when everything else felt so transitory, his only constant the pain of regret that still haunted him, written across his skin in bloodied knuckles and bitten curses. A patchwork quilt of scars and bruises, Abbacchio was some creature made of half man and half monster, steeped in violence and tinged at the edges with grief. Fighting without a cause for some honor that no longer existed. Pathetic.

Bucciarati had come looking for that violence, for that desperation, and had offered his hand so easily. He’d offered him such kindness for a world such as theirs, where sin was unforgivable, and Abbacchio’s, even more so. In that moment, he couldn’t do more than stare. They lapsed into silence, rain drenching their still bodies, running rivulets down their faces and soaking them to the bone. But time lay suspended, hung in the air like the seconds had unfurled into ribbons, like every minute had unwound into a lifetime, and they, immortals for the age, had all of eternity to themselves. Under dark, violet storm clouds, nothing could be hidden, truth bared and cast out into willing streets.

And yet, Bucciarati had still sought it, sought him. Would Abbacchio take his offer? Would he refuse? Could he even do so, helpless as he was, vulnerable to the whims of fate, threads of destiny pulling him in a thousand different directions, until he felt as torn apart as a victim of Bucciarati’s zippers? Abbacchio had no answer for him, initially, words refusing to climb up out of his throat. He’d stilled, caught in indecision. Slowly, he felt his lips form yes, felt himself nodding despite himself, as if some part of him had overridden his instinct, daring to hope, to believe, that perhaps there was something more for him. That his sorrow could be redeemed. Still, some part of him relented. He was broken, but if fate wanted to play with his leftover pieces, if he served as another tragedy, to he who resided in hallowed halls up above, who was Abbacchio to deny him?

And so, Leone Abbacchio, a loyal officer turned corrupt criminal, took the hand that was offered to him, stepping into a world like the one he had already known. The same standards, the same loyalty, familiar. Different names, different tasks, different darkness. Corruption within the force took place as rot, slowly creeping upwards, poisoning all in its path. Here, however, everything he touched was already ruined, bodies and blood both poisoned by more than just money.

The ties that now bound him were no different than bonds of companionship and camaraderie, made over the years through his time in the force. Shattered, splintered, torn and ripped apart. Now, blood money bound him, sweat and bills exchanged under the cover of night, paid to Passione. Owned by Passione. It was the price he’d paid for normalcy, selling his soul for a stand that reminded him only of his past mistakes, suited for nothing more than death, destruction. Playing god came easy, now, now that he held life and death within his hands. So much so that Abbacchio doubted the benevolence of a higher being, if there even was one. There was nothing above him, except the next ranking. Higher and higher, to climb, to deceive, to maim, to maul, to murder. His name wasn’t stolen from him, but rather, given freely, exchanged for a new identity.

He felt the same, the same sense of sickening guilt that crept up on him in violet nights, the same flicker of anger that often roared into a raging fire, the same pull on his heart when he addressed a superior, bowing low to kiss yet another golden ring. He’d left the streets behind, darkened alleyways and blackened doors, in favor of the rising sun, knowing the light was dangerous — and how it burned!

Still, for many nights after, Abbacchio found himself missing the feeling of falling rain when it slowed, how it had felt like a caress upon his face. He missed the silence of dark, dreary nights alone, how the whole world seemed sunken in sorrow, chill and mist, dewdrops on his body. He’d miss the darkness of the streets, all bared and illuminated under the damp, lilac glare of the streetlights, reflecting iridescent on his skin.

When Bucciarati whispers, it’s near-silent, almost as if he was afraid to disturb the delicate order of the universe, fragile-balanced, with the vibrations of his voice, as if it would set it off-kilter. Or perhaps, it’s to maintain the rewind, to hold Abbacchio’s focus stable in the midst of their mission. Abbacchio finds that if his attention lingers too much on the details, his rewind turns hazy, forms and figures dissipating like a forgotten memory. It’s infuriating. Not for the first time that night, he clenches his fists and digs his nails into his palm, relishing in the way that it stings, resisting the pull of further masochism. As if on cue, Bucciarati’s voice breaks the silence, whispering forgotten.

“Try again,” he murmurs, and Abbacchio has to scoff. Of course. This could be easier, for Bucciarati, if he’d dealt with it himself, having the body neatly disposed of, instead of having Abbacchio be his lapdog. The hit would be more accurate, the mark more caught off-guard, but Bucciarati’s word was law, and Abbacchio was new, so he had to deal with the frustration of being new, atleast, until his aim and his skill improved.

The features of the nondescript woman he had been aiming for melt away, leaving a blank face behind. It’s impossible to recognize the mark now, not when she’s faded out of view, much less hit her from a hundred paces away, and that too, through his mind’s eye, through what Moody Blues sees.

Bucciarati adjusts his hands carefully over Abbacchio’s eyes, effectively robbing him of any sensory input except that which he allowed, which, as of midnight on a Wednesday, was none. “Focus,” he urges slowly, the quietness edging back into his voice, “she hasn’t moved.” Abbacchio grits his teeth and swallows his pride to try again, letting the rewind carry him a few moments back into the past.

It’s because of instinct, in the end, that he sees her. He closes his eyes and takes a breath, searching deep within himself for the same power he’d accessed earlier, feeling for the resentment and anger, of the failure, that had reared up inside him, clawing at his chest, roaring for retribution.

For a split second, an indescribable pain fills every fibre of his being, every nerve of his singing with raw energy, sparkling, crackling, screaming out as it spreads across his body and he tears the thing from him, splintering the void of time into a thousand shards. Moody Blues, he hears himself call, come to me.

“No,” he hears himself speak, “I can do better.”

It’s instantaneous. As soon as it’s begun, the hum of energy ebbs to a gentle wave, relaxing. Abbacchio flexes his arms experimentally, feeling as a ghostly recreation of his body built in violet reflexively follows him, limb for limb, shell for shell. Though he can’t see Moody Blues, he can feel its phantom presence just above his skin, mirroring his every action. He wonders if it has a heart, and if it too, beats wildly, chest rising and falling with every breath. In his mind’s eye, he sees a thousand people cross the same path, as he mentally backtracks to find the one. Moody Blues morphs into a short, stout man walking by, a woman dressed much too well for this part of town, an old man hobbling along with a cane, and finally, the one they’re looking for.

Abbacchio’s breath catches in his throat, excitement creeping into his voice when he harshly whispers that he’s found her. In the dark, with Bucciarati’s hands still over his eyes, Abbacchio can’t see his face, but can still hear the smile in his words, in the easy expectation he holds of him.

She’s shifty, panicked, her pace far too quick for simply an evening stroll. Even then, it’s past midnight on a moonless night, just barely lit up by stars. Her hands clutch a manilla package, gripping it so tightly that for a moment, Abbacchio imagines it might tear. She stops, freezing as she hurriedly glaces around, guilt written clearly across her face.

He adjusts his grip on the beretta, heart beating a pace a hair’s breadth away from dangerous. Abbacchio’s hands shake slightly, but he wills them to still, to deaden the sensation of what feels like live wires sparking through his nerves. An inhale, an exhale. The mark lifts her head, paused in action, and Abbacchio tightens his finger on the trigger, watching, waiting.

With his eyes still closed, Abbacchio’s senses feel heightened; every sound amplified, every sensation magnified, working, bordering on painful. He can hear his heartbeat, can feel the cool gunmetal in his palm, can nearly taste the rank scent of blood and iron that stains the weapon. When Moody Blues rewinds, he can feel each ebb and movement in the fabric of time within his own body, slowed down by his conscious awareness. The process normally happens too quickly to register, whirring through film and reel, in hues of deep purple, but this time, the world itself slows down.

A dull thwack and thud are the only indications that Abbacchio’s hit his mark. For a moment, inexplicably, he feels adrenaline coursing through his veins, sheer joy thrumming through his body and he feels the ripple of power and pride within him — ambitious, careless power that makes him want to place the barrel to his forehead in sheer arrogance, to see if he could see himself within the rewind. He feels like the man he used to be, standing straight in solidity, unafraid to stare down anyone. He knew who Leone Abbacchio was and who Leone Abbacchio wanted to be.

His death is anticlimactic. Had he heard of it before it had happened, Abbacchio would’ve rolled his eyes and scoffed in annoyance. When death does come for him, however, his head is thrown back in shock, heart ripped from his chest, and he lies there, waiting for death to claim him. If he had been asked how he wanted to die, alone is not what he would’ve answered. He looks down at his chest, his hands clutching the black fabric of his clothing, and he bleeds deep purple, staining his hands, his body, seeping into his skin like poison. His blood is darker than any night he’s witnessed, moonless and forlorn, near-black, still a vivid shade of violet. The whole world rolls, vision spinning, stomach lurching, lungs collapsing, blood spilling from the gaping hole in his chest.

The devil had snuck up on him, had used a child for his purposes. He sees a flash of pink, of spotted hair and vengeful eyes and with that, Abbacchio falls, hard.

Still, as he lies breathing his last, Abbacchio feels manic laughter bubble to his lips, but the effort to open his mouth and let the sound escape proves to be too much, as he crumbles. He’s wrought with emotion, rent in two, pride and exhaustion and guilt, too much of a burden to bear. The pride, he can explain. When he’d received his stand, born in blood and pain, he’d hated it. Despised it. Moody Blues was nothing more than a remembrance of his past, of his sorrow, of his misery. Initially, all he saw was himself in its vinyl rewind, as he’d stare at its form with forlorn eyes. And yet, he’d learned, he’d slotted in perfectly with the rest of them, relishing in the sense of self Moody Blues had given him. The tide of power gave him a rush, such a stark contrast to the helplessness he had resigned himself to before. He’s proud of what they’d done, he realizes — of himself, and of them all. In Passione’s employ, where only a rare few lived past adolescence, he’d known he’d go down in battle, in service to a cause greater than his own. Perhaps he believed in Giovanna’s golden dreams, just a little.

Relief floods his veins when he hits the ground, tasting of blood, sweat, and tears. It’s easier to explain. Despite how he trudged through life, grinding himself into the gears of time, he’s tired. His ability, which flows from his fingertips backwards into the past, feels like time personified, like he’s been alive for an eternity and more. He’s exhausted from facing his demons, of fighting relentlessly. When he collapses, half delirious from the pain and horror, relief is the sensation that buoys him, at least for a few moments more.

In his final moments, the guilt creeps back down his spine. It’s the same that’s haunted for years, crawling up his throat, weighing on his back, even in his dying moments. From somewhere far away, whether reality or mere hallucination, he hears panicked screaming and shouting, voices blending together, rising in a fever-pitch. And, then, unbidden, clarity strikes and Abbacchio realizes why he’s not quite ready to let go, just yet — he feels responsible for them, for all of them. Narancia, with his youthful, childlike ebullience; Fugo, his quiet reassurance, quick gaze and even quicker temper; Mista, his concentration when he shoots, eyes narrowed and eyebrows furrowed; Giorno, with the same steadfast resolve Abbacchio had once seen in himself; and Bucciarati, the one who’d brought them all together.

They’ve grown on him, more than he thought they would.

And the stand appears, pieces of it crumbling to dust, rewinding Leone Abbacchio’s life to the very beginning. His childhood, carefree, happy, memories hazy and blurry as he fights to recall them. His parents, growing older, the police academy, his partner. Abbacchio’s descent into madness, his spiral into despair. Bucciarati’s hand, his eventual path to redemption. Golden dreams, crazed violet tearing at the seams. Abbacchio lies back and lets the blood drip from the wound, lets the darkness overtake him. It’s peaceful. He’s always found company in the dark, it’s familiar. But this, this is warmer. Not the chill of a winter’s rain, but of a warm night, cloaked in shadow. His vision darkens.

When he opens his eyes again, it’s a bright blue sky that greets him, white, fluffy clouds floating by. It’s a beautiful sight, nothing like the darkness he’d expected. His death is beautiful. He’s staring out the window, seated at a gracious restaurant, the white tablecloth smooth beneath his fingertips, when he notices the man under his table, dressed in uniform. It’s dreamlike, when they speak, and the man tells him he’s searching for the truth. Abbacchio admits that he envies him, how he used to be the same way, time and circumstance warping and changing him. They walk together to the bus stop, and Abbacchio’s about to board when the man — his partner — stops him.

Don’t you remember, Leone?
This is your final stop.

Abbacchio’s funeral is held last. It’s the first thing that Don Giovanna commands when he ascends, that his former partners be honored in the fashion they deserve. Narancia Ghirga was laid to rest first, in a summer field that bloomed with sunflowers on the day of. Bruno Bucciarati was next, but it broke the hearts of the remainder of the team when Don Giovanna discovered that he had planned his place of rest already, having foreseen his own eventual fate. They send him out to sea, in waters as blue and as deep as his gaze. Leone Abbacchio is last.

Blooms of lilac adorn the grassy fields, violets and wildflowers swaying in the gentle wind. Petals and thistle scatter at the slightest touch with the first breath of spring. They’d loved him, as they did the others. Loved him an ardent shade of amaranthine, mourned him in dark violet, and lastly, accepted his passing with quiet wisteria, the color of his irises — half the lightness of lavender, half the brightness of the warm sun.

They remember him in contrast, from the tip of his heeled boots to the top of his silvery hair, inside and out. He’d lived and breathed and suffered, and still, lived with as much passion as he did when he was in his darkest depths. They bury him in white, the color of the driven snow, and lay violets across his grave. They cry for him, recalling his history and keeping his memory alive, the way he did for them.

In the end, Abbacchio’s remembered, but not as he’d once expected. He had once believed that his memory would be cursed, chided, by old flames and new enemies, not cherished and remembered fondly by those who had loved him most. They swear to carry on his legacy, and Don Giovanna leans at his grave to whisper a thank you to Abbacchio’s last gift, the gift that allowed him to become who he was now, who he had become.

They spend the day there, delighting in the way that springtime bursts into purple whorls of color — so reminiscent of Abbacchio. Before they leave, they turn around as if their names were called, like a whisper on the wind had murmured something. At sunset, the sky bleeds color, yellows and reds melting into blues and purples. In the last reaches of the sun, as they turn back to see the sky, the clouds arrange just-so, the figure of a man just barely visible in the dimming light.