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Chapter Text

2009  

Every morning for the past six months, Nicholas Vanian has taken his break at precisely eleven o’clock.

As reliably as the sun, he stands up from his desk and punches his clock, then walks through a drab beige hallway, turns down a set of stairs and opens a glass door to the street outside. Then he walks half a block to the little shop at the corner. He picks up a soda and a bag of chips, gives the gangly young cashier a five-dollar bill, and walks down an alley to the nearby park, where he arrives at his rickety metal bench overlooking the river as it flows beneath the Byway Bridge. Then he sits down, cracks open his cold drink, and watches the people pass by for the rest of his break. Without fail, it’s the highlight of his day. 

Even though Nick’s breaks always start the same way, he’s always pleasantly surprised by the slight differences from the previous day. Joggers, bikers, and dog walkers stride down the riverside in new configurations; occasionally, a teacher from the local public school takes their class outdoors, or a painter stands at an easel and quietly paints the bridge spanning the river.

The painters, especially, are rare; to Nick, they’re ethereal, mythical creatures. The way in which they effortlessly capture the cityscape with a few deliberate brushstrokes seems nothing short of miraculous. How can a person possibly reach that level of expression? When Nick’s break ends, and he returns to dim light and piles of paperwork, the marvel of the painters seems even more ephemeral and vastly further out of reach. 

The last break Nick Vanian will ever take starts off on an otherwise normal Monday. Outside, the air is balmy, tinged with early scents of summer. He steps outside, walks casually down the sidewalk, and pushes open the door to the corner shop. The cashier, absorbed in her bulky headphones, doesn’t notice his arrival. Nick reaches towards a brightly colored display rack, deftly plucking a bag of chips from and placing it on the counter alongside a cold can of soda. He pulls a five dollar bill from his pocket, clutching it in his fingers. 

The cashier unholsters the scanner without looking, skillfully swiping it over the barcodes. She punches something into the register, glances at it briefly, then turns her head back down and extends a hand towards Nick. “Five nineteen.” 

“Nineteen…?” Nick’s brow furrows. “Did the price, uh, change?”

The cashier doesn’t respond, letting her hand hang. 

“Uh, ma’am?” Nick reaches out a hand and snaps his fingers near the cashier’s face. 

“Huh?” With a harried sigh, the cashier presses the pause button on her iPod and takes off her headphones. She casts an indignant gaze on the strange man before her. “What’re you bothering me about, dude?”

“I’ve bought these exact items every weekday for the past six months, and today’s the first time they’ve cost more than five bucks. What gives? Did the store jack up the cost? Or was it inflation? Did they put a new soda tax into place, or…” His voice trails off. 

The cashier sighs again, shrugging with exaggerated weariness. “Mister, I get paid to scan whatever you put in front of me. Then I say the number on this machine, and take your money. You think I care when the numbers change?” 

“Argh…” Nick sighs, the momentary burst of indignation leaving as quickly as it came. He fumbles with his wallet, pulling out a quarter. The cashier graciously accepts his money, placing her headphones back on as she slides a nickel towards him. 

But Nick is already gone, pushing his way out of the store and down a nearby alley. The rhythm of the city accompanies him on his walk, the percussion of footsteps, hum of passing cars, and buzz of generators combining into a rising symphony. It seems to be a particularly harmonious day for everything but Nick.

The first strange occurrence to disturb Nick’s final break is the inexplicable price increase, which eats away at his mind as he walks. The second comes upon him in the alley. As Nick passes by a dumpster, he hears a chaotic clattering and banging within, followed by a decisive thump . He turns and sees a man hunched on the ground behind him. 

Nick takes two steps back apprehensively. “Sir, are you all right?”

“Urgh… No , I’m not ‘all right,’ you dick. Do I fucking look all right? I’m in shambles , dammit … ”

The man pushes himself to his feet. He’s tall, a few inches taller than Nick, and a curtain of shaggy, unkempt hair covers his eyes. Confusion slowly builds in Nick’s mind as he looks over the man’s outfit — a fancy white suit, complete with a white tie and white pants that looks like they were tailor-made by some designer house. But the suit jacket is torn, with one of its sleeves ripped off entirely, and his silk pants are encrusted in dirt and grime. Hardly proper care for such expensive clothes. 

“Eh? What’re you staring at me for, asshole? Didn’t anybody ever tell you that’s impolite?” The man brushes his greasy hair back, revealing sunken, wild eyes whose accusatory stare makes Nick uneasy. 

Nick scratches his head, considering how best to subtly back away. “Uhhh, can I… help you with anything?”

“Nobody ever helped me. I dragged myself up with my nails and fucking fingertips, you hear me? I took myself from my shithole up to the fucking top . I was the emperor of the world! But the floor collapsed out from under me. Fucking bosses. Fucking banks. Fucking pricks!” The man doubles over, punching the dumpster, then wincing in pain and clutching his fist. “God…”

“Jeez, I’m, uh, really sorry to hear that…” Nick takes another small step away from the man.  Stockbrokers… is he some investment banker? That’d explain the clothes…  

“You’re not sorry.” The man’s head snaps up, his bloodshot eyes locked on Nick like a starving tiger’s. “Nobody’s fucking sorry. You’re all liars, damn it!” From his ragged pocket, he pulls out a knife, brandishing it with vicious intent. The blade is chipped and the handle’s paint has peeled, but a stray beam of late-morning light gives the metal a vicious gleam that sends ice into Nick’s veins. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Nick raises his hands deferentially. “I don’t have any money on me, I swear—”

“Money?” The man’s eyes gleam with rage. “Fuck your money. You gave me a dream! You said I’d have a house and a car and all the women I could ever want! Where the fuck ARE THEY?!”  

Nick’s face screws up. “I don’t know! What the hell are you talking about? How would I take women from—”

“You’re just another one of them, you rotten fucking LIAR!” The man charges forwards towards Nick, whose legs suddenly feel like they’ve turned to lead. His eyes lock on the dull blade as he wills himself to move, defend, kick, punch, do anything , dammit! He raises an arm haphazardly, preparing to — 

“— Agh?!” Suddenly, the man’s ankle twists grotesquely. He trips to the side, and his head smashes into the dumpster with a sickening splurch , followed by a whump as he lands on the hard concrete. The knife falls from his hand, clattering against the ground uselessly. 

Nick’s heart pounds a steady march of adrenaline in his ears. He looks down at the man, clutching his eye and crying out in pain on the ground, and feels the fear and anger slowly dissipate. Disarmed, the man now appears pathetic, with lank hair and filthy clothes, his words of vitriol reduced to pathetic “aghs,” “ughs,” and groans of agony. 

Nick feels a perverse pity on the man. There’s a cruelty to his situation, some tragedy in being dropped from a conference room window straight into the trash. But at the same time, he can’t possibly empathize with the man, whose brain has been warped in ways he can’t imagine by luxury suits and penthouse suites.

Even when they’re at the same level, they still inhabit completely different worlds. 

Ugh! No need to waste more break time here. He sighs, turns around, and continues down the alleyway. 

As Nick approaches the park, he notices that his bench looks larger than usual. Slowly, a shape coalesces — the back of a man with graying hair, one arm draped lazily alongside the back of the bench. This is the first time someone else has sat on his bench. His step falters for a second as he considers his options, but he continues on. Nothing wrong with a little company. 

Nick casually takes a seat next to the man on his bench, giving his seatmate a side eye. The man has a flat nose and eyes sunk deep into his head, giving him the look of a thinker, but his roughly callused hands bely a lifetime of hard labor. He’s clad in a well-pressed dress shirt and spiffy jeans. He doesn’t acknowledge Nick’s presence, staring off into the distance pensively. He cracks open his soda and takes a swig. 

They sit in silence for a long, long moment. As Nick sips his drink, he feels his beating heart recede from his eardrums. The melodies of the birds and the river fill his ears, and for a blissful moment, all is right in Nick Vanian’s world. 

Suddenly, the old man nudges Nick. “Hey. See those trucks?” He points towards the bridge, and Nick leans forwards. Amidst the gridlock on the bridge, he can faintly make out three white trucks proceeding down the bridge, each with a distant insignia on their side. 

“Feds,” confirms the old man in a low, gruff tone. “They’re starting to crawl around the city. Saw ‘em while I was out walking yesterday.” 

“Why do you think they’re here?”

The old man shakes his head. “Crime reduction, most likely. Calling in emergency powers to help stop the situation in Center City.”

“Jeez.” Nick rubs his chin. “You think they’ll be able to help?”

“Sure, they’ll help. They always help.” The man chuckles. “But it’s who they’re helping that’s the problem.” 

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Center City and Finance Row will get served gourmet, while the other districts will keep licking up the scraps.” 

“But shouldn’t they make the crime situation get better? I mean, that’s what they specialize in, right?”

“Feh. Not much chance of that at all.” The old man smirks. “I remember being a young buck, protesting with my union buddies against the rich sacks of shit at the top. Our bonds were thicker than blood or mortar; we had the type of understanding you can only get through struggling for your life beside someone. When they called in the National Guard, we hoped they’d see reason and take our side. We were tight-knit, but we didn’t know shit. And now, well… no one’s formed a union in these parts for the past decade.”

He chuckles ruefully. “Christ. What the hell is this city coming to?”

Nick shakes his head and opens his mouth to speak, but can’t find an adequate reply. Instead, he turns his eyes towards the bridge. At this distance, the government trucks almost look like toy cars trapped in a miniature gridlock. The logo printed on each of their sides is shaped like a rising sun, with three letters printed beneath it. One of the trucks creeps forwards slightly as faint, tinny horns sound in the distance. 

He wonders what must be happening to cause a traffic jam this late in the morning. Is there some kind of parade in the city center? An accident, maybe? 

As Nick ponders the possibilities, a massive BANG! startles him, and he winces. Something flashes by the government trucks, and a white smoke cloud begins to rise. The sight makes Nick’s head throb; he puts a hand to his eye and grimaces. 

“What the hell?” mutters Nick’s benchmate, leaning in to get a better look. 

A louder, deeper BOOOOOOM resounds through the air, followed by the sound of glass shattering nearby. The bench rumbles slightly beneath the two men, the earth itself taken aback. Someone shouts in the distance. Someone else lays on their car horn. 

Then, slowly, right before Nick’s eyes, the bridge begins to fold.  

He uncovers his other eye, then rubs both in disbelief, but there’s no doubt about it — the bridge is bending down the middle like a piece of paper. Girders begin to groan and squeal as they bend downwards. Towers begin to tilt inwards towards each other. And slowly, inexorably, the gridlocked cars begin to slide down towards the middle of the bridge, bending it closer and closer to the water. 

As the cars closest to the center begin to fall into the water, the panicked drivers at the far sides frantically try to accelerate, but they have nowhere to go. Soon, cars are piled up at each end of the bridge. As the bridge crumples under them, they’re drawn towards the collapsing center, which gently spills them into the river. The bridge bends further and further inwards, sagging more and more, until — 

CRACK. 

Suddenly, the bridge reaches its limit, fully collapsing under the weight of the cars. Its girders crack like twigs as it plummets silently into the river below, settling with a low boom. 

All the while, the cloud of smoke continues to bubble and rise from the wreckage. It billows strangely, flowing upwards like an inverted waterfall. Gradually, it spirals up from the devastation, reaching inexorably towards the sky. 

Nick gazes upon the ruins of the Byway Bridge, his mouth agape. What stuns him most is the quietness of it all. No screams, no fire — just some stray engines revving and a few splashes, and it’s all over. It seems almost unreal, but panic begins to rise in his chest as he slowly realizes that no one is swimming to the surface.

What the hell happened…?! Was it a terrorist attack? Or an engineering failure? Or —

Nick hears a grunt from the man beside him. Slowly, he turns his head. The man’s eyes are crossed quizzically, gazing at a trickle of blood dripping down his nose. The man lifts a hand and brushes his face, staring at the blood dully. Blood leaks from the man’s mouth as he wipes a red tear from his eye. 

He shakes his head incredulously and turns to Nick. “C-Can you… b-believe… thish?” Blood pours from his lips as he chuckles and gestures at his face. “It’sh… that goddam…” He nods towards the smoke cloud; his arm falls limp at his side as he stares with dull, stony eyes, an incredulous smirk etched into his face. 

Nick looks on in shock. Slowly, he forces himself to get to his feet and back away from the bench. But his eyes have locked themselves on the scene — try as he might, he cannot bring himself to look away. 

All the blood in the man’s body now moves with a unified will, fighting to evacuate itself out through the man’s face. He sighs heavily, exhaling rivulets of blood past his lip, which drip onto his lap and his clasped hands. His eyes, his nose, his mouth, even his ears — great gouts of blood begin to gush out of them, soaking into his clothes and staining the bench. 

The scene is too grisly for even the most brutal murder — a natural disaster, maybe, or the vengeance of some angry god. Nick raises his hands in front of his face, shutting his eyes tightly behind them, but he can still hear the blood gushing like a faucet, tauntingly drip-drip-dripping through the cracks in the bench. He mutters “Fuck…” through gritted teeth, begging, praying, hoping against hope for it to cease. 

Eventually, the dripping slows, then finally stops. Silence slowly falls over the park.

Fearing what he’ll see, Nick opens his eyes onto the scene, then shuts them quickly, but it’s too late — the sight is etched into his consciousness. 

A blood-covered body now sits sprawled on the bench, its dull eyes gazing at nothing in particular. Blood soaks the well-worn clothes; blood stains the wood of the bench; blood sullies the grass on the ground, soaking into the earth. The only unstained part of the body is the silver-gray hair, rising like a stony island from a sea of red. 

Bile rises in Nick’s throat; he turns to his side, hunches over, and vomits onto the ground. Between retches, it dawns on him that he didn’t even know the dead man’s name. Tears come to his eyes as he chuckles at the absurdity. Dead, in the most violent, disgusting way possible, and Nick doesn’t even know his name. 

“Jesus, I-I’m so sorry. I just… God…”

As an exhausted Nick looks past the man and towards the wrecked bridge he realizes the rhythm of the city has gone eerily silent. No sirens, no shouts — just a silence that seems to cover everything. In a faraway distance, someone screams, followed by a loud, fiery fwoom . An invisible, thick presence seems to flow from the ruined bridge, crackling through the air.

Nick feels something strangely cool brushing against his skin. He looks down, and his eyes widen in terror. 

“Oh, fuck…”  

A shroud of inky darkness surrounds Nick Vanian’s lower body. Black clouds billow slowly from the sleeves of his shirt and the bottoms of his pant legs, collecting around him in a nebulous mass. He waves his hand through the cloud, trying to disperse it, but it moves out of the way of his swipe and enshrouds his hand. In a panic, Nick tries to step backwards and run away, but he feels the cold presence rising in his throat. He coughs up the blackness from wherever it’s flowing inside of him. 

Staring into the spreading darkness, a terrible conclusion enters Nick’s mind. It’s happening to me, too. He’s drowning in darkness just like the man was drowned by his blood. The same something is devouring them both. 

He screams. All that comes out from his mouth is darkness. 

The cloud has completely covered Nick. No light reaches his skin; he has been surrounded. He reaches a hand out into the dark cloud, waving it in front of his face, but all he sees is a wall of implacable blackness. The dark has swallowed him whole. 

In a blind panic, Nick falls to his knees, scrabbling around on the dark ground. Am I dying? Is this hell? Please, please, please, somehow, get me out of here, stop—  

Suddenly, he freezes. 

Something is standing behind him in the darkness. 

— — —

The wind slowly begins to pick up once more, rustling the grass of the silent park. In the steady breeze, the black haze crumbles away, disintegrating into nothingness. Finally, under the light, the last shreds of darkness melt away. But nothing is left behind; Nick Vanian has vanished off the face of the earth. 

In the distance, sirens blare. The waves lap at the concrete riverbanks, but no birds sing in the trees. The strange plume of smoke has become a cloud, which is dispersed by the wind; from behind it, the sun emerges once more, shining brightly on the devastation. The rhythm of the city has changed once and for all. 

It will never be the same again. 

Chapter Text

2010

Thirteen months later

One solitary car horn cuts through the thick noonday air, casting the nearby pigeons into disorder. Their gray wings beat through the air, briefly overpowering the rhythm of the block as they settle themselves momentarily. Once more the horn blares, and the pigeons rise up again in a living, flapping wave, seeking a more peaceful perch. 

In the center of the crosswalk, the man in the suit stops, slips a badge out of his pocket, and hoists it with a flourish, a smile splitting his face. “Government business, pal!” 

The driver channels his vitriol into a stare that could boil ice, laying on the horn one final time. The man in the suit’s smile curls into a sneer. He chuckles, shakes his head, and crosses the road, turning his head back to the sidewalk ahead of him as the driver zooms away. What an asshole. People have no goddamn patience anymore… 

This morning, the weather forecasters declared that today would be “unseasonably hot.” They were right on the money. The few pedestrians on the street furtively duck between shadows, while the looming skyscrapers seem to wilt like steel roses in the heat haze. 

The man in the suit raises a hand and expunges a bead of sweat from his forehead. Prime operating conditions, he thinks to himself. On days like this, the hatreds that people keep locked inside themselves always bubble to the surface. Makes his job a heck of a lot more entertaining, that’s for sure.

The man counts the stores as he passes by them. Two restaurants, Italian and Indian. Three clothes shops, one a world-renowned designer and one hawking an underground brand made by local college kids. A hardware store with a crag-faced cashier who looks out at passersby with derision in his eyes. A glitzy beauty shop, makeup and wigs displayed in the windows, flaunting a shining buffet of new faces. Miraculous times we live in, he murmurs, that all of these cultures and lifestyles can coexist.

He wonders what life was like in the city before spaghetti and meatballs. A true-blue tragedy, that working men in ages past were born, lived, and died without ever once tasting the blessed union of tomato sauce, pasta, and beef. He might shed a tear, if he wasn’t on the clock. 

Soon, the man spots his destination, a squat apartment building whose blocky edifice oozes mundanity, thirstily draining opportunity from the houses around it. It could have been constructed anytime from the fifties to the eighties; its flat facade gives no hints towards its age, or even the intentions of its developers beyond building something vaguely habitable. 

Three rough-looking youths sit in the shade outside the complex, waiting for something worthy of their attention to transpire. One of them, a blond kid, toys with a knife and glares suspiciously at the man. 

The man waves. “Heya, pal. Whatcha up to?”

“None of your business, freak,” replies the youth curtly, twirling the knife between his fingers. 

“It's not a good idea to play with knives, pal. Might end up cutting yourself.”

“Fuck off, he said,” chimes one of the youth’s friends helpfully. 

The man shrugs, his smile curling into a smirk. “Feh. Suit yourself.” He walks on, placidly humming a tuneless melody. 

He pushes open the door to the apartment, which merely returns a pathetic squeak. The interior of the building is no less depressing than the outside, with tacky brown-and-gray tiling patterning the floors, clinical elevators, and the air conditioning systems’ drone, which resembles that of a hornet’s nest. The door shuts behind him with a pithy thud . 

An elderly receptionist studying a book behind a short, squat desk looks up at the man through thick-rimmed glasses. “May I help you, son?” she asked. 

The man’s face brightens, his eyes sparkling like diamonds. “Funny you asked, ma’am — as a matter of fact, you can . Who lives in room 212?”

The receptionist’s eyes narrow. The man’s linebacker frame, his suit jacket (complete with with mysterious insignias on the breast, no less), his slicked-back hair, dark eyes and ominous grin — none notable alone, but together they seem like a warning sign, with big bold letters, that blares UNTRUSTWORTHY.

She warily responds, “Now what do you need that for?”

The man reaches into his jacket and pulls out his badge, displaying it to the woman. “Bureau of Containment, ma’am. Vital to an ongoing investigation of a suspected terrorist. Now, who is currently residing in room 212?” 

The woman’s eyebrows raise. “Sounds quite serious. If you’re with the government, son, I’ll need to see a warrant.” 

“Oh-ho! A good point, ma’am. But due to current circumstances, we in the Bureau aren’t required to serve warrants, especially with the extensively reasonable suspicion this case affords us. Could you at least tell me who pays room 212’s rent?”

The receptionist shuts her book with a thud . “Son, do you know what the Fourth Amendment is?”

The man chuckles. “Afraid not. Suppose you’ll have to jog my memory, ma’am.”

“I taught American history in public school for thirty years. I had to recite our God-given rights to snot-nosed kids, and God, I got to know every last one of ‘em. I know the Bill of Rights better than my ABCs. And wouldn’t you know it, the Fourth Amendment guarantees our tenants ‘protection from unreasonable search and seizure.’ I don’t care if you’re with ‘the Bureau,’ the police, the Marines, or Santa Claus — you legally cannot search our premises without a warrant.”

The woman rocks back in her chair, deeply satisfied with the putdown. 

“Ma’am.” The man’s grin widens even further. “We are investigating a terrorist, and you’re accusing us of violating your constitutional rights? The only thing we want from you is the name of the resident of room 212.”

She doesn’t respond. They stare each other down, their gazes cutting knife-sharp through the air. The air conditioner thrums dully in the background, but the sticky-hot air only seems to thicken. The man waits, patiently, unblinkingly, not even moving a muscle. 

Squeak.  

The receptionist’s gaze flicks to the door as it slowly opens. Three young delinquents casually saunter through, predatorily encircling the man in the suit, who stands stock-still. Trouble seems to be brewing. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing here, huh?” The blond-haired kid throws a nasty side-eye at the man, who doesn’t blink, his gaze as solid as stone. 

“Hey. He asked you a question, dick.” A kid with shoulder-length, greasy red hair shoves the man’s shoulder, then staggers back slightly. He casts a shocked glance to the black-haired kid next to him, who stares back at him, confused. 

“Dude. That guy didn’t even flinch!”

“For real? Fuckin’ lardy.” He turns his eyes to the solid man, his lips curling into a sneer. “Are we not worth your time, asshole?” He waits a beat, then rocks his fist back and lets a brutal punch fly. 

Crack . 

“AAAAAGH!” The kid falls backwards onto his ass and cradles his hand, his wrist bent at a nauseating angle. His face screws up in agony as his friend rushes to his side. “Are you okay, dude?”

“Fuck! I hit him, but my hand broke?! Did he block it that fast? Or… aaaagh…”

“You fuckin’ prick.” The blond kid reaches into his pocket, revealing a wicked-looking knife, which gleams dully in the weak fluorescent light. He stares derisively at the man, whose gaze pierces past him towards the horrified receptionist. The grin plastered onto the man’s face now very much resembles a rictus. 

The kid turns the knife in his right hand, coolly staring at the man before him. “You think you’re so badass? I’ll break your goddamn composure…” He tosses the knife to his left hand, then jumps forwards and viciously stabs. 

Shink. 

The kid’s fist falters, stopped a millimeter above the man’s skin. Suddenly, the blade slips from his grasp, cartwheeling through the air. It lands, stabbing next to his eye and slicing into his forehead. After sticking out of the flesh for a brief moment, it falls, clattering to the ground. 

The kid claps a hand to his face and emits a guttural cry of pain, falling to his knees. 

“Shit! Guys —” The red-haired kid grabs both of his groaning friends by the shoulders and pushes them back, frantically retreating. The door squeaks open once more. The kid pushes his injured friends outside. He casts one terrified glance back towards the implacable man, then disappears. 

The receptionist looks after the boys, her face as white as a sheet. Those kids couldn’t even touch him? She turns her head back towards the man. Slowly, a dark chill runs down her spine. 

Throughout the kids’ intimidation and failed assault, the man has not moved a single muscle.

His gaze bores into the receptionist’s head, his smile a thin veil over a void of ice. She watches, paralyzed, as his face begins to move, and his grinning lips slowly part. 

“Do you know what crimes the resident of room 212 is suspected of, ma’am? You may have heard of the Pearl Café incident, a few months ago, but you don’t know the full story. I was one of the first responders to the scene. It was horrific. Five innocent civilians lost their lives — maimed, cut, blown up. One had her chest sliced open from collarbone to pelvis.” A terrible light seems to enter the man’s eyes. “From the inside.”  

The receptionist gulps. “O-Oh. Oh, dear…”

“Now. I will ask you only once more. Only one more time, ma’am.”

He leans forwards and down, until he’s at the receptionist’s eye level. 

“Who lives in room 212?”

“U-Um…” With a shaking hand, the receptionist turns to her computer and punches in a few numbers. “The person living in room 212 is named… Jovan Jorgensen.”

The man places a hand to his chin. He sounds the name out like a foreign word. “Jovan Jorgensen…”

“Huh?” 

The man’s head swivels towards the voice, and the receptionist follows his gaze. A casually dressed young man with unkempt hair stands outside the elevator door, which shuts behind him with a weak ding . The man’s alert eyes dart back and forth between the receptionist and the man in the suit. He continues. “Um, 212’s my apartment… What’s happening here?”

The man in the suit stares, his smile deepening. “…You’re Jovan Jorgensen?”

“Ehh, yeah?” The man’s brow furrows. “Why’re you asking, man?”

The suited man chuckles darkly. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jorgensen. Could I call you JoJo? My name is Kurt Vandyke, and I’m an administrator for the Bureau of Containment. I’m taking you into custody for Stand-related—”

“Nope! Nope! Fuck you! Nope!” Jovan turns around and books it down the hallway, his spindly legs carrying him at high speeds.

“Shit!” mutters Vandyke, his smile briefly narrowing. He leaps after the man, his steps rattling the tile floors. 

After a short sprint down the corridor, Jovan ducks down a hallway to the side, his gait as stiff and awkward as a scarecrow’s. Vandyke follows shortly after, charging down the hallway like a linebacker and blasting open the door off his hinges with a shoulder. 

He stops in an alleyway and turns to his right. Jovan Jorgensen stands about fifteen feet in front of him, his face shadowed by the sun’s angle.

The awkwardness from the man’s gait is gone; he stands straight up, staring derisively down his nose at Vandyke. 

“Get a load of this bullshit. A wholeass admin from the Bureau of Containment, for little ol’ me. Did you get sick of your little minions being useless sacks of garbage? Decided to take me out yourself, huh?”

“Despite what you perpetrated against those civilians in the Pearl Café, pal, I merely plan to take you in . We at the Bureau are not wanton killers. We will never, ever stoop to your level.” Vandyke takes a step towards Jovan, his smile deepening. 

Jovan ignores the gibe. “I figured, y’know, if I ever met one of you admins, I’d have a neat one-liner, y’know? Some witty banter before I tear you to fuckin’ shreds. But I’m really not good at prepping cool lines ahead of time. So let’s get right to it…”

Jovan takes a deep breath, a hazy blue presence appearing at his side. He shouts, “Fuck him up, Goodbye Blue Sky!”  

Suddenly, the ground begins to boil beneath Vandyke’s feet as steam rapidly springs up from the ground. He leaps backwards just in time as several concrete spikes sprout upwards from the ground. One stabs through his pant leg, gashing his calf. 

Vandyke grits his teeth behind his smiling lips. “Tch!” 

Jovan smirks. “Whoops! That was kinda nasty of me. If it makes you feel better, I’ll give you one more opportunity to figure out my Stand ability. But after that, it’s over for you!”

This kid’s ability… it can warp the earth around him? It has a good bit of range. I’ll wait a bit more before I activate my Stand… Vandyke takes a step back. Something whooshes above him; he looks up and sees a chunk of concrete falling from the sky — directly above his head. 

“Whoops — I lied!” crows Jovan. “Goodbye Blue Sky, PULVERIZE HIM!”  

Vandyke jabs his fist into the air above him. A black gauntlet sweeps around his arm, and the concrete block shatters against its knuckles, scattering rocks against the ground. He pulls his hand back down, and the gauntlet dissipates. 

Besides Jovan, the blue Stand manifests fully and launches a devastating hook at Vandyke, who raises his other arm to guard. Before contact, a hole on the Stand’s hand opens up, ejecting a massive cloud of gas from its palm. 

Vandyke recoils at the smell. Gasoline?!

Jovan pulls a lighter out of his pocket, taking two steps back. “You’re strong, but you were destined to lose from the start, Kurt Vandyke! Goodbye Blue Sky’s ability is to ‘sublimate items’ into a gaseous state! I’ve placed a gallon of kerosene directly onto your body — and you have no chance of escaping!” 

Vandyke’s eyes widen, and he rocks back on his heels. “You vile rat…!”

Jovan flicks on the lighter with a click . “Burn in hell, you sack of shit! LONG LIVE THE MILLION!” He hurls the lighter at Vandyke and ducks. 

FWOOM.  

The air explodes into a roaring inferno. As Jovan shields his eyes from the blast, he sees Vandyke’s unmoving silhouette, briefly illuminated in the flash of heat. 

The blast passes just as quickly as it came, and acrid smoke fills the air. Jovan smirks. “Didn’t even bust out your Stand, huh? Walk in the fuckin’ park. Scary how he shattered that brick, though…” 

Silence falls for a second in the alleyway. Then, slowly, a dark chuckle echoes from the center of the smoke.

“…Huh?” 

Jovan Jorgensen squints his eyes, peers through the fading cloud — and sees his enemy, standing stock-still and appearing very much alive. 

Vandyke’s entire body is now covered in shiny black armor that encases him in a spherical shell. A cartoonish, taunting smile covers the front of his armor. His face is concealed by a helmet embedded into the sphere, but Jovan instinctively knows that within the suit, the man’s implacable grin has only deepened.

“What the fuck are you made of…?” mutters Jovan. 

Vandyke continues to chuckle. “Ahahaha… I’ll give you this, pal — that was a creative little gimmick you pulled. I see how you managed to befuddle us now; it’s quite the frightening Stand. But unfortunately, you can’t hurt me.” 

He leans forwards ever-so-slightly, and Jovan feels a chill down his spine. 

“Listen closely, boy: No force in the universe can subvert my Nirvana.”

Vandyke stomps forwards and launches a thunderous hook;  Jovan frantically pulls his Stand back towards himself and raises his arm to guard. Nirvana’s fist brutally smashes into Goodbye Blue Sky’s forearm. 

A sickening crack resounds through the air, and Jovan winces in agony. My arm…?! How powerful is this guy’s Stand, anyway?!   He reels back, pointing and calling “Goodbye Blue Sky!”  

Two iron spikes form out of thin air and fall downwards towards Vandyke, but bounce off his Stand’s bubble-like armor. Vandyke steps forwards without even flinching. 

Jovan takes one more step back, grits his teeth, and extends his Stand’s hand. A thick metal staff forms in its fist.  Jovan grips the rod with both fists, hefts it back onto his shoulder — and swings for the fences. 

TONG.

The makeshift bat dents against Vandyke’s helmet, bending backwards at a ninety-degree angle. Vandyke merely snickers. “Heh. ‘Am I a dog, that you should come to me with sticks?’”

Jorgensen reels from the backlash, tripping over. He scrambles backwards, his face screwing up in terror, as he cries out, “Impale him! Crush him! Tear him up! Shiiit!”  

Around Vandyke, a hail of stone, iron, and plastic forms in midair. Spikes and bricks rain from the air above him. Every single projectile violently clangs off his Stand, ricocheting into the walls of the alley and scattering against the ground. 

Jovan quivers. “You — You! — What the FUCK is your Stand power?!” 

Vandyke cocks his suited head. “I explained it quite clearly already, didn’t I? Remember this, pal: your little organization will never, in a million lifetimes, match up to us.”  

“I’ll show you how ‘little’ we are!” Rage fills Jovan’s eyes. “Eat —”

Vandyke steps in and swings a vicious hook, which hits Goodbye Blue Sky’s head with a thunderous whack.  

Jorgensen reels back, grimacing in pain. Before his eyes, fireworks and bright colors explode in a cavalcade. He grits his teeth and steels himself, struggling to gain a mental grip on his Stand. “B-Bastard…! Goodbye Blue Sky, r-release…” 

He places a hand out to steady himself, but blinks in confusion. The world around him blurs into indistinct shapes; the ground beneath him is a roiling, amorphous sea. It feels like a red-hot knife is searing into his brain. 

Vandyke grabs onto the collar of Jorgensen’s graphic tee, firmly holding him in place. “The battle is over. Nirvana has crushed your ability entirely. Now surrender — you are in the custody of the Bureau of Containment.”

Jorgensen touches a hand to his head and gazes at Vandyke’s smiling mask with unfocused eyes. His mouth opens, slurring, “You… r-rotten …” His knees buckle beneath him, and he crumples to the ground in a heap. Goodbye Blue Sky’s empty eyes gaze at Vandyke as it breaks apart, scattering like dust into the wind. 

Vandyke nudges Jovan with his foot. “I said you lost. Get up, pal. We’re going to take you into custody now… Hey.”

He leans down and places a hand on Jorgensen’s neck. It’s warm, but his pulse is completely gone, snuffed out as abruptly and totally as a candle. 

Vandyke places a hand to his face, terror seizing his body. “Goddamnit…!”

Every person’s fate is, to varying extent, impacted by their genetics. For instance, tendencies towards mental illness, heart disease, and cancer are capable of being hereditary, and can scourge a family lineage over generations. Importantly, a very small minority of people are genetically predisposed to weak blood vessels in the brain. This has no effect on day-to-day life, but these people are drastically more likely to have a lethal intracranial aneurysm triggered upon a blow to their head. 

Jovan Jorgensen is one of these unfortunate individuals — and now a single blow from Nirvana has ended his life. 

Faced by the horror of this revelation, Vandyke kneels, hand on Jorgensen’s neck, as Nirvana disappears back into his body. The smile has melted away, leaving a stunned, vacant expression. His left eye twitches. 

He takes a deep breath, regaining his composure and slowly runs through what he’s just discovered. The Pearl Café killer is named Jovan Jorgensen. His Stand’s name is Goodbye Blue Sky, and it turns things into gas. I have killed him with one punch. 

I may have just started a war with the Million. 

The chief is going to be unbelievably disappointed.

His mind wracked with terrible possibilities, Vandyke stands up. As he reaches into his pocket and grasps his phone, he turns towards the exit to the alley — then stops, his blood turning to ice. 

Standing at the end of the alley is a figure silhouetted by the sun — a young man clad in a torn black jacket, with something resembling webbing under the arms, and khaki shorts held up by a raggedy belt. His shirt bears a simplistic pattern of an orange sun on a dark blue background. He lifts his hands up deferentially, light reflecting off his sunglasses.

“Hey, man, not gonna ask. Not my business. I didn’t see anything, yeah?” 

How long was he standing there? Is he a Stand user? How much did he see…?! Vandyke looks down at Jovan’s blank-eyed corpse, then back up at the figure. This is not a good look, Kurt, he hears the chief administrator chide. You’d better clean this shit up…  

He points one thick finger towards the kid. “Stay right there, pal.”

“Look, man, I don’t even know you. No need to make this a big thing. I’m just gonna, uh, forget this happened.” The kid slowly backs away.

“Stay. The fuck. There.” Slowly, Vandyke rises to his feet, his heart pounding. “I’m taking you into custody. Government orders.”

“Dude, uh, I don’t really think we need to —”

Vandyke moves. “Nirvana!” Black armor sweeps over his body once more as he surges down the alley, his feet stomping cracks into the hard concrete. 

“Oh, shit!” The kid’s eyes widen as he sees the smiling suit sprinting towards him. He awkwardly fumbles with something tucked into his waistband. He pulls a plasticky device out and points it towards Vandyke. Not a gun — some sort of taser?

Whatever it is, it’s useless. He prepares himself to grapple the figure. With Nirvana, nothing could possibly stop — 

“Electriclarryland!"

A stringy something shoots out from the kid’s device, quickly entangling Vandyke’s upper body. Spiderwebs? He pushes outwards against the bindings, attempting to bulldoze through them, but the mesh snaps back against Nirvana, locking him in place. 

For a second, Vandyke stops out of sheer disbelief. Restraining Nirvana? How? My ability is unstoppable!

He pushes outwards once more, and once more the mesh snaps back on him. The kid’s footsteps slap against the concrete as he books it away from the scene. 

After pushing out once more to no avail, Vandyke deactivates Nirvana, preparing to untangle himself the regular way. But as his Stand disappears, the material falls through his body, slipping through the ground itself — returning to wherever it came from, maybe.

Vandyke turns his head out of the alleyway, watching the kid frantically tear down the street. Slowly, a genuine grin begins to creep across his face. He lets it bloom, spreading from cheek to rosy cheek.

That was a Stand power? That was positively stunning… He’s never encountered an ability that could contend with his own — and from a completely unregistered Stand user? This could be one hell of an asset. His eyes gleam just thinking about it. Yes, it all works out perfectly! He’ll snag an ‘eye,’ call on a contractor in the area, and get them to give the guy the standard pitch, just as soon as he manages to clean up this —

His smile shrinks as he remembers the dead Stand user laying behind him in the alleyway. Ugh. Ah, well. Best to deal with the problem head-on. 

As he steps out of the alleyway, he pulls out his phone and dials a number, putting it to his ear. 

“Hello?… Morning, Chief. You’re not gonna like what I’m about to ask…”

— — — — — 

Stand: Goodbye Blue Sky

User: Jovan Jorgensen (Deceased)

— A Stand that can sublimate any inorganic item into gas. It can also revert this transformation whenever the user wills it, which permits the user to move heavy objects and shape transformed materials into barriers and spikes. Goodbye Blue Sky itself has a range of three meters, but its gaseous creations can remain transformed out to thirty. 

— Sublimated objects retain their material characteristics; for instance, gas made from iron will be attracted to magnets, while gas made from kerosene will be flammable. Goodbye Blue Sky’s arms also contain gas tanks, which can store and eject large quantities of its gas. 

— Jovan possessed a very versatile Stand, born from a powerful contempt for the status quo and lust for change. Relentless idealism made him a force to be reckoned with. But against a force that transcends the inviolable, even the strongest desires will dissipate into nothingness. 

Chapter Text

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit…”

Ed Henderson casts a frantic glance behind him as he ducks around a corner. Blood-red panic discolors his vision as his ratty sneakers slap against the pavement. He’s convinced that at any moment, the guy in black will come tearing after him, bursting through a wall or leaping from a roof. 

Jesus. That guy fucking killed that other dude — iced the bastard with one punch! And next, he’s gonna kill Ed! Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT…  

Ed looks over his shoulder once again. He can’t see the guy, but that doesn’t mean jack when he’s in a magic suit of armor that lets him fuckin’ leap across the ground! 

Shit, dude! Today was going so well, too. Just a nice, normal day, then all of a sudden —  

THWACK.  

Ed’s train of thought violently derails as he smashes head-on into someone else running the opposite way. The other person collapses to the sidewalk as Ed staggers, stars wheeling before his eyes. 

“Oww, shit…” Ed places a hand to his nose, feeling a small trickle of blood. He feels his heart pounding in his ears and takes a slow, shaky breath; slowly, he latches onto a nearby garbage can and pulls himself up from the ground. 

He looks down at the person he ran into. “Jeez, I’m really sorry about that. Are you okay?”

The person stares balefully up at Ed, growling, “You piece of shit!”   

Half their face is obscured behind a bandana, the rest by a hood, and their clothing is incriminatingly dark. One hand is clutched to their face, and a weathered leather purse dangles from the other; Ed gets the sense it’s not a family heirloom. 

“Stop! Thieeeef!”  

An elderly woman dodders around the corner, crying out in a sandpapery voice. She waves a cane in the air, walking as fast as her hip mobility will permit her. Her weathered face is wrinkled not only by age, but by blind fury, her eyes laser-focused on the bandana wearer through inch-thick glasses and her mouth, twisted, spews all the vitriol accumulated over the years. “Give me back my money, you lousy scoooundrel!”  

Ed’s gaze snaps to the old woman, then back down to the masked figure. His eyes narrow as he raises his taser slightly. “Is that purse what I think it is?”

The bandit looks back at Ed in confusion. “The fuck do you mean, ‘think it is?’ It’s a purse, dipshit.”

“You know what I mean! You stole it, didn’t you?” Ed grabs onto the purse with one hand, clutching his taser in the other. 

“Duh! Jackass!” The thief grabs tightly onto the purse, then yanks it backwards in retaliation. They struggle for a second, locked in a stalemate. In the midst of their struggle, Ed places his thumb on the button of the taser and presses it down with a deliberate click . 

The thief’s body tenses, anticipating some kind of zap, but nothing happens. The fuck? They furrow their brow, getting a tighter grip on the bag, refusing to surrender their rightful loot to such a toothless bluff. 

The pair struggle over the purse for a tense second, yanking back and forth. Ed steadily gets the upper hand, grabbing onto one of the straps and tugging it tighter, as the old woman rapidly approaches the thief, muttering expletives, her cane clutched menacingly high in the air. 

Suddenly, the thief grabs the purse, hugs it tightly to their chest, and rams their body full-on into Ed. “Yeowch!” Ed cries out in pain, sprawling onto the pavement. 

The thief sprints away, the purse clutched firmly in their grasp. They crow “Sucker!” tauntingly over their shoulder as their footsteps slowly slap down the sidewalk, receding into the distance. 

“RATS!” The old woman slows down, then stops to take a breath, slamming her cane against the ground in frustration. “Rrrrgh! You rapscallion… you lousy sack of thieving scum…”

Ed springs to his feet once more and walks up to the woman, clutching something in his right fist. “Don’t worry, ma’am —”

“Useless boy! ” The old woman’s eyes flash with contempt. She lifts her wooden cane up with stoic determination, then — come on, seriously? — swings it back down hard towards Ed’s head. 

Ed blocks the blow with his left arm, wincing. “Ma’am, please —”

“Why didn’t you zap that rotten thief?! Or punch the lousy bastard in the head!?!” The woman whacks Ed viciously, each blow landing with righteous fury. “You could’ve stopped him! You could’ve saved me everything I had! But now it’s gone… It’s all gone…” The cane sags, then clatters to the ground as tears begin to well up in the woman’s eyes.

“Ma’am, please listen to me, okay? Look…” Ed lifts his clenched fist and turns it upside down, revealing two thick wads of hundred-dollar bills, each bound with a rubber band. They’re suspended in a shimmery mesh dangling from Ed’s hand, lending them almost an air of contraband. 

Behind her Coke-bottle glasses, the woman’s eyes bulge in unrestrained surprise. “M-My advance… When — How did you —”

Ed raises a finger, cutting the woman off mid-sentence. He glances over his shoulder once more, then leans in furtively.  “Now look, I don’t know how the hell you managed to get this much cash, or what you’re planning to do with it, and really, I don’t think I want to know. But I got it, so, uh, here ya go. All yours.” 

He carefully removes the bills from the mesh, then presses them into the woman’s bony hand. Before she has the chance to react, he dashes off down the street once more, each long step gobbling up vast chunks of sidewalk.

The woman looks after him, her gaze a combination of wonder and confusion. What a thoroughly strange boy. 

As he sprints off, Ed clicks the button of his taser once more, and the tail of mesh hanging from the barrel of his taser snaps off, melting into the balmy air. He grins at the thought of that thief opening the bag. What’ll be inside it — breath mints, lipstick, old magazines? Heh. For that jerk, crime’s definitely not gonna pay. 

Ed can’t afford to dwell on that piece of shit right now. He’s got more important things to focus on — like his own survival! That guy could be catching up any minute now! Even in the unrelenting heat, he shivers at the thought. Gotta keep running. 

At the next corner, he stops on a dime and darts across the street. A driver slams on the brakes and blares their horn at him in frustration. Ed turns his head and hollers “Sorry!” as he gracelessly leaps onto the nearby sidewalk, hopping carefully over a homeless veteran that stares up at him with a hollow, resigned gaze.

A snazzy hotel door faces the street; Ed furtively ducks through it. The cool touch of the central AC caresses his skin, a brief, blissful respite from the sweaty heat. He politely brushes past the doorman, his feet dully thudding against the thick carpet, as he runs past the elevators and takes a few quick turns. At the end of a hallway lit by shitty fluorescent lights, he slams the exit door open, stepping out into the sweaty day once more.

Behind the hotel, Ed stops, turns, and catches his breath. Mentally, he kicks himself. Why the fuck did he stop by that alley? Why did he stand by and gawk at that guy getting socked in the head? He should’ve just walked past, but no, he couldn’t turn away! And now, even if that crazy fucking guy isn’t chasing him anymore, he still knows Ed’s face. Who knows what connections he has, or how far he’ll go?

Ed’s the only witness to a fucking murder.  

Shit.  

Ed takes a breath and squeezes the hard plastic grip of his taser for comfort. Through gritted teeth, he mutters, “Get a hold of yourself, man.” 

Ugh. Well, if the guy’s lost him, he’s probably in the clear for now. Ah, Christ, work can wait — someone else can fill in for his deliveries just fine. The easy move here is to return home, relax, and prepare for if the guy comes after him. His head feels clearer, but he still gnaws on one of his nails as he steps back out to the street. 

The city is calm in the stifling heat, like a giant dozing in the sun. Ed sticks to the shade, glancing furtively around him, as he methodically charts the fastest way back home. As he thinks, his eyes slowly drift to the birds above. They dance like whirling zephyrs in the bright blue sky, lazily tracing circles in the sticky air. He wonders how the city appears from up there, where all the lives bustling below look like nothing more than ants. It’d be a beautiful view, but at the same time, it’d feel lonely to see exactly how small he is. 

After walking a few blocks, Ed notices something strange. He’s walked through this neighborhood a few times, where he always cuts through an empty lot paved with cracked concrete. Every time he walks through the lot, Ed wonders why nobody has built anything on it. It’s a good space for real estate. It’s within a car ride, a subway fare, or even a brisk walk from Center City and its amenities. A business could find a foothold in the lot, or a family could live in a happy home. 

But it remains unbuilt every day for years, a depressing blight facing the street, an opportunity squandering itself in real time. Whenever Ed passes through it, his heart breaks at the tragedy, but as soon as he reaches the next street, the lot evaporates from his mind, disappearing among the thousand other abandoned lots and decrepit buildings populating the city. 

Today, though, it seems as if the lot has finally been put to use. In fact, a veritable jungle has sprung up; tall oak trees brush the neighboring buildings and dense shrubbery crowds the lower area. Nearby birds alight upon the trees, frolicking in the blissful shade. Ed marvels at the site’s rapid transformation. Has it become a community garden? Or did some rich clown buy out the lot and import some crazy plants? 

Whatever the case, it’s directly on Ed’s way home, and it’s a perfect day for some shade. There’s no reason not to take a look. He steps off the sidewalk and strides into the trees. 

Almost immediately, Ed realizes he’s made the right decision. It’s the perfect time of day to take a walk in the grove; just after noon, the sun filters through the leaves of the trees, covering the ground in spots of light amidst oceans of shade and lending an almost dreamlike quality to the glade. The leaves of the trees part in the center, casting an almost perfect circle of light directly in the middle of the lot, causing the grass and flowers to almost shine in the light. In the middle of a concrete desert, the verdant oasis seems all the greener. 

“Hey, what the fuck, dude?” A voice rings out from the trees, breaking Ed out of his reverie. 

“Huh?” Ed turns his head, then nearly jumps. Up above him to his left, a shadowy figure perches in a large hammock stretched between trees, gazing downwards at Ed. 

“Do I have to spell it out for ya?” The figure places a hand on his hammock and tilts it backwards, dropping down between branches until he lands, catlike, on the ground. Slowly, he rises to his feet, lifts his head, and tosses Ed a look of utter scorn. 

The kid is young, late teens or early twenties — around Ed’s age. He’s clad in a ratty white tank top, covered by a green piece of fabric vaguely resembling a vest; it’s held together by thin vines, which wind from the vest down to his calf-length gray jeans. He wears a backwards-turned baseball cap on top of his head, and he idly chews on a stalk, giving him a vaguely hickish appearance. The lines of his face and the sheen of his shoulder-length blond hair seem to convey a deep disgust, directed at nothing and everything. He looks down his nose at Ed, his blue eyes seething with unbridled contempt. “Do you randomly walk into peoples’ homes often, asshole?”

“This, uh, doesn’t look a lot like a house to me. My bad, man.” Ed raises his hands deferentially. 

The kid sneers. “Clean out your ears, you dumb fuck! I said home, not house , and if you think they’re the same, you’re a jackass! These plants took me so damn long to cultivate; hell —” he raps his knuckles against one of the tree trunks next to him “— the trees alone took a whole fuckin’ week to grow! And now you’re trampling all over them?”

“Wait, hold on, a week?” interjects Ed. He looks up at the trees — tall, sturdy oaks that are firmly rooted in the ground. He looks around the lot; all across the ground, bunches of fluffy white flowers and chipper green stalks blossom like a carpet. And towards the edges of the lot, wild green bushes covered in red and yellow buds line the walls of the neighboring buildings. The closer Ed looks, the more plants he sees; they almost seem to multiply before his eyes. 

Ed shakes his head. “Nah. No way in hell all of this grew that quick. Did you buy ‘em from a plant nursery or something?” 

“Don’t believe me? Sucks to suck, I guess.” The kid smirks. “I happen to have a bit of a green thumb.” 

“…Uh-huh. Anyway, I’m gonna get going now. Sorry for the, er, intrusion.” Ed jerks his thumb towards the far side of the lot as he takes a step towards the exit.

The kid steps forwards, wagging his finger. “Nuh-uh, nope! You’re not going anywhere, you snoopy little fuck. I’ve gotta teach you a little lesson about the evils of trespassing.” 

An incredulous look crosses Ed’s face. “Uh, no thanks, dude! I just wanted to check out the cool trees—”

“Shut up, nerd.” The kid rummages around in his pocket for a brief second, pinches something tiny between his fingers, and viciously whips it at Ed. 

“Catch.”  

Right before touching Ed’s face, the small item explodes into a spiky mass with a plof . Ed doesn’t have time to react, only to flinch. His head jolts slightly to the side, and he winces in pain as thorns clatter off his glasses and painfully bite into his ear and cheek. 

“Agh!” He swipes at his face with a hand, and the thorny object falls, clattering against the cracked concrete. 

Ed pushes his sunglasses back up his nose, furtively looking down at the ground. A large, thorny weed lies on the ground, a few of its thorns slightly slick with blood. Ed furrows his brow. That’s definitely not what the bastard pulled out of his pocket. What weird trick did he pull?

“Get this through your thick skull, dickweed. This lot is the sole property of  Paradizo!” The young man poses dramatically, leaning back with his arms defiantly folded. 

Ed notices something strange around his opponent, a hazy presence that seems to waver on the border of existence and oblivion. A green arm reaches from behind the kid’s — Paradizo’s? — body, one hand resting on his face and the other draped over shoulder. As Ed focuses, the figure, covered in dark green patterns, gradually comes into focus. Its head pokes out like a shadow from over Paradizo’s shoulder, staring at Ed with piercing golden eyes. 

Ed adjusts his sunglasses slightly, muttering “What the hell…?” under his breath. 

Paradizo follows Ed’s gaze, turning his head and locking eyes with the figure for a second. “Oh, shit! You can see my ‘Stand…?’ So you’re not just a garden-variety shithead…”

In unison, both Paradizo and the ghost turn their gaze to Ed, placing their hands to their respective chins. 

“If you can see it, that means you were there last year… You survived the disaster, like me! Shit, you’re a Stand user, too…”

“‘Stand user’…?” A look of confusion spreads across Ed’s face. “I mean, I’m not in a wheelchair. ”

Paradizo snorts. “Are you yanking my dick right now? You’re a Stand user, but you don’t even know what a Stand is?” 

Ed squints. “I’m assuming your little green friend’s a Stand?”

The figure steps around and in front of Paradizo, coming into full focus. It’s a strange, patchwork creature covered in ragged material resembling burlap, with rippling arms formed from interlocking vines and a scowl etched into its vine-dreadlocked head. It drapes one arm around Paradizo’s shoulder and points at Ed with the other as Paradizo raises his hands magnanimously. 

“Listen close, shithead: I survived the disaster last year, and in turn, my Stand was granted to me! The meaning of a Stand is that it ‘stands’ beside you, giving you the power to seize what’s rightfully yours! My Stand is my inner strength, and with it, I can’t possibly be beat!” 

Paradizo pauses for effect, a smirk splitting his face. “No matter how shitty your Stand is, if you have one, I gotta take you to my boss. Just orders. But don’t worry, punkass — I’ll go easy on you!”

“Nah, why bother? If you’re gonna beat the shit out of me, get it done quick. But from that lameass description you gave, this Stand thing seems pretty lame.” Ed draws his taser from his belt, twirling it around in his hand anticipatorily. 

“You piece of…!” Paradizo stews for a second and clenches his fist, then takes a breath. “…Fuck it. Boss won’t mind if your skull’s a little cracked. It’d definitely suit you.” 

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out another tiny object. Ed raises his taser, preparing for another thorny projectile directed his way. But instead, Paradizo cocks his arm back, then hurls the seed into the air. Ed looks up, squinting into the sun and lifting his taser defensively. What trick is this weirdo trying to pull now? 

Suddenly, his eyes widen in surprise as a shadow falls over his face. With a loud crakcrakcrak , the tiny seed explodes into a massive net of vines, which plummets from the sky — directly onto Ed’s face. 

The vines are thick, wrapping around Ed’s head and cutting off his line of sight. With his free hand, Ed frantically scrabbles at the leafy bindings, attempting to tear them off.

“Shit, shit, shit…!”  

“You’re done for, you lousy scumfuck!” As Paradizo’s Stand surges forwards, uncorking a vicious right hook, Paradizo raises his arms and jubilantly cries out its name. 

“In Bloom!”  

BLAM.

Paradizo grins as he feels In Bloom’s fist strike true. “Hah! You lose, shithead! Now that you’re in my Stand’s range, there’s no possible — huh?” 

He attempts to point with his right hand, but his muscles refuse to comply. His arm locks awkwardly above his shoulder, resembling something between a wave and an aborted dance move. He tries to move his left hand, but his elbow is locked to his side. 

“What the hell…!?” Paradizo looks at In Bloom and sees its body ensnared in a network of crisscrossing, silvery threads. Its fist hangs suspended in midair, an inch in front of Ed’s face. A bead of sweat runs down Paradizo’s face as he grits his teeth, attempting to force his way out of the bind. What the hell did that bastard do?

Slowly, Ed raises his free hand, brushing the tangle of vines off his head. He chuckles. “In Bloom … Is that the name of your ability? Damn, that was close… If I’d fired a second later, that woulda stung.”  

Ed’s other hand is clutched above his shoulder, his taser firmly within his grasp. The shimmering web of mesh streams from the nozzle of the taser, suspended stock-still in midair. 

Realization slowly crosses Paradizo’s face as his Stand struggles against its bonds, to no avail. “Holy fuck… that taser’s your Stand?!”

Ed grins, daylight glinting off his sunglasses. “I thought a Stand was just the magic ghost thing you had. But it just so happens I got my own power last year.” He taps the plastic deliberately. “My taser’s got a cool name, too. Wanna hear it?”

“Ugh…!” Paradizo takes a step back and mentally tugs his Stand’s right fist, but it barely budges before snapping back into place. He awkwardly raises its other hand in something resembling a defensive stance. The boss said object Stands are pushovers at close range, but he’s been completely immobilized! What the hell is this mesh made of?! 

Ed sighs and exhales, a grim grin crossing his face. For the first time this morning, he’s in control — and he needs to seize the opportunity. With cautious intent, he hefts the taser and levels it directly at In Bloom’s head. 

“This… is my Electriclarryland.”  

Chapter Text

“This… is my Electriclarryland.”  

As he declares his Stand’s name, Ed’s finger curls on the trigger. Upon hearing the click, Paradizo instinctively ducks, and In Bloom perfectly shadows his motion. The trail of mesh sails over its head, curling impotently towards a target that’s no longer there. 

“Ha! You missed, shithead!”

Paradizo grins, seizing the opportunity and sending In Bloom surging forwards once more. Its hands may be restrained, but its legs are still free — and its ability can be used with all of its body! No matter how strong the mesh is, it’s nothing more than —

Suddenly, Paradizo’s eyes flicker towards the snaky tail of mesh, which sharply curves in midair. Defying gravity, it arcs backwards towards the faltering Stand, cutting through the air and preparing to grip its target. Paradizo’s Stand has left itself wide open for grabbing. 

“Fuck!” Through its bindings, In Bloom turns and awkwardly raises its arm, cleanly grasping the mesh and locking it in place. Paradizo exhales a momentary sigh of relief. But the mesh begins to wind around the Stand’s wrist, inching further down its arm. Ed clenches a fist and the mesh pulls, sending the Stand staggering towards him. 

Paradizo’s eyes bug out at the sight. “Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck! In Bloom, return!”  

The Stand swiftly takes two large steps towards its user, shimmering as it melds into Paradizo’s body. The mesh entangling its body melts like spring snow, evaporating impotently against the cracked concrete. With no counterweight, the tail of mesh snaps forwards like a rubber band. It passes cleanly through Paradizo’s head and chest. 

Paradizo takes a shaky breath. He waves a hand through the mesh passing through him, but it passes through him intangibly. Ed raises an eyebrow as he clicks the trigger, dispelling it. 

“Jeez… Electriclarryland, huh? It’s one hell of an annoying Stand. Definitely fits you, dipshit…”

Paradizo locks his eyes on Ed from a safe distance away, fingering the seeds in his belt pouch. Ed imagines the spectral green hand of In Bloom touching each seed, sensing the plant ready to burgeon within. He looks as if he’s deciding his next move; Ed gets the sense he’s about to unleash something far nastier than a few measly vines. 

Ed twirls Electriclarryland around in his hand involuntarily, its plastic cool against his sticky palms. His eyes flick down to the vines at his feet, and he takes a breath. This hasn’t been awful so far. Through the short exchange, he’s learned two important things. First, that weed, and the vines — Paradizo’s ability is definitely the power to ‘make plants grow.’ It’s a little weird, but scary nonetheless — especially since he’s fighting on Paradizo’s home turf. If he wants to, Paradizo could attack from each tree and each shrub; hell, every single blade of grass in the lot could potentially become a weapon. In order to counter both that and the punches of the ghost itself, Ed’s gotta get creative. 

Second, and more important, is what Ed’s learned about his own power. He’s never used Electriclarryland to fight another person — mostly, it’s useful for cleaning his teeth or staying out of the rain. The mesh that he fires always repels a single thing that he chooses, like water or cloth. Earlier, he snagged that lady’s money with a mesh made from dollar bills. But against Paradizo and that guy in the alleyway, he didn’t choose a material as he pulled the trigger — and it caught them anyway. 

Ed’s head nods slightly as he follows the train of thought. It all checks out. The mesh was able to snag In Bloom, a Stand, and that guy’s weird armor — which also might be a Stand! So that makes Paradizo the second Stand-haver Ed’s fought today, and it means Electriclarryland can shoot a mesh that repels Stands! He mentally pats himself on the back — he’s figured out a new power of his taser, he’s a little closer to understanding what exactly a Stand is, and to top it all off, he thinks he has an idea of his next move. Brilliant work! 

Ed lifts his taser once more, taking a step to the left, but Paradizo preempts him, whipping a hand from his pocket and tossing a handful of small seeds at Ed. They clatter around the concrete lot like tossed dice, surrounding Ed’s feet. 

Ed narrows his eyes. “What’s your game here, buddy? You doing that thorn thing again?”

Paradizo scoffs. “How much of a moron do you think I am, dickeater? A measly weed, there? Hold on — I’ll let you know a little something about my In Bloom.” 

He takes another handful of small seeds from his pocket and tosses them, scattering them around once more. Ed takes a quick step back, hand clenched firmly on taser, as Paradizo continues to speak. 

“I’m sure even your dumb ass has been able to understand that my Stand’s ability grows plants. But in all the time I’ve had my Stand, the most important thing I learned is that it doesn’t matter what you grow… but how you grow it.” 

“…” Ed scratches his chin. “…Whaddaya mean, ‘how?’”

“Glad you asked — let me demonstrate!” Paradizo grins, snapping his fingers. Immediately, Ed feels a prickly presence slither up his sock. Before he can react, a sharp, blaring pain bites into his ankle. 

“YOWCH!”  

He jumps, his face screwing up from the pain, then casts a glance at the ground around him. Across the concrete, a carpet of soft green leaves slowly begins to spread, curling upwards from the concrete and growing towards Ed. 

Ed grits his teeth, hopping on one foot. “You fucker! These are—”

“Stinging nettles, asshole!” crows Paradizo jubilantly, his Stand flickering into existence behind him. “And these little beauts are just the beginning! You better give up now, or there’s gonna be a world of hurt coming your way!”

“Urgh—!”   Ed stares at the spreading nettles, his mind racing. This really messes with his plan — he needs to deal with these nettles immediately, or else they’re gonna grow like a stinging inferno. Can he stomp them out? Or grab onto a tree branch and climb? Maybe jump forwards and hope to nail In Bloom with mesh?

Naaah, all of those options suck. Fuck it — let’s take the badass route. 

Ed crouches down, calling out “Electriclarryland!”   He points his taser down as he does, his finger tightening on the trigger. As the nettles surge once more, he jumps, clicking the trigger, and the mesh spreads out beneath his feet. He lands squarely on the net as it quivers slightly beneath his feet, nettles frantically grasping upwards from the ground beneath him. 

Stupor crosses Paradizo’s face like a shadow. “Wha — huh?!”  

“Surprised? Lemme tell ya — I’m not walking on air.” Ed takes a step upwards, the mesh spreading to meet him. “No matter what I choose my mesh to repel, once I make my choice, it’ll never be able to get through. Not if you jammed it against the mesh with a hydraulic press, not if you dropped it from a skyscraper. Not in a bajillion years. And right now, this mesh is rejecting—” 

He takes another dramatic, gloating step, savoring the moment. “—my shoes!”

Paradizo takes two steps back, a bead of sweat running down his face. He grits his teeth, glancing down at the nettles; with no roots in the ground, they can’t grow upwards, meaning they can’t possibly reach Ed. “What is this Mickey Mouse bullshit?… Goddamn it! In Bloom! ” His Stand forms from thin air, adopting a combat stance as Paradizo pulls out another seed. 

As Ed holds down the button on his taser and bounds forwards, the mesh spreads out under his feet. He doesn’t know if the hayseed has realized it by now, but it’s pretty obvious — as long as it’s attached to his taser, the mesh is also part of his Stand. That means as long as it’s connected, he can make it grow in any place and direction he wants — even defying gravity itself! And when he chooses to reject his shoes, well, the result is both obvious and one hell of a fun time. 

Ed’s feet bounce off the elastic mesh as he quickly closes the gap towards Paradizo. His head brushes a branch, and he reaches up, tearing a fistful of leaves from the tree and stuffing them in his pocket. He has what he needs — now time to go. 

As In Bloom clenches a seed in its fist and throws a punch, Ed lands on the mesh one final time, then springs into the air, firing off one more strand of rubber mesh directly behind Paradizo’s head. His foot lands on the mesh, which draws taut, quivering with power for a brief second. 

Paradizo glances backwards, his Stand’s hands twitching. His eyes suddenly gleam with sudden realization. “Oh, fu—”  

Ed’s heel viciously springs off the net, slamming into Paradizo’s head from behind with a loud CRACK . His opponent’s knees buckle, and In Bloom briefly wavers. Evidently, the kick has had a devastating effect. 

“Take that, you dick!” crows Ed. Dead fuckin’ on! Now he’s just gotta whack the asshole one more time, and he’s golden! Jubilantly, he clicks his taser and cancels the mesh supporting his weight. He braces himself to fall to the ground —

— Ed’s feet suddenly jerk upwards as his head and torso plummet like stones. 

“Huh—?!” He frantically sticks his arms out beneath him; one of them slams into the ground, scraping against the hard concrete. He looks up, wincing, and notices that he hangs by one leg — the one he kicked with. And not just that — his foot is stuck in Paradizo’s hair . What the hell…? 

He curls up slightly, his eyes narrowing — yep, it’s just as it seems. From the ankle and below, Ed’s foot has been completely sealed within Paradizo’s locks. 

“You thought you could just kick me once and win, you dumb fuck…? You’re gonna have to do a LOT better than that.” Paradizo turns his head, hatred burning in his eyes. He brushes aside his shaggy blond hair to reveal a nest of burrs growing in his hair, locking Ed’s foot in place like Velcro. 

Ed’s eyes widen in shock. So he had fuckin’ burrs in his hair? And they’re strong enough to support Ed’s entire body weight? Fuck, he’s underestimated this guy’s ability… and now, he’s fallen right into his trap!

“I kept those burrs in there just in case somebody would ever be enough of a prick to try and punch me in the back of the head. And of course you’d be exactly that guy… Well, it’s too late for you now, fucker.”

The Stand’s green hands lock around Ed’s ankle, yanking it free of the burs and hefting it cleanly over Paradizo’s shoulder. 

“Shit, shit…!” With his free leg, Ed kicks at the back of Paradizo’s head, but In Bloom catches his other foot in its grasp, locking his legs together. He grasps onto Electriclarryland once more. “Oh, fuck—”

“I’m gonna show you… what I do…” Paradizo hesitates, taking a deep, cathartic breath, then roars, “…to FUCKING TRESPASSERS!” His body bends as his Stand yanks Ed forwards by his legs, hurling him over its shoulder. Ed barely has time to think, only raise his hands in defense. The sky and trees wheel in front of his face and the ground rushes forwards at —

WHAM. 

Ed slams into the hard concrete of the lot, sending a blinding pain through his body. Dots of scattered light spin before his eyes as a red haze of dull pain crowds his brain. He mutters “Ugh… agh…” as he scrabbles on the ground, grabbing Electriclarryland and firmly gripping it in his fist. Quickly, he surveys his body for damage. His right arm, which took the brunt of the impact, isn’t broken, but it feels like it’ll leave a nasty bruise. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth as he pants, struggling to catch his breath.

Shit, shit — shit, shit, shit!  

As his blurred vision slowly clears, Ed sees a pair of grass-stained work boots standing tauntingly in front of him. He looks up and sees Paradizo staring downwards, a smirk on his face. He preeningly runs a hand through his hair, shaking out the burrs.

“Have you ever read the Bible, you piece of shit?”

“Urgh… Christ…” mutters Ed. 

“Yeah, him! See, in the Bible, Jesus Christ had a crown of thorns placed on his head when he got crucified. Super painful, right? Constantly poking at him and causing him to bleed everywhere — those Romans were super sick fucks. But hey — what you’re gonna go through is about to be one hell of a lot worse.”

Paradizo’s smirk blossoms into a sadistic grin, as he procures a seed from his pocket. “Try and mesh away this one, you fucking idiot.”

Paradizo tosses the seed up into the air, and time seems to slow before Ed’s eyes. He sees the seed slowly begin to ripple and burst, a solitary thorn poking its way out of the tiny capsule. He can almost feel it stabbing into his flesh, the painful bite of the sharp point as it glistens in the sun. 

Move. Move. Move. Move!

Ed’s muscles violently contract. He forces himself off the ground, skidding backwards on his ass as the thorns bite into the ground in front of him. Quickly, he scrambles to his feet, stepping backwards once more. As he flees, the brown, dry-looking thorns extend outward to grasp him, cresting upward and outward like a wave of needles. 

“Stop running, you cunt! Get torn to shreds!” shouts Paradizo triumphantly. 

Ed collects himself, reaching into his pocket and gripping the fistful of leaves like a talisman. He focuses, picturing the mesh he’s about to fire in his mind. With his free hand, he fires Electriclarryland once more, and a wide wave of mesh rushes to meet the crush of thorns, ensnaring them like fish in a net. 

“Urgh…!” Paradizo watches in frustration as the thorns ram fruitlessly against the unbreakable screen, which swallows them up effortlessly. One of the thorn branches sprouts back towards Paradizo; In Bloom snaps it with a chop, sending it clattering to the concrete. 

Ed nods his head with satisfaction at his mesh’s effectiveness. Next, he turns Electriclarryland towards him, placing it directly to his temple. He clicks the trigger and a shimmering mesh spreads over his head, stretching over his face and quickly flowing down his clothes. A grin spreads across his face. “This is one goodass plan.”

In the year since Ed found Electriclarryland, he’s discovered that all of his mesh repels whatever substance Ed selects. It can’t be too specific, like a “tree,” but it can’t be too broad either, like “living material.” But as long as Ed has the substance in his possession, like the rubber of his shoe soles, he can shoot mesh that repels it perfectly. And now that he has his hands on some leaves… 

Ed smirks, dramatically pointing at his opponent. “This mesh repels ‘plant matter,’ which means none of your attacks can get through it! You can’t crucify me anymore, asshole!” 

Paradizo sighs and shakes his head. Then, instead of an angry scowl or intimidated frown, he returns Ed’s grin, slowly lifting a small brown seed from his pocket. He gingerly holds it between a finger and a thumb, his eyes almost displaying reverence. “So you repel Stands and plants, huh? That’s a pain in the ass — I like these thorns. But there are some things so massive that even you can’t repel ‘em. Tell me, dickweed, have you ever heard of kudzu?”  

“Kudzu…” The word triggers something in Ed’s mind, a faint echo of some slept-through biology class. Suddenly, his eyes widen as a mental image comes to him, of forests and buildings covered in a carpet of smothering green vines. “Wait, that’s the goddamn—”

Between Paradizo’s fingers, the small seed explodes into a green flood. A geyser of swirling green leaves blasts towards Ed’s face, immediately swallowing his upper body in a cyclone of verdant force. He grits his teeth and digs in, fighting not to be pushed back by the tide of leaves. 

This doesn’t make sense. The plant shouldn’t be able to dig into his body at all because of Electriclarryland’s mesh. Ed should be safe from any plant-based attack. So what the fuck is this massive pressure?!

“Funny thing about kudzu!” shouts Paradizo over the roaring growth. “One of the fastest-growing weeds in the world! Can cover entire forests in a matter of weeks! Combine that with a li’l Stand-powered motivation, well — it grows CRAZY fuckin’ fast, precise, AND dense!”

Ed’s eyes widen in terror as he slowly feels a rushing loop of kudzu tightening around his neck. Oh, fuck! The problem isn’t the kudzu itself, but the fact it can spread and grow so quickly! His mesh doesn’t matter — the plant can restrain his breathing and choke him unconscious just from sheer mass alone! 

As the kudzu constricts further around Ed’s neck and he struggles against the overwhelming tide, his eyes suddenly lock onto the ground. Through the shifting tide of leaves, he notices the thorns that Paradizo just attacked him with, and that he countered easily. They aren’t as thick and robust as they were, though — in fact, they look as if they’ve begun to rot away…?

Ed’s eyes dart over to the stinging nettles and vines scattered on the ground, which have already begun to wilt, growing yellow and brown in the heat and ragged at the edges. His brain works feverishly. Does In Bloom’s growth always cause plants to rot? …No! He said these trees grew in a week, didn’t they? And they’re still standing tall! So he must have used his Stand on them to make them grow. But he has the capability to make a tree grow in an instant, so why wait? And for that matter, why cancel the growth of the thorns and nettles?

Ed takes a halting breath, choking down whatever air he can get, fighting off the blackness at the edges of his vision. 

He backs up and considers the whole shitshow once again. Paradizo has the potential to grow a tree in an instant, but he said it took him an entire week. Plants require a ton of sunlight and nutrients to grow, but taking time to give them all the required food and shit would make the ability useless in combat. So he can calibrate the speed at which his plants grow… but there’s a drawback to growing them too fast! And that drawback is that—

“…You burn through… the plants’ lifespans… don’t you?” rasps Ed, his voice barely audible over the roaring leaves. 

Paradizo’s face twists in confusion. “That I what the whatnow?”

“Electric — larry — !”  

Ed clutches his taser one last time and fires off a small tendril of skin-mesh, which coils around Paradizo’s finger. He yanks it, bending the finger backwards; Paradizo hollers “MOTHERCUNT!”   and fumbles the seed from his grasp. In Bloom loses control of its growth and the kudzu begins to spray outwards chaotically, its grasp loosening from around Ed’s neck. 

Quickly, Ed steps back, gulping down air as the kudzu collapses to the ground around him. The green mesh melts from his body as scalding triumph sets his blood ablaze. Holy fuck, he can win! Paradizo’s attacks are fast, but not durable! He can’t maintain them for long — meaning Electriclarryland can definitely outlast him! 

Paradizo grits his teeth, wiping congealed beads of sweat from his face. “Ugh, fuck…! You’re making a mess all over the goddamn lot!” 

Behind his sunglasses, Ed’s eyes goggle incredulously at Paradizo. “What’re you talking about?! Dude, you grew the plants!”

“I wouldn’t have to grow them if you weren’t fucking making me! Give up already, you human dick tumor!” 

“Oh, stop whining, you lousy botanist! You got any seeds left to chuck at me, plant boy? Or are you gonna pull out some other cheap little plant trick?”

“Bitch, I’m just getting started… huh?” Paradizo notices a small strand of mesh protruding from Ed’s finger. His eyes narrow and he reaches down into his pocket, feeling for his seeds. Unknowingly, he’s fallen right into Ed’s trap. 

A tiny, twig-like snap rings out and a small pouch of green mesh zings out from the pocket and back to Electriclarryland. It melts in his hand, revealing a staggering variety of seeds, representing a menagerie of different shapes, sizes, and colors. Ed flashes the seeds to Paradizo gloatingly. “Got your seeds, idiot!”

Paradizo’s eyes widen. “What in the — When did you—?!”

“Right after you dropped the kudzu, just a second ago. Seeds are plant matter, right? So I snared ‘em and stretched the mesh as far as I could. That way, when you opened your pocket, they’d pop right—”

“Fuck your explanation! Taking my fucking seeds?!” Paradizo bends downwards, grabbing something from the dead thorns before him with his Stand. His gaze turns upwards, casting a wave of hate directly onto Ed’s face. “You’ve signed your fucking death warrant, PUNK!”

Paradizo storms forwards, his eyes blazing with fury and his Stand’s fists raised before him. Within them, two thorny plants grow, spinning around its fingers like brass knuckles. Before it dried out, that thorn plant must’ve borne seeds… and it looks like from them, Paradizo can make all-new plants. 

Despite the fact that Paradizo’s pissed, Ed assumes he’s probably learned from his previous mistakes; he’s got something else up his sleeve this time around. It’s too damn predictable, though. Ed notices the thorns subtly beginning to curl and burgeon around his opponent’s fists; as Paradizo jumps in and launches a vicious hook, Ed launches yet another burst of mesh, attempting to ensnare his foe’s fist.

But the thorns suddenly burst forwards, intercepting the mesh in midair and curving around it. They sweep onto Electriclarryland, stabbing into and proliferating on Ed’s arm. The white-hot pain makes his eyes water.  

“You’re wide open, bozo!” crows Paradizo, swinging in with his other fist. Gritting his teeth, Ed lifts his arm to block as the new thorns lacerate his arm. The pain throbs through his body in waves. Shit, shit, shit! He wants to shout, to run, but he can’t escape this attack by fleeing. There’s only one way he can get out of this. 

Paradizo exhales. “Now then, shithead! I’ve got both your arms. You can finally stop scurrying around and get some goddamn—”

Ed cocks his head back, then headbutts Paradizo, slamming his forehead directly into his opponent’s mouth. Paradizo’s voice instantly stops as his brain rushes to process the pain. His eyes narrow incredulously. “Are you fucking —”

The second headbutt smashes brutally into Paradizo’s nose, and he reels backwards, blood pouring from his face. The blowback sends Ed reeling, and he falls on his ass. In Bloom dissipates as the thorns tear from Ed’s arms; he clenches his bloody fists and exhales. 

This is it. He can’t hold out much longer. He needs to utilize Electriclarryland smartly and take Paradizo out right here. But how…?

Paradizo rocks back on his heels, then bends forwards at the waist and spits a massive gob of bloody saliva from his mouth. It lands on the concrete with a wet thwack . He licks a finger and uses it to scour the blood from his nostrils, wiping it on his shirt. Finally, he fixes his gaze on Ed, giving a fat-lipped grin. 

“Logically, I should be really pissed right now. Like crazy fuckin’ heated, y’know? But I’m done with shouting lame shit at you, cause I’ve got you dead to goddamn rights. I know exactly how your lousy-ass ability works.” 

Ed narrows his eyes, slowly pushing himself to his feet. A hot rivulet of sweat drips down his face. What exactly is this weirdo up to?

“Earlier, you nailed my Stand with that mesh that fucked it up, right? And after that, you stopped those thorns and my kudzu with another mesh. But you can’t stop both at once, can you? You can only pick one mesh at a time.” 

A grimace crosses Ed’s face; he knows exactly where this is going. Slowly, an idea begins to germinate in his head. “I only need one mesh to stop you.”

Paradizo’s grin widens and he begins to chuckle darkly. “Heh… Heheheh… You don’t get it, do you? Your Stand is bound to a weapon, idiot. Unlike my In Bloom, whose body appears when I will it and whose seeds grow when I touch them, you have to click your Stand’s button to activate it. I’ve already fucked up your hands with my thorns a second ago. Whichever option you block, whether I hit you with my Stand or slice you with my thorns, you won’t be pressing anything after this next blow. I win, dipshit.” 

The idea blossoms; if Paradizo does what he’s hinting at, Ed knows exactly how to stop him. He grips the taser firmly in his hand, filled with a newfound energy. “You’re gonna win? Then stop yapping and beat me, fatmouth.”

Paradizo’s grin widens; when combined with the blood smearing his face, he appears almost demented. “Ohohoho hooooh! My boss is gonna make you eat those goddamn words when I’m through with you!”

 In Bloom hums into existence once more, soaring towards Ed. A thick cluster of vines blossoms in one of its hands, writhing hungrily like a coil of snakes. It raises them with vicious intent as Paradizo points at Ed, primal fury festering in his eyes. “YOU’RE DONE FOR, MESH BOY!”

As the vines surge towards his face, Ed crouches, then presses down Electriclarryland’s trigger. An extremely thin cord of mesh emerges from the barrel, twisting loosely around In Bloom’s wrists. Ed takes a quick step forwards, and the mesh swiftly swivels around the Stand’s torso, snaking down its legs. Finally, he yanks, pulling the line taut; the Stand’s arm suddenly locks in place, leaving the vines thrashing aimlessly in midair. 

Paradizo’s pointing finger, now locked in midair, trembles. “No — I can’t —!”

“I said it, didn’t I? ” Ed steps backwards, tugging the string of mesh along with him. “I only need one mesh to beat you, moron.”

“Fuck—!” Paradizo struggles fruitlessly against his bonds as he slowly tips forwards, unable to balance himself. His face distorts as bloody saliva pours rabidly from his mouth. “You fucker! I’ll tear you to shreds! I swear, the Million will put your ass in a—”

CRACK.

Paradizo smashes into the ground facefirst. He lies unmoving, a small trickle of blood pouring out onto the grass. In Bloom glares up at Ed as its user fades into unconsciousness; even now, its golden eyes convey a look of deep, unyielding disdain. Ed stares back at it as it disappears, leaving only the cracked, grass-filled concrete behind it.

As he looks down at Paradizo’s defeated form, the first thing that strikes Ed is the silence. The buzz of blood pounding in his ears has receded, leaving room for the tranquility of the lot to creep in once again. He looks up at the sky, his eyes squinting behind his sunglasses; a few lazy clouds drift through the air. Slowly, the adrenaline fades from his system — and then, all at once, the pain from the cuts on his hands strikes through his body like lightning. 

One loud “GODDAMMIT!” cuts through the placid morning, sending a few birds scattering between trees and rooftops and briefly prickling a few neighbors’ ears. But the disruption fades as quickly as it appeared, leaving Ed in the quiet lot, alone with two lacerated hands, a bruised arm, an unconscious foe, and his reliable taser. 

Ed sighs, closes his eyes, and leans his head back, listening to the wind rustling through the leaves and feeling the hot sun on his skin. For a moment, all he knows is quiet, and the pain and stress of the fight melt away in the warming sunshine. 

Then, slowly, he reopens his eyes and hefts Electriclarryland once more. The day is far from over, after all. He’s still got plenty of shit to do.

—————

Stand: In Bloom

User: Paradizo

— In Bloom can accelerate the growth of plants that it makes physical contact with. From seed to tree, any living plant matter will do. His Stand cannot create plants, only grow existing ones, so Paradizo has a large collection of seeds stored in pockets and his utility belt that he uses for his ability. The core ability is almost comically simple, but the inherent variety of plants lends itself to multifarious uses.

— The accelerated growth can be slow and gradual, or instantaneous and explosive, and can be delayed as Paradizo sees fit. The growth can even function outside the Stand’s five-meter range. Gradual growth, with proper soil and water, can cause plants to undergo months or even years of growth in a day; instantaneous growth can cause that growth in an instant. However, if a plant is accelerated too much, it will swiftly wither and die. Growing up too quickly can leave one stunted, after all. 

— This ability is born from Paradizo’s resourcefulness and drive to survive. He grows his own food with vegetables and aims to one day sew his own clothes out of cotton. Paradizo’s ambition is to hone his power and gather his resources to the point where he can survive off his Stand alone; however, his Stand’s potential is currently hampered by his volatile demeanor.

Chapter Text

The new mesh is colored a vague crimson; the early afternoon light plays upon it strangely, making it appear almost like a liquid suspended in space. Its diamond-shaped lattices undulate with subtle scarlet hues as Ed carefully wipes it over his injured skin, delicately scouring the dried blood from his wounds. Once his hands are sufficiently clean, he turns the mesh back to his taser, peeling the dried blood from its plastic shell; finally, he wraps the blood-colored screen around one arm, clicks the trigger, then wraps the other. It’s not much of a bandage, but it’ll do just fine for now. 

Satisfied with his work, Ed wipes a few beads of sweat from his forehead, then glances towards Paradizo. The unconscious Stand user sits vaguely slumped against a tree; his arms and torso have been tightly bound by Electriclarryland’s mesh, just in case. His face is smeared with crusted blood, lending him an almost ghoulish appearance, and his messy blond hair crowds his face chaotically. 

Ed wonders what to do with his defeated opponent. Is there a group of Stand police that he could hand the guy over to? No, that’s a dumbass idea. Should he just drag him to a street corner and leave him there? Nah, too conspicuous — someone else would notice something was fucky, and he’d get the real cops called on him. But somehow, the idea of leaving Paradizo here to wake back up in his verdant home feels off to him. Sure, the dude can’t exactly follow Ed back to his apartment in his current state, but with his personality, Ed gets the sense he’d try his hardest. Somehow, the fucker would find a way.

Ed places his hand to his forehead, wiping sweat from his brow. Even in the shade of Paradizo’s trees, the air seems to cling to his skin like Teflon. He feels the need to get back home soon, to regroup from the surprises and wounds of the day. This lot isn’t safe — he needs to leave. 

Deliberately, Ed spins on his heel and walks towards the other end of the lot — where he had originally been heading, before Paradizo interrupted him. He briefly walks through a patch of sunlight in the middle of the lot before reaching another ring of trees on the side. Bordering the far walls of the lot, ringing the narrow alleyway on the other side, are several squat bushes with white, fluffy flowers. Ed isn’t sure of their purpose at first — then, suddenly, it clicks. Cotton. 

He looks to the other side of the lot and sees what appear to be burgeoning fruit trees. Paradizo has a whole operation set up here. Food, clothes — maybe water somewhere? Plants do have water in them, right? The only thing he’s probably missing is shelter. Sure, the trees have shade, but when it rains or when it gets cold, where would he — 

“Urgh…”

Startled out of his reverie, Ed turns around towards the noise. Paradizo groggily sits up, his eyes slowly fluttering open like a crippled bird’s wings. His Stand manifests beside him as he licks his lips; tasting blood, he shakes his head in disgust, then spits hatefully. “Motherfuck it all.”

Ed’s eyebrows wrinkle in concern. Even though he beat the shit out of the guy, the sight of his painful wounds still elicits a twinge of remorse in Ed’s chest. “Ah, damn. You okay, man? That looks kinda—”

“What?” Paradizo’s gaze snaps up towards Ed, a mix of incredulity and naked contempt. “Why the fuck are you still here!? You literally assaulted me, dipshit!” 

“Dude, you attacked me first—”

“Get out!” Saliva flies from Paradizo’s mouth, his face contorted into a bloody deathmark of hate. “Get out, get out, get the fuck out! That’s all I wanted you to do! But apparently you can’t just leave me alone, can you?! I can’t have one fucking person throw me the smallest goddamn bone!?”

Ed raises his hands deferentially. “Dude—”

“You have no idea how hard it is to live completely fucking alone in this city! I was scrounging for scraps at ten years old! And did anybody ever help me? Did anybody ever take a look at that scrawny little shit, crawling through a dumpster, slinking through the public school hallways, and go, ‘Damn, that kid could sure use someone to talk to?’ NO!”  

Paradizo raves madly, his fury at Ed spilling from his control, swallowing every one of his grievances. “But I survived. I kept on surviving, because something better’s gotta happen, right? I slummed it through school and managed not to get shot. Hooray! I’m still living on the goddamn streets! Finally, after all that shit, the Byway Bridge thing happens. Best fucking thing to ever happen to me, because I got this bastard with me—”

In Bloom nods deferentially. 

“— but even then, shit barely changed! I got a few friends, I got my own home, but I still don’t get any fucking respect! Finally, I settle in — and then some brain-damaged jackass with a taser comes in and FUCKS THE WHOLE THING UP!”  

Paradizo’s tone has risen to an aggrieved shout; he cuts himself off, his face red with fury. He glares at Ed with unalloyed vitriol. 

Ed grimaces. “Look, man, I’m really sorry about all that. I didn’t know, okay? I woulda just went a different way if I did. But dude, sob story aside, you attacked me—”

Paradizo lifts his chin haughtily. Even in his weakened position, he still finds a way to look down at Ed. “Have you heard of the Million, assbag?”

“The Million?” Ed recalls Paradizo shouting out the name right before he slams him. It has a foreboding ring to it. “Is that a band?”

“…You’ve had a Stand for a year, and you’re still this fucking clueless?” Paradizo snorts. “The Million are dozens of Stand users, all united under a single cause. Y’see, Stands can be granted to anyone — from oldass grandmas to hobos and janitors to billionaires. Most Stand users are ordinary people just like you and me, but with one difference — they have access to our world. They have abilities you can’t even begin to fathom.” 

Ed’s eyes widen slightly; he thinks he can see where Paradizo’s going. “You aren’t… affiliated with the Million, are you?”

Paradizo’s chuckle rasps like sandpaper on concrete. “Whaddaya think? I’m a member, dipshit! When I get back to my boss, I’m gonna give your description directly to him—” 

A crackling sounds from an above tree branch, and an acorn lands perfectly in Paradizo’s lap. 

“—And the entire fucking organization’s gonna be hunting you down!”

Cold fear trickles down Ed’s spine as he hefts his taser. “Hey, wait, you can’t narc on me!”

“Eat shit, mesh boy!” Paradizo rises to his feet and stomps on the acorn; it grows into a massive tree beneath him, catapulting him and In Bloom to the canopy of the grove. “Good luck not getting killed — if we meet again, I’m pasting your ass to the GRASS!” He bounds between tree branches like a squirrel, leaping through the open window of a nearby apartment building.

The lot is silent once more, with Ed’s only companions being the rustle of the wind through the leaves and the hum of air conditioning units. He numbly turns back towards the alleyway; subtle notes of birdsong catch his ear, and he feels his gaze be drawn slightly upwards. A tiny brown bird dances among the tree trunks, its beady blue eyes fixed on Ed. Noticing him, it cocks its head and warbles a few whimsical chirps.

Ed gazes back at the bird. It seems pitiable, almost, that such a sweet creature would choose to perch itself in such a lowly place. But then again, the tree is a heck of a lot nicer than interchangeable concrete rooftops. He nods approvingly, muttering, “Nice choice, little bro.” 

The bird chirps once more, then abruptly flies away, its wings beating out a hasty rhythm as it vanishes into the air. For some reason, the sight deeply unsettles Ed, and he begins to walk forwards through the alley, gradually picking up the pace as he proceeds. This isn’t good at all. He really fucking needs to get home now — and fast . 

Stand users are ordinarily people… just like you and me… Paradizo’s words echo in Ed’s head as he walks down the street at a fast clip. Paranoia has sunk its claws into Ed; his imagination rattles like lit firecrackers in a trash can, and his eyes unconsciously scan everyone that walks by. The gaudy tourists snapping pictures of the statues in a nearby park, the man on the street corner spinning a golden tune on his trumpet, the snappily dressed businesswoman nattering into her phone as she steps out of a taxi — did any of them witness the disaster and come out alive? What kind of Stand abilities could they be concealing within them? And, at the “boss’s” word, would they unleash their powers on him? 

Congealing sweat tugs on Ed’s brow; he wipes it off as he feels his stomach churn discontentedly. His hands throb with a combination of dull pain and sickening tension. He needs to get home, to take a break from all this Stand bullshit and process the events of the morning.

The gray brick of Ed’s block doesn’t completely dispel his worries, but it most definitely eases them. He breathes a sigh of relief at the sight. Only a little more to go — then he can rest, recuperate, and contemplate his next move. His pace quickens slightly as he hustles through the early afternoon shade. 

Across the street sits a repair shop, its paint peeling and its lights dimmed. A sign reading Closed — Come Back Tomorrow! dangles politely from its boarded-up window. Next to it sits a squat restaurant, whose awning reads ORIENTAL EXPRESS in blaringly bright yellow-on-red letters. Beyond the restaurant sits a storefront with shattered windows, maybe a former hardware store. Every morning, when Ed steps outside, this is the first sight he sees. He stops at his door, finally taking a second to really look at the block now. Has the repair shop always been closed? How long has that Chinese restaurant been there? And what, exactly, is that broken-down building? Shuddering at the frightening array of possibilities before him, he unlocks his door and quickly steps inside. 

In a different scenario, the ambience of the stairway would be comforting, but Ed feels deeply unsettled as he steps up the stairs. The pallid fluorescent lights give a sickly, yellowish tint to the walls; he quickly trots up the lacquered stairs, swiftly ascending to the third floor. At the door, he breathes a brief sigh, then places his key in the knob and twists it open. 

The air in the apartment is slightly sticky and ill-ventilated; a half-open window framed by faded curtains sits behind the TV, carrying the swampy air into the room. Through it, a stray beam of sunlight shines, illuminating a single tear on the couch’s cloth covering. The flooring is cheap laminate wood, which creaks in patches as Ed walks over to the kitchen. He reaches into the sink, pushes a few stained plastic dishes out of the way, and turns the faucet handle with a pained squeak. A wince crosses his face as he rinses the blood from his hands. “Jeez, that stings.”

On the bright TV, a balding man in a purple suit wipes sweat from his shiny face and rattles off the daily news. “…The lottery jackpot continues to hit all-time national highs. In fact, as of today, the jackpot has officially crossed seven hundred fifty seven million dollars. That’s three-quarters of the way to a billion! Even when you remove taxes — boy, if I had that money I’d retire immediately!” 

The newscaster wipes a nervous hand across his sweaty face and smiles awkwardly. “…Heh, n-not to disparage this job, of course, haha. Every day I spend on air is a privilege, after all! But the hype surrounding the lottery has increased the demand for tickets, which continues to drive up the price. It’s a vicious cycle, folks, and until the drawing next week, it shows no signs of stopping…”  

Ed towels off his stinging hands, then opens the fridge, pulling out a can of cherry Coke. He cracks it open and takes a swig, feeling the cool flavor fill his mouth. The chill of the can is a welcome relief from the sticky heat. He smacks his lips approvingly, then cocks his head as a strange rumbling catches his ear. 

His brow furrows in confusion as he hears another rumble follow soon after. What the fuck? Did his upstairs neighbors install some new contraption? Or is the air conditioning system acting up? Shaking his head, he makes a mental note to make a report if something else goes wrong. He turns, taking another swig of Coke, and turns around, his steps creaking across the floor. 

“Moving on, the recent heat wave continues, as the temperature has reached a high of 95 today! Wowie! That’s 35 degrees Celsius for all the Celsius fans out there, haha. Keep in mind, though — we here at YYZ News don’t want any of our lovely viewers catching heatstroke in this infernal weather! Be sure to stay inside, stay hydrated, and turn on your air conditioning, you hear? Tonight, it looks like the heat will be beat, as most of the city will be getting some rain. Certainly long overdue…”

Ed pushes open the door to his cramped bedroom and steps over to the window, flicking on the window fan. The stuffy air slowly begins to clear as he sits on the end of his creaky mattress, unholstering Electriclarryland and turning it over in his hands. It’s been with him for a year, ever since that inexplicable day, but in the time he’s had it, he’s never really questioned its presence. Now, however, he surveys it with new eyes, marveling at the strange truth underlying it. Electriclarryland is a Stand, and Ed Henderson is a Stand user. So what exactly does that mean?

The meaning of a Stand is that it ‘stands’ beside you, giving you the power to seize what’s rightfully yours… Paradizo’s words echo through Ed’s mind as he considers his ability. Electriclarryland can’t exactly stand beside Ed, but it’s done a pretty solid job protecting him so far. To seize what’s rightfully his, though… With Electriclarryland, what could he accomplish?

“…business is positively booming at the Birdland Supermall! To beat the stifling heat, many customers are cooling off by traversing the mall’s nine air-conditioned floors, whose tenants range from big-box superstores to those tiny little pop-up shops you can only really find at a mall, haha. The mall has had some tough times in the past, with frequent construction delays spanning almost half a decade, followed by a final delay to its completion caused by the Byway Bridge disaster. But in the months since its spectacular grand opening, it’s been smooth sailing at Birdland, with record numbers of shoppers turning out this weekend…”

The smooth, black-and-yellow plastic is cool against Ed’s skin. The holster is shaped vaguely like a gun’s, with rubbery strips providing grip, but the barrel ends in two split, horizontal prongs of plastic. Two small holes sit where electrified wires would normally be fired out; on Electriclarryland, though, the holes are portals to an unknown space within, from which the mesh ejects. 

Along the back of the taser is a thin seam; the word ELECTRICLARRYLAND has been embossed along it on each side in small, precise lettering. Ed mentally notes the lack of any screws or bolts — the taser appears to have been welded together. If he took it apart, what would he find? Does some kind of machine generate the mesh, painstakingly weaving every lattice? Or does it emerge fully formed from some magical portal, linked to his soul? He wonders if disassembling it would mess with the mesh’s production, or even turn his ability off permanently. Shuddering at the thought, he turns the taser over, staring at the front once again. 

“…In grimmer news, the crime wave across the city continues — and a series of increasingly bizarre murders is striking fear into the hearts of citizens. For instance, last week, two men were found scorched to death — from the inside — outside a furniture factory on the Waterfront. In a dumpster off Deloitte Boulevard, officers have discovered the body of a middle-aged prosti... ah, entertainment worker, allegedly drowned in trash. Three days ago, atop a roof of a Financial District building, several investors were found crushed to death…”  

The newscaster pauses and clears his throat, his concerned eyes locked on his teleprompter. “And just a short while ago, in an alleyway behind an apartment building in the Twelfth, investigators have found the body of a local college student, said to have been bludgeoned with an unknown, extremely heavy weapon. These inexplicable deaths appear to be isolated incidents rather than a single killer, so be extra sure to stay safe out there, folks. Here’s Chester Baker, live at the scene…”

An alleyway behind an apartment building, in the Twelfth. Ed’s blood begins to pound in his ears as the floor tilts beneath his feet. His mind returns to the tableau of the alleyway from just this morning: the body collapsed on the ground, still as stone; the black-clad figure kneeled over it, its head turned upwards, eyes locked on Ed behind the smiling mask; and himself, terror sealing his legs like quicksand, horror slowly dawning in his mind. 

Was that tied to the Million, and Paradizo’s threat? Will they be after Ed now that he’s witnessed the murder? His mind whirls as he struggles to comprehend the depth of the shit he’s now embroiled in. He pushes himself off the bed, nagging thoughts crowding his mind — then he suddenly freezes, a sudden realization chilling him to the bone. 

Before leaving in the morning, Ed Henderson never turned on his television. But now that he’s returned only a few hours later, the TV is on. The conclusion, therefore, is frighteningly obvious. 

There’s a stranger in my apartment! 

Hoisting Electriclarryland, Ed quietly steps out of his bedroom, turning his eyes towards the TV. A child frolics with a puppy onscreen as a soothing female voice advertises a drug for liver diseases. The relaxing commercial clashes with the frantic moil inside Ed’s head as even more questions rise to the surface. Is it just a random robber? Could the intruder be a Stand user? Did the Million mobilize someone after him already? And could they have done something to the TV? 

Ed cautiously steps around the couch. The low rumbling thrums once more, sounding louder than ever. He bends down and inspects the TV, which looks normal; he taps the screen and checks the buttons on the side, but nothing appears amiss. Shaking his head, he turns around — and sees a person sprawled on his couch. 

“Fuck!” Ed instinctively jerks his taser upwards, his finger tensing on the trigger, but the person doesn’t react. Slowly, he lowers it, and gazes down at the sprawled figure.

Lying on Ed’s couch is a girl, about his age or slightly older. Her pale skin contrasts with her purple shirt and black, fur-lined jacket; she wears several opulent bracelets on each wrist, and her shoes are brand-name. One closed eye is decorated in black eyeshadow, the other concealed by a lock of hair, and her purple-painted lips hang slightly open. Her chest rises slightly, then falls, and the rumble rattles in Ed’s ears. Clearly, she’s conked out and snoring. But her clothing’s expensive as hell — who is she? And why did she break into —

Ed’s eyes suddenly snap downwards to the girl’s left side; her arm is splayed outward on the couch, leaning against a cushion, and the sight of the item clutched in it chills him to the bone. Ice-cold dread slowly creeps into his heart as he takes a small step back. He frantically racks his mind for other possibilities, explanations as to what she could be doing here, but the sight leaves only one conclusion.

Lying in the girl’s hand, loosely held among her slender fingers, is a pearl-handled pistol. 

— — — — — 

Name: Electriclarryland

User: Ed Henderson

— A surprisingly versatile Stand that stores its power in an ordinary taser. Instead of electric wire, though, Electriclarryland fires a perfectly elastic mesh. Mesh fires at a fast enough rate to coat an entire person within three seconds, and as long as it remains attached to Ed’s taser, it can move as he wishes, defying gravity. 

— All of Ed’s mesh repels a single material that he has in his possession. To Ed, possession means having an instance of the material on his person, and the material repelled must have some level of generality; for instance, Electriclarryland cannot repel a “book,” but can repel “paper” or “leather.” He can repel “plant matter,” but not “branches,” “leaves,” or “roots.” Repelled materials must presumably have some degree of generality, but not too much — for instance, Ed cannot repel materials as general as “carbon.” Additionally, Electriclarryland can create a mesh that specifically repels Stands; perhaps this is because it itself is a Stand in Ed’s possession. 

— Despite having no offensive power whatsoever, Electriclarryland is extremely useful in combat scenarios, hampering opponents’ mobility with extreme effectiveness. It’s outwardly weak but extremely resilient, making the user a surprisingly contentious foe in a straight-on fight. Ed’s favorite use is firing mesh made from the material of his shoes, which lets him functionally walk on air. 

Chapter Text

She stares out onto a terrifyingly immense landscape. An infinite expanse of purple and black expands before her eyes, stretching into the distance; psychedelic whorls of pink twist and writhe in the heavens above, while great, creeping mandalas the size and shape of chandeliers revolve placidly in the space beneath her suspended body. She takes a step forwards, and the space splashes languidly beneath her feet, rippling out far into the distance around her. 

Slowly, she plods forwards, stepping tentatively across the sloshing ground. As she moves forwards, silence echoing through her ears, the landscape seems to warp around her. She can’t tell if it’s moving faster than she is, or if she’s even moving at all — if she’s stuck in place, unable to advance, while this endless cosmic phantasmagoria twists madly around her. 

How many gods dwell within a pair of socks? 

She whips around instinctively at the booming voice. In the far distance, barely at the edge of her vision, stands a figure. She can’t identify it at this range — human? Stand? Or something even stranger? A shiver of raw, primal fear runs down her spine. 

How many gods dwell within a pair of socks?

The figure, hideously tall and lanky, remains motionless, but its voice resounds once more, both a deafening shout and a silent whisper. She quakes; the words shake her to the very core of her being, piercing through soft flesh and tough bone directly into her soul. The landscape expands and contracts around her, the formless shapes now twisting wildly. She feels terribly, indescribably small.

Even at this distance, her eyes catch the figure as it raises a solitary finger. You speak to the gods. But you can never master them, lest you lay names to them. It now resembles a great, towering silhouette, a telephone pole or a skyscraper, a vast, alien presence without name, stretched beyond her straining perception. Your full prowess lies buried, it booms, and it is your destined duty to unearth it. 

“W-What?!” She takes another step backwards, on reflex — 

— but the ground suddenly bursts like a bubble beneath her feet, and she finds herself plunged into the phantasmagoria, spiraling before her eyes, twirling forever and ever, a mad dance of colors and shapes, down, down, down, down — 

— — — 

The girl snaps awake, her eyes bursting open and her hand instinctively slapping her hip. As the adrenaline slowly wears off, she places her other hand to her head, slowly sucking in a breath and sinking back into the soft couch. Her heartbeat races as she closes her eyes and breathes out, cold sweat running down her face. “Ah, jeez. Agh. Ugh…” 

“Nice dream, lady? Enjoying my couch?”

The girl flinches, jolted by the sudden noise. Her eyes dart to Ed, who leans, faux-casually, against the wall to her left. He holds the pearl-handled pistol by the barrel in one hand and points Electriclarryland at her with the other; his eyes bore accusatory daggers into her from a safe distance. He knows what she’s come for.

As she gradually assesses the situation, the girl sinks back into the couch and sighs, mopping off the sweat with her jacket’s sleeve. “…Okay. Give me my gun back, please?” 

Ed shifts the pistol in its hand, holding it by the grip and sliding his finger against the trigger. He dual-wields it alongside his taser, pointing it in the girl’s general direction. “Nah… I don’t believe I will, thank you.” 

“Ugh. First off, he’s not loaded. Second off, you left the safety on. And third off, your trigger discipline is absolutely atrocious.” The girl shakes her head as Ed turns the gun in his hand, staring at it warily. “What, you think I’d break into your apartment with a loaded gun? Dude, I’m not a goddamn assassin. And it’s my gun, so it’s a real asshole move of you to take it.” 

“He? What? Unloaded?” Ed’s eyebrows furrow, and he glances at the gun furtively, lowering it slightly. “Then if your gun’s not loaded, what the fuck are you trying to do in my apartment?” 

She scoffs, brushing her bang down in front of her eye. “I’m trying to recruit you, jackass.”

Ed’s face contorts into a mask of confusion. “Huuuuh? Recruit? Are you an anarcho-Mormon or something?” 

“Don’t act so surprised. You met one of our higher-ups today, didn’t you?” 

“…Oh, shit.” Ed points Electriclarryland at the girl, his hand beginning to tremble as red-hot fear boils in his veins. How did they get someone here this fast?! He only just defeated Paradizo! “A-Are you with the Million?”

The girl raises her eyebrows. “Uh, you know about the Million? Damn. That makes this a lot —”

She’s with them! Dumb terror nudges Ed’s finger into the trigger; with a click, a torrent of mesh suddenly surges outwards, preparing to ensnare the girl — but just as quickly, a purple arm surges out from the girl’s body. Before Ed’s eyes, the latticework falters as it touches the ethereal hand, sagging limply down towards the ground. 

Ed’s eyes almost bulge out of his head in sheer, unbridled surprise. “Huh?”

“Okay, okay, okay!” The girl raises her hands deferentially, the ghostly arm melting back into her. “Look, okay, you’re clearly a Stand user, so I know I have the right guy. I don’t know what your deal is, but I’m not a Million goon! I’m literally — ugh.” She shakes her head and sighs. “We’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, haven’t we?”

Ed shakes his head, unable to form any coherent words through the fog of confusion clouding his higher brain functions. Finally, he chokes out, “Just — tell me what’s going on. Please.”

“Sure thing! Just pretend none of that happened and I just woke up.” The girl briefly falls back and fakes snoring, then pretends to wake up, pushes herself off the couch, and extends a chipper hand to Ed. 

“Oh, wow, you just arrived! Hi, I’m Cecilia Valdez! I work part-time for the Bureau of Containment, an organization that deals with dangerous Stand users. And I was told to meet up with you!” She twirls her extended hand and nods suggestively, whispering “Your turn.”

Ed stares back at her for a second before his brain clicks back on. “Uh, yeah. I’m Ed Henderson.” He holsters Electriclarryland and grasps Cecilia’s hand with his own, weakly shaking it. “I, uh, do part-time stuff around the Twelfth. Deliveries, gig work — just general shit like that. Not the, ah, most noble work, but, uh… yeah. Also, I only learned what a Stand is, like, an hour and a half ago.”

“Hey, that’s more than most people in the city can say! So you’re already above average…” The slight smirk fades from Cecilia’s face. “Then how do you know about the Million?”

“Well, I just got out of a fight with a Stand-using guy who said he’s with the Million. And he said he’d send them all after me, so…”

“Oh! Ohhhh. Jeez, I’m sorry. Stand fights can be brutal…” Cecilia’s eyes survey the bruising on Ed’s face, sliding down to the numerous tiny punctures on his hands, which are slowly scabbing over. A slight grimace twists her mouth.  “…And you won?”

“It was tough, but yeah.” 

“Huh.” Cecilia nods very slightly, and Ed suddenly feels a sense of indignation. After a brief second of hesitation, he asks, “Uh, how do you know about the Million?”

“Ahh, that’s a tough one.” Cecilia shifts her weight from one foot to the other, pulling a lollipop from her pocket and unwrapping it as she ponders. “Hmm… Well, basically, the Million are an organization of militant Stand users. The Bureau doesn’t know much about them — not that they tell me much — but a bunch of Stand crimes have been occurring across the town, and the Million have claimed credit for a lot of them. So we’re trying to stop that!” 

Ed nods, gradually processing the information in his brain. The Million are criminal Stand users, the Bureau doesn’t like them. Right. “So, the Bureau are Stand users too…?” 

“If I remember correctly, we’ve got a couple Standless interns, but all the people who actually do stuff are Stand users. Including me, naturally.” She dramatically places her left hand to her chest; Ed notices a curious mark on the back of it, a red tattoo of a half-sun. He mentally notes the strange sight and turns back up to Cecilia. 

“Then, what are Stands? Like, where do they come from?”

“Oof. Well, that’s the answer everyone wants to know.” Cecilia shrugs, popping the lollipop into her mouth. “Well, we know that they started popping up last year, after the Byway Bridge collapse and that toxic gas leak. I started noticing mine right afterwards — did you?” 

Ed thinks back. When did he first discover Electriclarryland? He can’t remember the exact day, but… yep, it’d have to have been after the bridge situation. “I guess so, yeah. That checks out. But, like, how do you know if something’s a Stand?” 

“Well, as far as I know, there are two main rules.” Cecilia raises a finger. “First, Stands have weird supernatural powers. Weird stuff, inexplicable stuff, that you probably would never see under any other circumstance. Second…” She raises another finger. “…Stands, and their effects, can only be seen by other Stand users.”

You can see my ‘Stand…?’ You’re not just a garden-variety shithead… Paradizo’s sneering words replay in Ed’s mind as a piece clicks into place. “Shiiiit. So, you can tell if someone’s a Stand user if they can see your Stand? So you could, like, bust your Stand out and immediately bust whoever sees it?”

A pained grimace crosses Cecilia’s face as she crunches down on the lollipop. “Well, suuure, but it’s a dumbass move to reveal your Stand in public and see if someone notices. Plus, there’s no guarantee you’ll be able to clock them instantly from their reactions…” She licks her lips. “Ugh, I’m getting way off-topic. Get me a drink, and I’ll tell you what I came here to tell you.”

“…Okay.” Ed takes a step back, then suddenly notices the pistol, still solidly clutched by the barrel in his hand. “Uh, mind if I ask a weird question?” As Cecilia’s eyes flick back towards him, he delicately lifts the pistol. “Is this… your Stand?”

“Huh? Oh, no, no, no! Definitely not. He wouldn’t like that assertion.” A laugh creases Cecilia’s face as she leans against the wall, shaking her head. “No, my gun’s name is Vicious. I’ve had him for a looong while, even before I got my Stand. If I called him that, he’d get super —”

“Hold on, wait,” interjects Ed. “Your gun has pronouns?”  

Cecilia snorts. “Everyone has pronouns, dude.”

“I mean, your gun has, like, a name? Emotions? A personality?”

“We’ve got way more important things to talk about than my gun’s inner life. Focus on the drink.”

Ed sighs in resignation and walks over to the fridge, pulling out a can of soda, which he tosses to Cecilia. She catches it, inspecting it in her hands, then cracks it open and sips it with the grace of a sommelier. Leaning against the cracked stone counter, she nods eagerly. “Mmm. Good stuff. Thank you!”

“…Uh-huh.” Ed places a hand to his head; the whole situation feels somehow surreal. The ease with which the girl inhabits his private space makes him uneasy. “So… what were you gonna tell me?”

“Oh, right. So!” Cecilia places her hands together. “I work part-time with the Bureau of Containment, a government unit that has a branch headquartered downtown. They moved into Center City shortly after the bridge disaster and have been containing Stand criminals ever since.”

“Stand… criminals?” 

Cecilia shrugs. “Well, not everyone with a Stand is benevolent. That’s why the Bureau exists; they — we — keep a check on supernatural criminal bullshit.”

Ed nods, gradually putting the pieces together. “So you’re the Stand police.”

“Eh…” A grimace crosses Cecilia’s face. “I’d like to think we’re more effective than city cops — our philosophies are definitely very different — but sure, we can go with that.” She daintily sips the soda again, then smacks her lips. “Anyway! Finally, why I’m here: my boss wants to offer you a job as a contractor for the Bureau of Containment.”

Ed’s brow furrows. “Well, do you get paid? Is it dangerous? Are —”

“Nope, nope. No questions yet.” Cecilia raises a hand in front of her, shutting down Ed’s questions. “I was told to bring you to my supervisor so she could give you the spiel. I’ve said way, way, way too much already. My role is just to take you there. You all right with that?”

Clashing thoughts flood into Ed’s mind, paralyzing him on the spot. Fighting off dangerous Stand users sounds, well, dangerous, but he could get paid. And the Million’s after him, so would joining the Bureau be worth it for the help? Or would it put him in even more danger if the two are clashing? And how does the Bureau know about him anyway? As his mind moils ferociously, he shuts it down, resolving to say the first thing that pops into his mind. 

His lips slowly part, moving of their own volition. Agree or refuse? It all hangs on this gut feeling. 

“…Uh. Sure.”

Cecilia beams and claps her hands with satisfaction, crumpling the can between them as she does. “Hell yeah! Let’s get moving, then; I don’t wanna keep my supervisor waiting any longer.” She moves back towards the door, motioning Ed to follow her. 

He sighs, gently squeezing Electriclarryland’s holster to relieve his nagging worries. Ever since the moment he glanced down that alleyway, he feels as if he’s been plunged into an alternate, shadowy world, with government organizations and strange men in parks and goddamn Stands. As he walks down the washed-out stairs, his eyes drifting over the girl in front of him, he feels as if he’s descending further and further from the comfort of his daily routine. A deep uncertainty settles into his soul. 

What a thoroughly strange day. 

Just before they reach the door, Cecilia reaches into her pocket and pulls out another lollipop. She proffers it towards Ed. “Hey, want one?”

Ed shakes his head. “Err, I’m good. Thanks.”

Cecilia shrugs. “Suit yourself.” She unwraps the candy and pops it into her mouth; the pair continues down the street, off into the heat haze of the late afternoon. 

— — — 

The dim fluorescent lights emit a consistent buzz, or maybe it comes from the tiny gnats that swirl around them moronically. Paradizo scowls upwards at the lights, which cast a sallow hue onto his squinted eyes and cheeks as he stomps down the hallway. Crystallized anger burns through his mind as he turns his eyes to the double doors at the end of the grim, industrial hallway. Fucking mesh, fucking Stand users, stupid motherfucking city… 

As he reaches the doors, Paradizo slams them open, barking “Betterman!” as he strides forwards. He stops on a dime, absorbing the sights. Tangled, foot-deep mazes of pipes crowd the room; the constant sound of water surging through them makes the space feel almost constricting. Here, the lighting is even worse, as naked, hanging bulbs flicker between blindingly bright and totally dark, causing Paradizo to grit his teeth in frustration. He stomps his way to the center of the room, his feet clanging off the metal flooring every step of the way. At the very center, a large throne of welded metal sits atop a raised cement platform; it is currently empty. 

Paradizo seethes with anger, scanning around the room vigilantly. “BETTERMAN!” he roars again. “You’d better fucking be in here, goddammit! I need your Stand NOW!”

“Who is this? Paradizo? …Calm down.”

Paradizo’s head swivels left, towards the source of the echoing, monotone voice. He notices a dark silhouette hunched among the plumbing, entombed in crisscrossing pipes. Even though he can barely make out his boss through the tangled plumbing, Paradizo feels a pair of dark, sunken eyes fixing a penetrating gaze on him. 

“Now. What happened?” asks Betterman in an even tone. “Did you get attacked? Speak clearly.”

“I did! Some kid with a Stand that could shoot mesh invaded the lot you gave me and fucking trashed it! He compromised my security! You have to —”

“You are rambling. Speak. Clearly.” Though there is no overt change in Betterman’s tone, each precisely enunciated syllable has a subtle edge to it, slicing into Paradizo’s will. “Quit whining. Get to the point.” 

Paradizo sighs, his rage tempered. “My point is that I just got the shit beat out of me by some fucking punk kid, and I need you to get your Stand after him, maybe sic a few guys on him too. We need to teach this piece of shit not to —”

“You want me. No, us. You want us to solve this. To clean up your mess. What was caused by your rashness.”

Paradizo winces. “It wasn’t my rashness —”

“Yes. It was. It most certainly was.” The figure silently stands up, decisively resting a hand on a pipe. “I instructed you not to get into trouble. To wait until I gave you further orders.”

“I did! I fucking waited! But some idiot walked in — what could I possibly —”

A restrained exhale of frustration echoes through the pipes, clamming Paradizo up instantly. “You instigated, Paradizo. You lost control. And you lost. Yet you expect us to waste valuable time. To use our resources. On your petty little grievance.”

Paradizo’s face burns with shame as he grits his teeth. “…Look, at least you wanna know about another Stand user, right? The mesh that this guy makes is super fucking tough —”

“Is he Bureau?”

“Eh?”

“Paradizo. Did he have the mark?”

Paradizo bites his lip. “Uh… No, and he was too clumsy to have Bureau experience. But I might not have gotten —”

“Let it go. Useless intel. No reason to pursue him.”

“But—!”

“Paradizo. You got into a fight. With a brand-new Stand user. And lost. Drop it.”

Hot blood pounds through Paradizo’s ears; he feels a noose of shame tightening around his throat. His fists clench and unclench as he racks his mind for some comeback, some witty retort, but his brain is paralyzed by Betterman’s reproach. He feels useless, the fury in his chest curdling into something ugly and twisted. 

“You know how to contact me. You know the procedure. I see no point in you coming here. No point in bothering me about this little grievance.” Betterman’s silhouette shifts slightly. “Now. You may seek your enemy out. Or you might merely cross paths. Either way. Take it into your own hands. Use your own initiative.”

“…” Paradizo tilts his head back, his fists unclenching slightly as he takes a breath. 

“You are strong, Paradizo. Your In Bloom is a profoundly deep ability. But you are naive. Your mind is constrained by juvenile anger. So. Remember this: You must learn to control yourself. Only then will your ability fully blossom.” 

“Don’t get all fuckin’ philosophical again, man…” murmurs Paradizo, a slight smirk beginning to grow. 

“Now. If you will excuse me. I must continue my surveillance. Feel free to leave.” Betterman takes his seat among the pipes; Paradizo turns around, sneering, and stomps away. 

As Paradizo’s boots clank against the metal of the ground, Betterman exhales subtly through his nose at the disturbance. Distractions are lethal, and that kid is a walking distraction. He’s a powerful Stand user and a great asset. But he needs to grow the fuck up. 

As he sits among the roaring water and cold steel, his mind slowly drifts to the recruits he’s amassed. Paradizo is the most promising, being both devoted to the Million and gifted with a powerful Stand. The rest of his network is either uncommitted or burdened with severe personal problems. He certainly needs to engage in more outreach, but he’s confident that he has at least one future Trashman.  

A throbbing pain suddenly assaults Betterman; he winces, placing a hand to his forehead. Tenderly, he caresses a light ridge of scar tissue, closing his eyes from the dim light. Ugh. He takes a breath, letting the roaring symphony of the pipes serenade him, then focuses once more. His perception flares outside his body, and he feels his Stand ready and waiting.

Betterman’s lips curl slightly in a satisfied smile. Yes, indeed — it’s always a good day for a revolution. 

Chapter Text

On a street corner in the southeast Twelfth District, a block or two from the riverfront, sits a restaurant known as the Soul Kitchen. Sandwiched between a pet store and a subway entrance, this little establishment is unique for several reasons. Its architecture and aesthetic are completely incongruous with the brutalist concrete of the surrounding block and the austerity of inner-city fine dining establishments, which has won it admiration from many weary locals who tire of high-class homogenization. 

Built of brick and wood with dim lighting, cushioned chairs, and a predominantly homey feel, the Kitchen appears almost colonial; it feels as if it should be part of some quaint little town, with its back facing the woods, frequented by aging locals and fresh-faced college kids. But instead, it is comfortably lodged in its little urban niche, and the sign reading SOUL KITCHEN in precisely embossed letters has The Best Damn Food in the Twelfth inscribed right below it. Despite its appearance, the Kitchen is unquestionably a product of the city, and in return, the city has left its mark upon it. 

This incongruity is the first fact of note about the Soul Kitchen. The second is the noticeably inconsistent quality of the food served. For instance, ordering the lobster special was notoriously derided as “possibly the worst mistake one could possibly make — potentially lethal, under the right circumstances” by one prominent journalist, and the grits are notoriously known for their consistency’s resemblance to cement. But the Kitchen also has some of the best dishes perceivable by human taste buds. Its chicken pot pies and BLTs are spoken of in reverent whispers, from the most decadent investment bankers in the Financial District to the callused, blue-collar dockworkers at the Waterfront. It’s rare to see a restaurant straddle the best and the worst simultaneously, but just as in its setting, the Kitchen has always maintained and even embraced this kind of incongruity. 

Third, and most crucially, the Soul Kitchen is a place where important events happen. It’s not so much that notable people visit there, though celebrities, politicians, and even famous criminals have darkened its door over the years. Because of its notoriety and accessibility, many different sorts of people find themselves visiting the Kitchen, which inevitably causes strange new interactions to occur. And on this day, a meeting in the Soul Kitchen will once again reverberate throughout the city. 

A graceful woman sits at a wooden table, shaded beneath an umbrella, slightly outside of the Kitchen. Clad in a blouse embroidered with diamond patterns and a conservative skirt, with an intricate bun-braid that somehow holds up in the heat, her age is difficult to tell from her face — she could be anywhere from twenty-five to fifty. An impeccable leather handbag is slung around her neck with practiced carelessness. She glances down through a silver monocle at her watch, clearing her throat slightly; her ears prickle at the sound of nearby conversation. 

“Oh, shit — we’re eating here?”  

“Yeah! My dad took me here once. I recommended it to my boss, so now we’re trying it out. I’m early, but my boss won’t mind — she’s a fanatic about time. Always shows up twenty minutes early to everything.”

“But didn’t they, like, film a movie here? Do we have to—”

“Relaaax. She’ll pick up the tab. My boss is awesome.”  

The woman’s head turns upwards to find Cecilia Valdez walking down the sidewalk, followed by an unassuming-looking fellow in shades. Cecilia waves amicably. “Heya, Misti! Beautiful day, isn’t it?” 

She pulls out a chair and plunks herself down at the table, popping a lollipop stick out of her mouth; her companion stands awkwardly beside her. 

“Most certainly, Miss Cecilia. You’ve returned… earlier than I expected. I take it this is our new friend?” The woman’s accent is strange, ambiguously European; each syllable is enunciated with surgical precision. 

“Hey, ‘punctuality is life,’ right? But yeah.” She gesticulates upwards towards the standing Ed. “This is Ed Henderson, the dude you told me to grab. Ed, this is my boss at the Bureau, Misti Mountainhop.” 

Misti clucks her tongue. “I prefer the term ‘handler.’” 

Cecilia rolls her eyes. “Same difference…”

“Don’t be so crass, Miss Cecilia. Language is everything, after all; rituals are what keeps any good organization humming along productively.” She turns her head towards Ed in an owl-like fashion. “And you, Mister Ed — it is a pleasure to meet you. Ed — is it short for anything? Edgar? Edwin? Edison?” 

Ed shrugs. “Uh, nope. Just Ed.” 

Misti’s eyebrow quirks upwards behind her monocle. “Intriguing, intriguing. Oh, and do please sit down — I’d rather you get comfortable, as we’ll be here for a bit. Would you all like to order anything? Drinks? A meal?” She slides a menu across the table towards them and snaps her fingers, attracting a nearby waiter. 

Ed’s stomach growls; he realizes that encountering the man in the alley distracted him from grabbing lunch. “Oh, um.” He turns to Cecilia. “What would you say the best dish here is?” 

Cecilia shrugs. “I dunno. Whatever you do, don’t try the shellfish, but the regular fish aren’t bad. They have burgers, pot pies, and pasta which are all pretty solid… I might get some fettuccine alfredo and a lemonade.”

“Uhhh… hmm. I’ll try the salmon burger, then. With regular fries.”

Misti beams. “Excellent choices!” She rests a hand on the waiter’s arm. “I will just have a mimosa, if you wouldn’t mind.” 

“Of course, ma’am.” The waiter nods, dutifully picking up the menu and walking back into the restaurant. 

Misti sighs. “Now then, Mister Ed. It is high time that you are informed of the Bureau’s structure. Although we can’t fully induct you immediately, I would like to make you aware of our methods and policies, so that you know what your work here might entail. Please take a look at this.” 

Lifting her left hand from the table, Misti Mountainhop turns the back of it towards Ed; upon it is marked a sigil of a half-sun — the same as the one on Cecilia earlier. 

Ed nods vigorously at the sight. “Yeah, what is that? And what exactly does it do?” 

“Put simply, these marks are proof of membership to the Bureau. Everyone from the administrators down to the contractors — such as Miss Cecilia here — is granted one upon induction. These marks are related to the chief administrator’s ‘ability;’ he bestows one upon each individual, given the opportunity.” 

Ed’s brow furrows in uncertainty. “Wait… that mark’s a Stand ability? What does it do? And what’s the deal with all this contractor-administrator stuff?” 

Misti cocks her head to the side momentarily. “Well, they are less a Stand ability than the product of an ability. Fundamentally, they cannot cause harm to you — they merely serve to designate you as a member of the Bureau, while passively aiding you in achieving your power’s full potential. Meanwhile, Cecilia is a contractor, meaning we — normally, I — call upon her for specific jobs.” 

“Jobs? What kind of jobs?” says Ed, uncertainty still creeping into his voice. 

“Not anything weird! At least, not for me,” chimes Cecilia. “Typically, it’s stuff like using my Stand to help with an investigation, or catch a Stand criminal. Or some weirder jobs occasionally, like recruiting you.” 

Misti snaps her fingers, pointing at Cecilia. “Spot on, Miss Cecilia! Contractors are typically called in for small roles, often those which best suit their abilities. They are paid by the job, depending on difficulty; if you choose to join, you will likely start as a contractor. Meanwhile, the role above them is one that I personally belong to — formal, full-time employees of the Bureau of Containment. Officially, we are known as the ‘White Satin Knights.’”

Ed’s eyebrows fly upwards. “Damn, that’s fancy!”

“Indeed, indeed. Knights have various roles — some serve as security for our headquarters, some are sent out on missions to react to potential Stand threats, and some serve to gather information and intelligence from around the city. Some of us are also chosen to oversee contractors; for instance, Miss Cecilia is one assigned to me. Perhaps you will be too, if you can aid her in the completion of our current objective.”

Ed nods, the information reverberating in the space between his ears. “Okay.”

Cecilia brushes her bangs back, side-eying Misti. “So… should we tell him the mission we’re working on?”

Misti nods solemnly. “For now, let us treat you as if you are a contractor, Mister Ed. For the past few months, we have been in pursuit of a high-ranking Million member by the name of ‘Betterman.’”

The Million are dozens… Paradizo’s words ring once more in Ed’s head, and he resolves to get answers. “…What exactly is the Million?”

“The Million are a secretive, hostile organization, mostly comprised of Stand users. Recently, they’ve been implicated in several attacks on government and economic installations around the city, along with several wanton attacks on civilians. The post-office bombings last year, the locked-room murders at the Pearl Café a few months ago, and those mysterious threats to the governor and his family — we have decisively managed to link all of those to the Million.  

“But!” Misti raises an eyebrow and a finger. “There is a further complication. The Million are extremely elusive. We have only managed to link them to these incidents via the testimony of captured Million members, in conjunction with eyewitnesses. Fingerprints of suspected Million members turn up nothing in databases, and security footage containing them is warped beyond recognition. This is a level of secrecy beyond the basic level for Stands; for all intents and purposes, the Million do not officially exist.  

“So…” Misti spreads her hands magnanimously. “The natural question arises: how to combat an invisible enemy?” 

Ed doesn’t respond immediately; Cecilia turns towards him, and sees his eyes slightly glazed over. His body suddenly spasms, and he shakes his head vigorously. “Uhh… Sorry. But — yeah, if they can erase themselves from government databases, how can you find them?” 

“The answer, my good Mister Ed, is just the same as so many other things in this world: Stand power. With Stands on our side, we have come closer to the truth behind Betterman’s agenda, and we’ve obtained a tangible lead.” Misti snaps open her handbag and pulls out a glossy Polaroid photo. Carefully obscuring it from Ed and Cecilia’s vision, she places it face-down and slides it across the table. “Miss Cecilia. You are already quite familiar with this case, but it would be appreciated if you’d give our new friend a demonstration.’

Cecilia shrugs. “Works for me. Hopefully the material works, but… I trust you.” She closes her eyes and reaches out her hand, pressing her fingertips into the photo; immediately, a grimace of recognition crosses her face. “Ooooh, this guy… What’s he have to do with Betterman?” 

“Excellent question. For the sake of our friend here, would you kindly describe the person depicted in this photograph?” Misti’s eyes flick over to Ed, and she coyly raises an eyebrow behind her monocle, as if to say, Watch this.

“Hmm…” Cecilia’s face creases in concentration. “A guy in his mid-to-late fifties. Balding, cheap clothes, generally not doing very well. Used to work as a school janitor — or maybe a toll taker? Low-paying, crappy job, where he had to deal with people a ton, but he got laid off a bit ago for underlying psychiatric conditions. Absolutely a Stand user, without a doubt. Uhhh, I’m pretty sure he’s in a manic state here? Seems he didn’t get much sleep the night before, but he’s still extremely active. And it looks almost like he’s on a mission.” 

Misti claps her hands, beaming jubilantly once more. “Full marks, Miss Cecilia! Brilliant! Astounding!” She flips over the photo, revealing a slightly blurred shot of a middle-aged man, clad in a stained sweatsuit and burdened with a receding, graying hairline. His hands are tucked slightly in his pockets, and dark bags lay under his eyes; as he walks down the sidewalk, he glances furtively over his shoulder, very conspicuously attempting to be inconspicuous. 

Ed adjusts his sunglasses, dumbfounded. “Holy fuck! Uh, jeez, holy fuck?! Does your Stand make you a psychic?” 

Cecilia smirks, theatrically placing a hand to her face. “‘A magician never reveals her secrets,’ of course.” As Ed scoffs, she turns back towards her boss. “Misti, this is the warehouse guy from Center City, right?”  

“Perfectly deduced! With your observation, I would never expect anything less. Mister Ed, this man —” Misti taps the photo with an elegantly manicured nail. “— is named Broderick Burnside. He formerly drove a bus for a suburban public school for over a decade, supporting himself and his infirm mother. Unfortunately, his undiagnosed conditions meant his performance wasn’t up to snuff, and budget cuts after the Byway Bridge incident led to his termination. Next we know of him, he had afflicted a warehouse with his Stand, Paranoid, and held two dozen civilians hostage.”

Ed winces. “Ah, damn. Did anyone… y’know…?” 

“Thankfully, our operatives immobilized Burnside in time, and we neutralized his ability with no casualties. It’s a testament to the effectiveness of the contractor system that we were able to respond to the situation so effectively! Now, Cecilia, you are aware of the Burnside situation already, but here’s where we encounter our first new development: in custody, we were able to glean that Burnside is a Million operative — and not only that, but directly working under the orders of Betterman.” 

Cecilia leans back in her chair. Reflexively, she reaches into her pocket, pulling out a lollipop; Misti’s brow wrinkles at the sight. “Please try not to ruin your appetite, Miss Cecilia.”

“Don’t worry, boss.” Cecilia crunches down on the lollipop, visibly engrossed in thought. “This is just a big development, is all. So… did he tell you anything substantial about Betterman?” 

“Nothing particularly coherent, regrettably. He spoke of Betterman having ‘ears all across the city’ and being a, er, ‘pretentious effing scheming prick,’ if you’ll pardon my censoring, along with the fact that his Stand is, apparently, ‘undefeatable.’ Unfortunately, he’s not a particularly promising lead due to his mental state, and we can’t properly interrogate him due to his agitated condition and the fact that his Paranoid triggers within an enclosed space. We’ve transferred him to a psychiatric facility which accommodates these precautions, where, hopefully, he should recuperate and be able to return to society.” 

“So what’s the link from him to Betterman?” asks Ed. 

“Very astute observation, Mister Ed! Before that, I have a second challenge for Miss Cecilia. You certainly will not know the person in the photo this time, so it cannot be nearly as easy, but I trust you will rise to the challenge.” Misti pulls another face-down photo out and slides it next to the first one, inviting Cecilia to give it a try. 

Once more, Cecilia presses her fingers to the photograph and shuts her eyes. She nods slightly as her forehead creases and her lips part. “Okay, okay… College-age guy, very smart — he’s definitely in a science-y major. Super cool flat-top haircut and wacky glasses. Not like Ed’s — they have thick frames. He’s got two big chains dangling from his neck, one with… I wanna say a clock? And his outfit is reasonably nice, too. Um, I can’t quite tell if he’s a Stand user, but he seems to be much more relaxed. It feels like he’s talking to someone else, not in the photograph… Yeah.” She opens her eyes expectantly, lifting up her fingers. 

After a moment’s pause, Misti flips over the photo with a nail, then claps her hands. “A stunning display, Miss Cecilia.” 

The photo depicts a dark-skinned young man, a few years older than Ed and Cecilia. His charcoal-black hair is styled in a neat, cylindrical hairdo; he wears glasses with thick plastic frames and red-tinted lenses, which complement a dark-red suit jacket and matching pants. As Cecilia described, two chains dangle from his neck, one gold and one silver. The golden one bears a large clock pendant at the end. The photo captures him in mid-stride; his mouth is slightly open as if talking, his lip curled in a cheeky grin, and an open flip phone is pressed to his ear. 

Ed’s eyes widen. “Damn, that fit is amazing...” 

“The dapper gent depicted in this image is named Jalil Houdin,” begins Misti. “He’s a junior on a pre-med track at Rockwell State University in Center City. Valedictorian of his high school class, superb grades, and a very sociable fellow by all counts. Not the sort you would expect to be involved in our world of Stands.” 

“So what’s he have to do with Burnside…?” asks Cecilia suspiciously. 

By way of a response, Misti clicks her tongue, spreads her fingers, and taps both photos at once. “Think deeper, Miss Cecilia. Dive into the potential of your Stand.” As she leans back, the waiter comes with drinks; Misti gratefully plucks the mimosa from his plate and pats his arm, taking a sip. 

Cecilia places a hand to her chin, staring at both photos. Tentatively, she reaches out both hands, placing one on each picture, and closes her eyes. Ed sits hushed, watching Cecilia like a middle schooler with a Ouija board at a sleepover. Slowly, he begins to suspiciously wonder if this is a performance, if Cecilia and Misti colluded beforehand to make it look like Cecilia has some power. But what would they gain from that? Is it just to impress him enough that he joins? Exactly how much of an idiot do they think he is?

As his anger stews, he resolves to find out Cecilia’s real ability later. They won’t pull one over on him.

A second later, Cecilia’s eyes snap open, and she slams her fist into the table triumphantly. She jabs her finger towards Misti. “The place and time! I wasn’t focusing on them earlier, cause you had me focusing on the subjects, but — these pictures were taken two minutes apart! And at the same location!” 

Ed’s eyes widen. “Wait, so that means… they were in the same place at the same time?” 

“Yeah!” Cecilia nods. “If they’re both Stand users, meeting in the same place, and if Burnside worked for Betterman, that means Houdin could be a lead on Betterman’s intentions!” 

“Smashing, stunning, superb! Now, one last photo for you. No need to read this one, Miss Cecilia!” Misti places a third photo face-up on the table, depicting Houdin and Burnside sitting together at a steel table. Neither man looks very happy; Houdin is captured gesticulating mid-sentence, while Burnside appears to be sulking. Ed now wonders why they’d use such elaborate theatrics to try and convince him. Is he really that important to them?

“So,” continues Misti, “we have an inextricable link between Jalil Houdin, Broderick Burnside, and our elusive Betterman. Houdin and Burnside, thankfully, do not have the elusiveness of higher-up Million members; we assume they are lower-level workers, so to speak. Houdin is an extremely intelligent young man; his goal is to one day become a surgeon. We don’t know why he would fall in with Betterman and Burnside — it possibly indicates some sort of coercion. As I’m sure you’ve surmised, your current mission will be attempting to establish contact with Houdin. But there’s one final complication you must consider. The finishing touch to this mission’s portrait, if you will.” 

Misti Mountainhop places one final photograph on the table. Cecilia leans over it, theninhales  sharply. “Jesus! What happened to that guy?” 

Ed slides over and takes a look at the photo. It depicts a young man laying in a hospital bed on a ventilator, eyes closed. Ed’s eyes widen as Misti continues speaking. 

“The hospitalized boy depicted in this photo is currently studying at RSU. Several months ago, he, along with three other students, were struck with a strange affliction: even though all were young and healthy, with no risk factors, they all had been struck with severe myocardial infarctions. In other words, massive heart attacks. Even stranger, they all suffered these attacks while resting; nothing in their environments or activities would have led to a heart attack.” Misti sips her mimosa and leans forwards, her monocle gleaming in the late afternoon light. “And finally, here’s where things begin to get very interesting: All four of these students shared a class with Jalil Houdin.”

“So — Houdin’s a Stand user?” Ed blurts. “And he can mess with peoples’ hearts?!”

“At long range, and delayed?” Cecilia grimaces. “Geez. That could be dangerous…” 

“Now, now. Keep in mind, this was months ago, and we aren’t completely certain as to the nature and the circumstances of the ability. It certainly does not appear that Houdin is some kind of Stand-wielding psychopath; most likely, he tested his ability out without realizing his limits.”

“And hospitalized four people?” retorts Ed, stupefied. 

Misti shrugs. “Stands are dangerous business, Mister Ed. After the Byway Bridge incident, we identified many instances of people activating their abilities for the first time and severely injuring themselves or others. If anything, the case of Houdin is on the milder side. Additionally, none of these strange cases have appeared in months, and Houdin appears to be an amicable fellow, so I trust you shall be able to convince him to give at least some information. We have discerned that he will most likely be patronizing the Cudi Club in Center City tonight, as is the fashion for his peers, so I would advise starting your investigation there. We’ve managed to acquire reservations under Cecilia’s name for you.” 

Cecilia smirks. “Sure beats hell out of recruitment duty.”

“Ah, and I have one final thing for you, Mister Ed.” After draining the rest of her mimosa and gathering the remaining photos into her handbag, Misti rummages around and pulls out a plastic toy rotary phone. She places it on the table with gusto. “This nifty little number has my own Stand ability active on it. I would advise carrying it around with you; my ‘network’ is vital for matters of Bureau business.” 

Ed looks at the phone, then back to Misti. “Uh, this is a toy, ma’am…?”

“Allow me to demonstrate.” Misti picks up the phone and deliberately enunciates “Cecilia Valdez” into the handset. She waits a beat, then says, “Miss Cecilia, would you mind sharing your own apparatus?” 

Her words are faintly doubled; Cecilia pulls a plastic makeup mirror out of her purse, and the sound becomes clearer. She snaps it open and responds, “Yes, boss…” and her words are repeated from the phone. 

“Thank you kindly.” Misti hangs up the phone and pushes it towards Ed. “Because of my Stand ability, the sound will transmit regardless of distance, elevation, or cell service. To operate it, you must speak the name of your intended receiver to establish the connection. It could be me, Miss Cecilia, or even one of the administrators themselves — as long as I have ‘connected’ them in the Bureau, they will respond. If you have any more questions about our mission or how you will carry it out, please contact me.” 

Cecilia and Ed trade a brief glance. As Ed pulls the phone towards him and awkwardly shoves it into his pocket, Cecilia turns back towards Misti. “Uhh, about Houdin. Other than him maybe being at the Cudi Club, do we have —”

A loud violin movement suddenly bursts from Misti’s phone, cutting off Cecilia neatly. Misti lifts her phone up, and her face darkens slightly. “Ah, I must take this call… Apologies, my prodigal protegés.” She pulls a few crisp bills from her pocket and thumps them onto the table. “This should cover your dinner. I hope to discuss the success of our mission with you soon!” Pushing herself up from the table, she turns on a dime and briskly walks down the sidewalk, her fancy heels clicking a determined staccato as she murmurs into the phone. 

Ed’s eyes flick briefly to Cecilia, who inspects the money her boss left behind. Her eyes widen, and she whistles. “Four hundred-dollar bills. Jeez, this place isn’t that expensive… Well, take that as some advance pay for us.” 

She flips a bill towards Ed, who catches it, folds it cautiously, and awkwardly slips it into the pocket of his jacket. His head turns towards Cecilia, and he regards her through his glasses. “She’s, uh, eccentric, isn’t she?” 

Cecilia nods. “No doubt. Yeah, the Bureau does some weird stuff, but they pay well for fairly simple tasks. Plus, you get to help out the city, which feels good. Now, I haven’t had too many run-ins with dangerous Stand users yet, but…” She shrugs nonchalantly. 

“Your order?” The waiter returns with Ed’s burger and Cecilia’s pasta in tow. They thank him; he nods and disappears off into the bustle of the restaurant once more. 

Cecilia spins the pasta with her fork and contemplates it. “That felt like a long wait, but it’s worth it — this is gonna be good.” She bites into the pasta, then closes her eyes and nods in satisfaction. “Oh, yeah. That’s why we met here.” 

Ed follows suit, biting into his burger. Mustard, tartar sauce, a bit of lemon… it doesn’t rock his world, but it’s damn solid food. It beats hell out of his normal takeout fare, at least. And it tastes all the sweeter if it’s on the government’s dime. 

They eat silently, carefully yet greedily, polishing off their food with precise haste. After they finish, Cecilia wipes her hand on a napkin, nodding. “Good stuff, good stuff. Has to be the best way to start a mission, honestly.” 

“Yeah…” A nagging doubt suddenly rises in Ed’s brain, and he adjusts his sunglasses slightly. “Say, Cecilia… That thing you just did with the photos. How’d you do it?”

Cecilia blinks. “What do you mean, how’d I do it? I used my Stand ability on them.” 

“Yeah, but like — you gotta understand — like, from where I am…” 

Ed gesticulates at Cecilia, attempting to convey his meaning. Her eyes narrow in confusion for a brief moment as he struggles to articulate; suddenly, she nods, understanding his malformed intent. “Ohhh, you think it looks like me and Misti arranged it ahead of time?” 

Ed nods quickly. “Sorry, but — it just looked a bit off to me?” 

“Uh, I kinda understand where you’re coming from with that… hmm. I could read another object, if you want. My ability’s not limited to photos.” 

“That could work…” Ed thinks to himself for a moment. How could he verify if her ability is actually real? 

In an instant, the answer comes to him, but he pushes it off for a second, vainly searching for any other option. When nothing comes to mind, he sighs, takes off his sunglasses with one hand, and covers his right eye with the other, placing them on the table. “Here. Check these out.”

For a second, Cecilia looks at Ed’s eye; a slight look of unease crinkles her face, and she lingers on them for a second too long. She turns to the pair of sunglasses and picks them up from the table. “Uhh, right. Let’s see here…” 

Her eyes widen. “Dang. Okay. Uhh, hmm. So… you bought this specific pair of sunglasses four years ago, from… a convenience store, I think. You’ve worn them pretty much daily ever since — regardless of the season or time of day. Seems they didn’t cost much, but they’re pretty durable, which is why they’ve stuck around so long. And… hmm. This is gonna sound weird no matter what way I put it…” She glances into Ed’s eyes once more, then quickly averts her gaze. 

Ed whistles, eyes widening beneath his hand. “Holy fuck, the ability’s real?! Tell me more!”

“…Effectively, people interact with the objects around them constantly — we step on rugs, handle doorknobs, turn on light switches, and whatnot. Over time, the objects take on some characteristics of the way they’re used. So, like, a door that people slam will gradually develop that anger put into slamming it, right? Or a rug that people wipe mud on will develop the disdain for the mud being scraped on it.”

A wave of confusion now crosses Ed’s face. “Wait, wait, wait. Objects have, like, feelings?” 

Cecilia moves in a sort of half-nodding motion. “Weeeell… in a manner of speaking, yeah. Moreso, they absorb the emotions of the way they’re used — and I can read those emotions with my ability. So, I can tell you’ve repaired these glasses a bunch of times, and been careful to clean them and make sure they’re not scratched — which is a lot of care for some cheap sunglasses. And because of that, well… they’re happy.” 

“My sunglasses are happy?”

“Your sunglasses are very pleased.”

“Damn!” Ed places his chin to his palm contemplatively. “That’s — goddamn, wow. That’s really fucking cool. And you can do that, like, for every object? Read its emotions and experiences?” 

“More of less, yeah. Though there’s more to it than that. Ugh, anyway… I think I’ve shown off my ability to you enough now.” Cecilia places the sunglasses down on the table and fingerguns Ed as he re-dons them. “You ready to check out the Cudi Club, pardner?”  

After pushing his shades up his nose and shoving the large plastic telephone into his pocket, Ed grins. “Yeah! Do you think we’ll be able to persuade him?” 

“Don’t worry. I have my ways.” Cecilia smirks mysteriously as she pushes herself up from the table, Ed following her lead. They walk down the street into the late afternoon gloom towards the nearest subway station. 

In the sky far above, dark, simmering clouds slowly float over the city, steadily billowing outwards like smoke after a snuffed-out fire. They hang burdened in the sky, straining under their own mass.

Tonight, there will most certainly be rain. 

— — — 

From the outside, the Cudi Club looks far less garish than its reputation suggests. Rather than neon colors and flashing lights, the club has been built into what appears to be an old office building; the concrete, brutalist facade gives an atmosphere of oppression. The only hints of its true purpose are a purple velvet carpet placed out front, four metal letters reading “C-U-D-I” fastened above the door, and a dimly lit doorway, flanked by two men in flamboyant suits. One is tall and lanky, with milky pale skin, clad in a sparkly green suit jacket; the other is short and squat, dressed in a rumpled burgundy shirt.

As the Bureau-sent pair steadily approaches the door, Ed turns to Cecilia. “Uh, are those the bodyguards? They don’t look super intimidating to me.”

Cecilia shrugs. “They look bodyguard-y enough to me. Misti said she snagged us a reservation, so let’s head on in.” 

As Cecilia and Ed step in front of the bodyguards, the pair turn towards them, surveying them with cool detachment. “Good evening to yah, dahlings,” croons the tall bodyguard. “I’d hope yah have a reservation?” 

“Cecilia Valdez, and a plus-one.” Cecilia jerks her thumb towards Ed, who bows slightly. 

“Hrm, hrm, hrm… Mmmmm…” The short bodyguard jabs a stubby finger into a blocky tablet, muttering in a gravelly voice. “V… Christ, this fucking thing is the pits. Willie, tell the manager to buy us something that fucking works.” 

The tall bodyguard clucks his tongue. “Tut tuttity tut. No fuckin’ dosh foh it. Get the bahtendah to sell some moeh drinks, so we get some decent moolah, break a dayum profit, and can affohd a decent list machine foh yoh convenience.” 

“Eat shit, you prick,” chimes the short bodyguard curtly. He turns to Ed and Cecilia. “My apologies. Step right in. The night’s performance will start soon — it’s gonna be a real treat.” 

“Thank you!” Cecilia grins and, together with Ed, steps through the doorway to the Cudi Club. 

Inside the club, the scene is much more lively; the ceiling pulses with lights, the air is thick with shitty dubstep and accumulated conversation, and writhing bodies chaotically crowd the floor. A long bar lit by pink-and-purple lights sits against the opposite wall, where young, trendily dressed figures cluster in a similar fashion to ants around spilled soda. At the far left end of the room, a stage with purple velvet curtains is inlaid into the wall; a band is quietly setting up as the party rages on before them. 

“Jalil Houdin, Jalil Houdin, Jalil Houdin…” Ed turns to Cecilia, raising his voice slightly to talk over the ambient noise. “So, he’s got a pretty distinct fashion style and that sweetass hair. Is that how we’re gonna track him down?” 

Cecilia nods. “Our best bet is probably checking the bar first!” she says loudly. “First, let’s get a game plan down. I’ll try and get him to talk to us… but it’s too loud to talk in here. So we have to get out.”

Ed points towards the right end of the bar, where an EXIT and restroom sign sit side by side. “Looks like you could get him out through there. Uh, maybe I could wait there? It probably wouldn’t be good for both of us to jump on him.”

“Great thinking, Ed!” Cecilia lets a grin slip out. “Wait by the door, and follow behind us as we leave. If he tries anything, you back me up, okay?”

“Cool beans.” Ed gives a thumbs-up and ambles off into the crowd, leaving Cecilia to take the bar. Wading into the fray, he eats a stray elbow and winces, then dodges around a pair of frantically dancing thirty-somethings. Carefully and deliberately stepping through openings, Ed finds himself at the opposite side of the floor quicker than he expected. Settling in next to the exit door, he casts his eyes to the stage. 

Near him at the bar, a man with a black-dyed undercut and piercings that’d give an MRI technician conniptions nudges the guy sitting next to him. “They’re about to start, bro! In this square-ass club! This is gonna be fuckin’ nutso!”  

The comment turns Ed’s attention to the stage, where the band has almost finished setting up. The lights snap on, illuminating them in trippy purple and green hues; the frontman, clad in a black leather jacket and eyes laden with mascara, snatches the microphone off his stand and growls into it sneeringly as he strides to the front of the stage. 

“Greeeeetings, peons of the Cudi Club. It appears to my discerning eye like this nasty little joint is jam-packed with pretentious dilettantes and personality-less rich fucks. The Club has generously paid us to lay down a few tracks for you loathsome peons tonight — but being the kind and generous souls we are, we’ve decided to offer you some advice as well.” 

The noisy audience suddenly falls silent, a few stray voices muttering obscenities. Ed narrows his eyes at the strange scene. What the hell is this?

The frontman scoffs. “Well, don’t be so fucking shy now, peons. Make some goddamn NOISE, won’t ya?” 

A few boos come from the audience, drowned out by a large wave of cheers. A “FUCK YEAH!” explodes from somewhere in the room, and the punk next to Ed claps. “Ahaha! I fucking love these guys!” 

Ed nudges the man, who turns his head in irritation. “Hey, who the fuck are these guys?” 

“What? You’ve never heard of the Scumbags? Lameass.” The man scoffs, turning back towards the stage. Ed shakes his head and follows the man’s lead. 

Seeing the audience’s reaction, the snappily dressed guitarist smirks and leans towards the frontman, muttering something that causes him to cackle into the mic. “Geheheheeeeh! I bet most of you came here expecting some shitty-ass indie band, isn’t that right? Some college kid with a badly tuned acoustic guitar, singing mellow tunes about looooove?” 

The frontman clicks his tongue, wagging a finger. “Not in this climate, peons. No love here. The city is collapsing around our ears: the stockmen are feasting like wolves on the remains of your mobility, politicians are too ancient to give a legitimate shit about the future, and there’s a nonzero chance of you getting flayed alive in the streets tonight. And when the government comes down here and guns its own subjects down in the streets, you better believe the mellow sadboy guitarists ain’t surviving!” 

He whoops, and the guitarist hits a blazing, heavily distorted lick. “So don’t be afraid to fight, peons. Fight for your right not to get run over, to not be chewed up and spit out by the powers that be!”  

Raucous cheers and jeering boos resound in equal measure. Someone shouts, “Go fuck yourself, Discoman!” 

The frontman’s eyes widen in mock surprise. “Unappreciative of the wisdom I’ve so graciously blessed you with? Well, all of you can fuck off and DIE, then! You’d better sear what I’m about to say into your memory, cause you’ll need it if you wanna survive the night… ‘cause we — are the Scumbags.” 

The guitarist begins a furious, incendiary riff, clutching onto the neck of his guitar for dear life as his other hand strums like mad. Behind thick locks of hair, the drummer waits for some imperceptible signal. Upon receiving it, she nods, clicks a clean four beats on the hi-hat, then immediately transitions into a ferocious, animalistic breakdown — and the Scumbags enter full swing. 

In the lead singer’s hand, the mic is a talisman; he shouts a primal cry into it, purging the evil spirits in the audience. The guitarist shreds like mad and the bassist slaps with a violent abandon, sending frenetic chords into the cheer-crowded air. After a few bars, the singer transitions into the verse, the band blazing in chaotic order behind him. 

Rich man eats his fuckin’ vice

We poor fucks got to pay the price

They don’t work and we don’t play

Sorry try again another day  

Despite himself, Ed discovers his feet unconsciously tapping to the tune. It sounds rough — not in the quality sense, but the lyrics and the sound itself feel raw and abrasive, airing the band’s deep-seated frustrations out into the world. And yet it’s incredibly catchy, too; Ed can’t deny their musical talent. 

Sinking into the song, Ed briefly zones out, observing the crowd from afar. They almost appear as a single organism, a writhing amoeboid of faces and limbs, their identities dominated by the growling vocals and the pounding of the bass. Idly, Ed wonders if there are any Stand users in the crowd; even their unique talents could be forgotten when they’re subsumed into the crowd, perhaps. What a terrifying thought. 

His idle musings shatter at a “HEY!” that turns his head towards the bar. His eyes widen at the sight of a man wearing a clock pendant with red glasses and sporting a cylindrical hairdo, quickly pushing his way towards the exit. Unmistakably, it’s Jalil Houdin — and behind him, Cecilia, in hot pursuit. 

“Ah, crud.” Ed steps forwards, blocking Houdin’s path to the exit. As Houdin gets closer, his worried eyes flick up to Ed. Sorry, man — it’s just business. Ed reaches for his belt, getting a grip on Electriclarryland — 

— and slams into the wall as Houdin stiff-arms him out of the way, sending him reeling. He gasps for air, falling onto his ass and pulling Electriclarryland from his belt. He lofts it at Houdin, but the man has already slammed through the exit door, sprinting out into the drizzling night. 

“FUCK!” Ed looks up at Cecilia as she catches up with him. “Lady, what the hell—”  

“What’re you doing?! After him, idiot!” 

“You fucked it up! You blew our cover—”

“We’re not gonna be able to convince him, Ed! Stand users are paranoid, and you know what?” Cecilia leans down, pressing her finger into Ed’s chest. “This is exactly the situation we want. We’ve got him out of this crowded club, running — and we’re going to catch him.” 

“H-How? My taser’s range isn’t that great! And your ability —”

“Ed, trust me on this.” Cecilia lifts up her gun and cocks it; an aura seems to envelop her body as she clutches the pearl-plated handle. “With my Stand, and maybe some help from yours, we can absolutely catch him. Now, let’s go!” 

Chapter Text

Ed Henderson is a person that takes good care of his belongings. 

(At least, Cecilia thinks so. And what she thinks tends to hold a lot of weight.) 

When she first met him, she wasn’t sure what to make of him; he looked rather like an unassuming loser. He still does look – and act – like an unassuming loser, but curiously, she’s never met someone who treats the objects around him so well. Even in his dumpy little apartment, his surroundings are clean and surprisingly happy. The lock on the door thrums with abnormal cheer, the well-polished floor beams with joy in existence, and the couch has an outlook on life so sunny that it lulled her right into a deep sleep. Despite its general run-down ambience, the apartment is one of the happiest places she’s ever encountered. It baffles her.

(As she pushes through the crowd, she recalls one of Nana’s little mantras: All you need to know about someone lies in the way they treat their surroundings. Ed is the first person she’s interacted with that’s challenged this theory. The attitude of his environment, when juxtaposed against his own personality, defies any explanation that she can come up with.) 

Pushing the nagging bizarreness of Ed out of her mind for now, Cecilia focuses on the task at hand. Subtly, she sideswipes various people in the surrounding horde, feeling small impressions peel off from their clothes and into her consciousness (a bitter taste of cigarettes, a scrape of a chair against porcelain, the pleasant scent of honeysuckle on a hot summer morning). She hopes to get a potential glimpse of Houdin, but deep down she knows it’s unlikely. There’s something so appealing (no, addicting? Fresh, novel?) about these brief, ethereal sensations. She never knows exactly what she’ll find. 

Eventually, Cecilia manages to push through to the opposite end of the crowd, slipping into a seat at the bar.. She glances to her right and (bingo!) instantly spots Houdin. His distinctive hair tellingly juts above the heads of the students, surrounding him, who are engrossed in conversation. Straining over the noise of the crowd, she barely manages to catch their conversation. 

“…you’ll never believe this. The worst thing imaginable happened: the edge had pierced his femoral artery.”

“NO!” “Holy shit!”   (Raucous, incredulous laughter.) 

“Right! And he had no fucking idea that he had a lethal… was soaked through with blood!” 

“DUDE! No fucking way!”  

“Christ! …give him a transfusion or anything?”

“Yeah, it was wild. He survived and… but it’s like — shit, how do you not notice that?”   

“Oh, god — that reminds me. You ever heard of a transscrotal piercing?…”

Ah, yuck. Cecilia turns her head, tactically unfocusing from the conversation. Gradually, she ponders how to get Houdin’s attention. Walking up now and intruding on their nerd jabber would definitely be a faux pas, but it doesn’t sound like they’ll stop talking anytime soon. Should she wait for him to leave and corner him, and hope Ed stays vigilant? Or perhaps (a purple aura thrums around her hand) try and be more proactive? 

“Something to drink, missus?” 

Her eyes turn to the bartender in front of her, a wide, brawny man with an elegantly coiffed pencil mustache. His eyes have an unsettling look that she can’t quite place. Glancing at the wall of drinks behind him, a very obvious idea strikes her. 

“…See that guy with the hair and the clock pendant?” Cecilia jerks her thumb, and the bartender turns his head to follow. “Ask him what drink he wants and tell him I’ll buy it for him, no matter what it is.” 

The bartender nods unblinkingly. (That’s what it is — he has no eyebrows.) “Got you, missus.” He turns and walks in Houdin’s direction, out of her line of sight. She muses on the banal weirdness of the sight as her hand unconsciously drifts to the purse hanging by her hip, her fingers gradually grasping the pearl-handled hilt of her steadfast gun. 

(good evening, ma’am , croons Vicious’s voice somewhere between her ears. you’ve been up to much today, haven’t you? but no time to talk to your ever-faithful firearm. i suppose vicious knows where he sits with you.

You whiner, she fires back, smirking slightly. What, you think busting you out next to my coworkers will end up well?

consider though, ma’am, that that shrimpy lad you’ve been partnered with knows of vicious’s existence as well, having brandished him so recklessly. indeed, he seems to have a special weapon of his own; vicious wonders if you might be able to connect with him over that.

There’s a difference there — Ed’s weapon is probably a Stand, she retorts. You’re just a normal gun. 

a gun with style! with panache! with stand-adjacent prowess!  

And a gun with attitude, Cecilia responds decisively, but you’re still just a gun.  

even so! vicious believes that your shared experience with your weapon confidantes could allow you to understand that lad’s experiences. and moreover — ah, look sharp — your quarry’s approaching.) 

Oh? Cecilia turns her head and meets the eyes of Jalil Houdin, who stares down the bar back at her. She raises a hand, grinning slightly, and he waves back awkwardly, pushing up from his stool. His friends slap him on the back and offer snarky words of encouragement as he gets up and walks down the bar. 

(are you prepared, ma’am?  

Naturally.

don’t botch it.)  

Before she can respond, Houdin plops down into the seat to her right, facing the bar. Exhaling, he turns his head and grins a winsome smile. “Yo! No need to buy me a drink or anything – I’m more into caffeine than alcohol.” He extends a hand. “Pleasure to meetcha. I’m Jalil, and I go to Rockwell in Center City.”

Cecilia shakes his hand, raising her eyebrows with (half-legitimate) enthusiasm as she does. “Um, wow! I’m Cecilia, and I’m attending Gillespie. Jeez, Rockwell’s a good school — what’s your major?”

“It’s not too crazy, but I’m on a premed track — BS/MD? So, a whole lotta coursework, and I don’t have a lot of free time, but…” Houdin shrugs. “It’ll pay off later, I hope. And I get to hang around here some. But — w-wait, holy shit, Gillespie?” His jaw drops. “That’s crazy! Just below an Ivy, right?” 

Cecilia waves a hand dismissively. (Yep, massive nerd. She can work with this.) “It’s not thaaat crazy. I only got in ‘cause I applied to a weird major.”

Houdin snorts. “‘Only’ got into Gillespie? Suuure. What’re you studying for?”

“Um… organic chemistry! Fair bit of work, but I imagine it’s not quite as bad as BS/MD.”

(chemistry? ma’am, weren’t you looking at — 

Vicious, he’s a science kid! chides Cecilia mentally. I’m trying to impress him, right?)  

“Orgo? Damn, that’s a cool field!” Houdin nods approvingly. “You can definitely go into a lotta neat careers from there. Where’d you go to high school?”

“Lived with my nana in Florida, and I went to a public school down there. You?”

Houdin nods again, glancing down the bar. “District School #41. I’m a local here — been living in the Twelfth pretty much all my life.” He clears his throat for a brief second, looks down, and continues. “Uh, so —”

A screeching guitar chord suddenly interrupts Houdin mid-sentence. Shaking his head, he leans in, the gold chains around his neck shifting slightly. His voice rises to challenge the pounding of the bass and guitar. “Sorry. I was gonna ask, can I get your number?”

Cecilia blinks. “Huh?” 

“Like…” He gestures impotently. “Would you mind, like… giving me your phone number?”

Her mind races. Is he calling her out? Was she too conspicuous? She shakes her head. “No — I know what you mean, but, like, why?”

Houdin blinks behind his glasses, looking just as stupefied. “You’re, uh, kinda cute, so I figured I’d ask?”

“But we’ve barely talked at all…” Cecilia flushes slightly. “I mean, I’m not opposed, but, like, aren’t you supposed to get to know me first?”

Houdin grits his teeth slightly. “I thought we — Ah, s-shit… Sorry. Didn’t mean to be so — hasty… Uh, sorry for the trouble.” He mutters something among the lines of you fumbled it, jackass to himself (out loud? Really?) and starts to get up.  

“Wait!”  

Impulsively, Cecilia slaps a hand on his black-slacked knee (pants recently ironed, bought four years ago from an upscale Center City store); he stares back at her with a look of shock. She knows instinctively that she has to act now, or lose this lead forever. Quickly, she continues, “I’d be fine with that, maybe we could go out for coffee or something later? But I have something to ask you first.”

Houdin blinks, grinning slightly. “Sure thing?”

A sudden darkness falls over Cecilia’s expression, and her voice’s texture turns from bubbly and coy to solid steel. “Who is Betterman?”

“Um…?!” Houdin’s body tenses up as his happiness suddenly morphs into abject terror. He shifts backwards in his seat as the true implications of Cecilia’s words sink in. Vague, half-formed thoughts flit aimlessly across his lips, but no words come out; finally, he croaks, “Who the hell… are you?”

(ma’am, you may have “fucked it,” as they say, laments a small voice only Cecilia can hear.) She grits her teeth, ignoring the gibe and grabbing tighter into Houdin’s knee. A venomous edge begins to enter her words. “Broderick Burnside is in Bureau custody. We have irrefutable proof linking you to him and Betterman. Give us his identity, Stand ability, and location now… or we can’t promise your safety.” 

(“holy fuck,” as they say — never mind, ma’am! chirps Vicious excitedly. he’s cracking! you’ve absolutely cornered him! we need to —)

Houdin’s face turns pale and vaguely queasy as he seems to involuntarily tremble. “I-I… I’m…” He sighs, shaking his head. “I’m sorry… but the second I rat on him, I’m doomed.”

Before Cecilia can respond, Houdin’s hand jerks down and chops her on the wrist. She loosens her grip, and he gets up and turns in one fluid motion, running down the bar. Exhaling a frustrated “Bastard!” into the air, Cecilia rises from her seat and sprints after him. Eyes turn from the performing band towards the pursuit, but she pays them no heed. Above all else, she needs to bring this potentially dangerous Stand user in.

As she sprints, she quickly sums up the situation in her head. Houdin got a decent head start on her, and the nightclub is too public to whip out a pistol, regardless of how polite he is. It’s safe to assume that she won’t be able to catch him. But Ed can corner him — even now, as he leans lazily against the wall, he jolts at the sight of Houdin and takes a wide stance. He reaches out both arms, grasping at Houdin’s belt, and –

— Houdin effortlessly body-checks Ed out of the way, sending him sprawling ass-backwards into the wall with a thunk that makes Cecilia grimace. As she catches up to his crumpled form, she casts her gaze towards the door, watching Houdin push his way through and escape out into the rain. 

“FUCK!” Ed grimaces in pain, pushing himself up from the ground. “Lady, what the hell—”

“What’re you doing?!” she asks incredulously. “After him, idiot!”

Ed gawks at her in disbelief. “You fucked it up! You blew our cover—”

“We’re not gonna be able to convince him, Ed! Stand users are paranoid — and you know what?” She bends over and presses her finger firmly into his chest. “This is exactly the situation we want. We’ve got him out of this crowded club, running — and we’re going to catch him.” 

She says it so convincingly, she almost believes it herself.

“H-How?” whines Ed plaintively. “My taser’s range isn’t that great! And your ability —”

“Ed, trust me on this.” Cecilia pulls out Vicious, feeling her Stand’s power surge through him as the pounding drums and bass of the band blazes in her ears. “With my Stand, and maybe some help from yours, we can absolutely catch him. Now, let’s go!”  

———

They burst through the door not quite together, first Cecilia and then Ed, emerging from the resounding cacophony of the shit-punk band and the warm, idle chatter of background conversation into the lethargic, infinite, all-pervading fuzz of drizzling rain against cold concrete. They look left, almost in unison, and see Houdin sprinting down the street; Ed says something like “Come on!” or “Get him!”, and Cecilia nods in response. They tear down the sidewalk in hot pursuit, Ed’s ratty sneakers blasting dirty landmines of mud onto the surrounding pavement. 

(Her eyes solely focused on Houdin’s red-jacketed back, her ears only hearing the pound of her boots against the ground, Cecilia’s mind suddenly drifts to the fancy feather boa around her neck. Will the rain ruin it? Will it get splotched with mud? It’ll fall apart if she puts it in the wash, won’t it? Does she have to, like, handwash it, or hang it out to dry or something?

Ugh, whatever. She can always buy another one.) 

Houdin freezes for a moment, looks back and forth, then hops to his right into a crosswalk, jolting Cecilia out of her focus. Quickly, she and Ed arrive at the intersection, but the light has changed; the crossing timer hits zero, and Houdin’s back vanishes behind the passing cars. 

“Fuck!” Ed grits his teeth, panting with exertion. “How – are we gonna - get this asshole?!”

Cecilia ignores him, placing her hand to the crosswalk button. (Its voice drones annoyingly in her mind, Something the proooooblem, maaaaa’am?

Turn the lights, answers Cecilia.

Maaaaa’am, this button is a placebooooo, replies the button. It’s not aaaaable to chaaaange the liiiiight. 

Turn the lights, Cecilia repeats firmly, or I’ll turn them for you. 

Maaaaa’aaaaam, there’s no need to be ruuuuuuuuuuuuu—  

The button’s drone is throttled instantly as Cecilia pushes her Stand’s power further into the light pole, reaching up into the stoplight itself. She runs her ability over it, covering it entirely, swiftly mapping out the precise shape of its soul. She hesitates for a moment, considering her next move, then, tilting her head, makes her decision, mentally nudging the soulform in just the right spot.) 

In a second, the other road’s stoplight turns to yellow, then red — then the crossing sign, with a polite ding, returns once more to “Walk.”

Ed glances at Cecilia with a side-eye for a second, but only emits a “Huh…” between halting breaths. (Well, it definitely isn’t the weirdest thing he’s seen today.) She motions him to move forwards again, and they quickly hurry through the crosswalk together.

As they reach the other side, Ed freezes, grabbing Cecilia’s shoulder. “That’s him…!” he hisses under his breath. “He’s — stopped?!”

Cecilia turns her head and sees Houdin, leaning under an awning a ways down the block. He places a hand to his head, breathing with great exertion; the gold clock pendant clangs against the ground as he desperately gulps up the soggy air. She grabs Ed’s shoulder and yanks him under a bus stop. Her heart pounds a beat of adrenaline in her ears that nearly drowns out the sizzle of the rain against the roof of their shelter. 

“This – is our chance…” Ed’s haggard face hardens as he turns towards Cecilia. “We have – to get him now – before – he fully recovers!” 

Cecilia raises a finger, speaking in a low voice as she steps onto the sidewalk. “All right, I have a plan. Are you a good runner?” 

Ed shrugs, breathing heavily. “Pretty – decent, I guess. Normally – better than this.” 

“So, I need you to catch up to him and snag him with your Stand ability. Grab his leg or something.” 

“And then?”

Cecilia places a hand on Vicious, raising him from her purse. “My Stand can do the rest.”

Ed wheezes, emitting a noise trapped between a laugh and a sigh. “Don’t tell me — you’re gonna… huh, wait.” His eyes drop slightly from Cecilia’s face, and a look of horror enters his eyes. “Uh… oh, no. Lady, there’s – there’s something on your neck.”

“Huh?” Cecilia raises her free hand, brushing her neck, feeling only the slickness of rain against her skin. “...What’s ‘something,’ Ed?”

“It looks like…” Ed gulps. “...a really small Stand.” 

At the word Stand, a tight, dark knot clenches itself in Cecilia’s chest. From her wrist, purple fingers emerge, tentative as flowerbuds, gently reaching up and sweeping against her neck. Amidst the mist from the rain, she feels a raised bump on her skin; grasping it, she yanks, but it clings stubbornly against her Stand’s grip. 

“Er, mind if I take a look?” Ed reaches out a hand, and Cecilia turns her head. For a moment, she glances at his sunglasses, but her gaze is diverted by movement. Something shifts beneath the collar of his jacket. The knot pulses as a dawning dread wraps ice-cold fingers around her heart. 

Her Stand’s arm, glowing violet flesh covered in interweaving leather straps, emerges in full. “...Ed. Hold still.”

Ed freezes cooperatively, his fingers hesitating slightly above the handle of his taser. Cecilia’s Stand grasps his collar and pulls it slightly to the side, revealing four small amphibian creatures crawling atop his jugular. Each Stand is colored maroon, with pulsating golden lining crisscrossing its back. Two plasticky, eyelike black circles are perched atop one end of their flat, rectangular bodies, and six appendages, resembling hybrids of insectoid legs and tank treads, emerge from their underbellies. Reaching her Stand’s other hand back up to her neck, Cecilia feels only one of the little bodies latched onto her skin. If Ed has four…

Cecilia briefly glances out of the bus stop, watching Houdin’s vague form halfway down the block, shrouded in the wet haze. Suddenly, she feels very aware of her heart, pulsing frantically in her chest.

“Uh… What’s on my n-neck?” mutters Ed through quivering lips.

She glances at his collar once more. An ability that accelerates your heart rate… and the form is subtle enough to cause panic and paranoia if the victim detects its presence, which will spike their heart rate in turn. She almost admires the effectiveness of it, the nasty bit of internal synergy. Deep breaths. What can she say here that will make Ed panic the least?

She exhales, retracting her Stand’s arm. “A little froggy Stand – I assume the same one that’s on mine. This has to be Houdin’s Stand ability. It being on our necks is a big tell; I assume it has to be controlling our heartbeats through our blood. Maybe the jugular or carotid artery.” It’s a small lie, but it just might save Ed’s life.

Ed huffs. “Goddammit, my head hurts. This little thing…”

“It looks like it’s hitting you pretty hard.” Cecilia’s brow wrinkles in concern.  “Wanna wait a little longer? Maybe he’ll drop his guard, and we can –”

“FUCK no!” blurts Ed. He hesitates for a second, then shakes his head, shifting his collar back into place and hefting his taser. “If the Stand’s making our hearts beat faster, it won’t let them slow down, right? So we probably won’t be able to recover. And the attack will get worse over time – Misti said those heart attacks happened hours after school would’ve been over! The attack’s still early; the longer we wait, the worse shit’s gonna get! And with the Stand user right fucking there –” 

He presses the trigger of his taser, sending a tendril of mesh spiraling exploratorily into the air. “We have to get him – now!”  

Before Cecilia can react, Ed sprints off into the rain once more; Houdin’s head jerks up, and his eyes practically bulge out of his head at the surprise. Ed takes advantage of his hesitation to close the gap, unfurling the mesh in search of Houdin’s shins. Houdin takes off, with Ed in hot pursuit, his ratty sweater flapping against his shoulders like a pair of malformed wings.

Cecilia quickly casts her gaze to the ground, searching for a viable subject. The wet pavement makes it difficult to spot anything, but she casts a hand under the bus stop bench, groping around for something she knows must be there. (A plastic container lid, the wrecked pulp of a train ticket, a discarded cap of a pen... bingo.) 

She scoops her hand back upwards and unclenches it, pinching a soggy cigarette butt between her fingers. Lifting it into the air with one hand (it emits a vague and animalistic wail), she clutches Vicious’s barrel upwards with the other, pointing it upwards. As she holds the small junk clump above the gun’s barrel, her Stand’s arms reach outwards from her body, followed by its torso, until she feels it manifest in its full, graceful form by her side. It wraps its hands around the cigarette almost tenderly, mapping the totality of its quivering presence, cradling its entire being in the Stand’s gentle hands. 

Cecilia shouts “Velvet Underground! ” and her Stand snaps inwards, its hands, arms, chest collapsing into the cigarette as a star into a black hole. Cecilia feels its presence meld with the cigarette, shifting and changing it. She waits a second, then mentally moves her Stand, and the object in her fingers twists accordingly, the soggy ash and torn paper curling into something new. Finally, the object takes on a purple glow, and she squeezes it, feeling it spring back into place in a rubbery fashion. Perfect. 

Cecilia Valdez drops the altered cigarette down the barrel of her gun, then grabs it by the grip. She ducks out from beneath the bus stop, sprinting out after Ed and Houdin. She doesn’t need to catch up with them, or even get particularly close; all she needs is one single moment, and Jalil Houdin will be caught within her Stand. Her heart pounds with solid determination.  

The chase is on.

Chapter Text

Unsurprisingly, getting the shot off isn’t as easy as Cecilia wishes. 

The tough part isn’t so much firing Vicious while moving – she has enough experience with it to be confident in her skills. (vicious is always dead-on, he agrees, and he assures you that he will compensate for any disadvantages you encounter.) And her Stand, stored within the bullet, will also automatically account for an unsteady aim. Nor is it any residual worry about harming Houdin – her “bullet” is made of sodden paper and a nicotine slurry. It won’t even break his skin. Even the haze of rain and the encroaching evening clouds aren’t enough of an impediment to delay her. 

No, the annoying part is that Jalil Houdin just won’t cooperate. 

Hitting a moving target is iffy under the best of circumstances. But Houdin is an extremely agile target, practically juking Ed out of his socks right now. He leans low to the ground, compressing his lanky frame as much as possible, winding left and right as he surges down the sidewalk. That, combined with all the other mildly irritating factors – well, identifying the precise moment to unleash Velvet Underground is a complete fucking pain. 

Cecilia controls her breathing, focusing on the sound of her boots smacking the wet concrete. Try as she might, she can’t quell the pounding of her heart in her ears. If her assumption about his ability is correct, all Houdin needs to do is buy time until Ed and Cecilia are destroyed by their own blood. And even now, while their hearts are pounding faster and faster, their fatigue is increasing with it, making it even harder to catch up with him… 

(focus, ma’am! now is not the time for catastrophizing! snaps Vicious suddenly. you must spot the moment when ed distracts houdin! then – simply press vicious’s trigger as usual, and he will take care of the rest!)  

Cecilia breathes out in a sharp, definitive exhalation. 

(focus. Focus. Focus.)  

Right. 

She needs to consider Ed’s own ability, too – the bound Stand he whipped out back at the apartment. He doesn’t seem to have much confidence in it, and its form certainly doesn’t inspire any (hey, not every weapon can have vicious’s supreme style), but she gets the sense that it’s be more than it appears. He hasn’t busted it out yet, but she notices his finger curled on its trigger – he’s waiting for the right moment, too. Once he creates an opportunity, she can search in, and they’ll take Houdin down.

Suddenly, in the space between blinks, the end of the pursuit unfolds before Cecilia’s eyes. A six-lane boulevard emerges from the mist, plopping down right before Houdin and Ed. Dozens of cars blur by in a breath, their headlights smearing red and orange trails through in the thick air, then disappearing with the scream of tires on sodden asphalt. There is no possible way to cross without slowing down. Whether turning the corner or waiting for the light to change, probably, maybe, hopefully, Houdin will enter Ed’s range. 

Seeing the upcoming traffic, Houdin glances over his shoulder for a brief second. Behind his tinted glasses lies a look of determination, unconvincingly concealing a deep, sheer panic. His stride slightly increases, and his long legs gobble up the concrete before him. For his part, Ed does a respectable job of matching pace. The redness of his face isn’t immediately apparent in the dark, but his gritted teeth and staccato breathing betray his exertion. His hood bounces up and down, flapping in the wind, and his knuckles whiten in a death grip on his Stand. He’s on the brink of collapse. If he doesn’t catch Houdin here, he’s not getting another chance.

The chase will be decided in a moment. Within the raised barrel of her gun, Cecilia’s Stand thrums with churning anticipation, synchronized to the pounding bass of her blood. 

(ma’am, “it’s fucking go time,” as they say.)

For a brief moment that feels like minutes, all three Stand users are silent, fixed in motion like synchronized dancers, each sprinting forwards through the damp evening air. Ed Henderson, Cecilia Valdez, and Jalil Houdin melt into the periphery, their entire beings focused on nothing but the simple act of moving forwards. 

This focus shatters when Jalil Houdin jump-kicks a trash can into oncoming traffic. 

The abrupt violence of the act stuns Cecilia in the same manner as a slap to the face. Sprinting full-speed, approaching the edge of the curb, Houdin takes the briefest of crouches, then leaps, athletically striking the trash can at an oblique angle. The can sails off the curb, bouncing into the street, before being launched off the front bumper of an oncoming pickup with a metallic twung. It expels its contents in the process, sending colorful wrappers, amorphous plastic, and suspect biological materials all across the road. 

Meanwhile, Houdin smoothly pivots ninety degrees midair and lands on one foot, sprinting parallel to the road. Cecilia immediately realizes his goal – kicking off the can redirects his momentum and gives him a flying start sideways, rather than awkwardly stopping to turn. (an odd strategy, but effective, no doubt, muses Vicious. remarkable physical talent too.)  

Cecilia’s head snaps towards Ed, who now is running practically perpendicular to Houdin. Her grip tightens on her gun as she realizes that now is Ed’s best chance to flank Houdin. But his beet-red face and protruding veins indicate the stress he’s under; if he messes this up, he won’t have another chance, and Cecilia will have to gamble on her firing ability. 

“…not getting past… catch up… mothercunter…”

From behind, Cecilia barely hears Ed’s rambling over the light crackle of the rain. Swiftly, his stride lengthens. He bounds towards Houdin, preparing to fire. The distance between the two grows closer, closer, closer. Houdin glances furtively over his shoulder, his eyes suddenly widening in horror. Ed’s finger clenches, and – 

HOOOOOONK

A car swerves to avoid the trashcan, riding up onto the corner, headed directly at Ed. 

Cecilia’s mouth opens to warn him, to shout something, but it’s pointless – Ed’s head snaps to the side. At the screeching of the brakes, his eyes bug out in raw panic. 

“Ohhhhhh SHIT —”

His back leg springs off the ground and he jumps forwards, pressing the trigger of his Stand; half a second later, the car sideswipes his leg, sending him spinning through the air. His hand slips off Houdin’s silken pant leg as he half-jumps, half-falls, twirling like a drunken acrobat. While Houdin slightly stumbles, Ed slams face-first into the concrete with an incoherent yelp of pain. Just behind him, the car screeches to a complete stop, its bumper tenderly kissing the little bodega’s front door. 

Before Cecilia can properly gather herself and aim, Houdin rights himself. He ducks down and jumps forward, vanishing from Cecilia’s line of sight. 

“No!” Cecilia sprints forwards, frantically praying they haven’t lost their target. She raises Vicious high, sprinting forwards two more steps and rounding the corner, hoping against all hope that Ed managed to slow him down – and then Houdin snaps backwards, stumbling, his motion completely arrested. 

(there, ma’am.)

Blam.  

An electric impulse faster than thought twitches her finger on the trigger, firing the Stand-possessed cigarette-bullet directly into Houdin’s shoulder. It thwacks against his jacket like a spitball, splattering soggy ash onto the fine red silk as Velvet Underground’s arms emerge and wrap around his torso in a flash; its face, a neutral purple mask, takes on a menacing look. He drops to his knees instantly, raising his hands in submission. 

Cecilia slows down, sliding over the hood of the car and catching up to the scene. Painfully aware of the enemy Stand’s presence, she strides first towards Houdin, raising Vicious’s barrel and waving it threateningly in front of his face. “If you don’t call off your Stand right now —”

“Stop, stop, stop! Point – point that fucking gun away from me!” Houdin pleads frantically, his voice conveying a deep sense of panic. Looking closer, Cecilia notices his body is wrapped in something shimmery, almost like thick spiderwebs. Ed’s Stand? 

“Look, I’m really sorry, I didn’t know I’d activated them on you! I-I canceled them as soon as I saw it on your friend’s neck — I didn’t think a car would swerve onto the sidewalk either, I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to put you in danger, I’ve been watching a lot of action movies and —”

“Wait, wait.” Cecilia scratches her face with Vicious’s barrel, wincing slightly. She glances over at the fallen Ed, whose arms scrabble against the puddles, making feeble attempts to push himself up from the concrete. A trickle of blood mixes with rainwater beneath his cheek, and the silvery webbing emerges from his Stand, still held tightly in his palm. Where his neck is slightly visible behind his hood, the tiny Stands’ bodies have completely vanished. She raises one of Velvet Underground’s hands from Houdin's torso to her neck, feeling nothing but hot skin and pulsing veins. Behind them, the car reverses off the sidewalk, then skids on down the boulevard. 

She sighs. The enemy Stand is deactivated, and Ed’s already got their opponent under wraps – no reason to burn herself out pointlessly. Velvet Underground shimmers into nothingness as Cecilia gradually turns her attention back to Houdin, and his posture slightly sags with fatigue. Several questions cycle through her mind, but she decides to ask the most pressing one first. “How can you not know that you activated a Stand ability?” 

“It’s like — ugh.” Houdin’s fear turns to something more resembling embarrassment. “It’s similar to, like, a nocturnal emission. Well, I guess you wouldn’t exactly get that, but… my Stand just activates on people sometimes. When I focus hard on a person or feel strong emotions about them, sometimes, without me knowing, they attach themselves to that person’s neck on the spot. And I can’t even tell what’s wrong until they return to me later.” He raises his hand, where the tiny amphibious tanks crawl between his fingers and over his wrist.

(“poor fucker,” as they say. vicious can’t imagine accidentally hurting people.)

“And it feels awful — it’s this thing I should be able to control, but I can’t? And sometimes its ability makes people get hurt really badly...” He sighs. “Whatever. You and your buddy chased me down because of Betterman, but — ugh. I would if I could, but I really, genuinely can’t tell —” 

“Buddy?” comes a quavering voice from the sidewalk. Two gazes turn to behold Ed Henderson rising from the sodden earth, his clothes soaked with rain and his cheeks smeared with blood and grime. His sunglasses are perched on his face, as implacably as ever. He gingerly hops from leg to leg for a brief moment; feeling nothing amiss, he turns towards Houdin, lips tensed with raw hate. “I’m nobody’s ‘buddy,’ shithead,” he spits, enunciating each syllable contemptuously. “My name’s Ed Henderson. And your goofy little stunt back there nearly turned me into a stain on the sidewalk!”

Houdin sighs, his head drooping down as Ed steps over to Cecilia’s side. The battered man toys slightly with his taser, plucking the silvery threads coming out of the front like guitar strings. His stance slightly but tellingly favors his right leg, and a nasty scrape dribbles blood down his cheek. 

“You all right?” asks Cecilia tentatively.

Ed grits his teeth. “This shit ain’t nothing to me, man. When this piece of puke gives us Betterman’s name, Stand ability, home address, credit card information – it’s gonna feel like a goddamn spa day.” 

“I – I – Dammit!” Houdin shakes his head vigorously; he looks almost on the verge of tears. “I – fuck, at this point, he’s heard me already. Goddammit, he knows.” He leans towards the street and turns his head, yelling downwards. “Hey, Betterman, if you hear me, I did my best, okay? Just – don’t hold it against me! I’m ‘doing what’s best for the situation’, like you said…”

Next to Cecilia, Ed makes a halfhearted motion towards Houdin, a vague impression of a kick or knee strike that’s quickly arrested by the slick sidewalk. Stumbling forwards, Ed bumps into Houdin, who gives a startled “ack!” and looks up at him with fear. Ed takes the opportunity to threateningly wield his Stand. “Don’t play games, doctor boy. Spill,” he snarls — moreso angrily coughs. 

(smooth. very smooth, murmurs Vicious with palpable admiration. take notes, madam.)  

“Fine, fine! Just – back up a step? Please?”

“Hmpf.” Ed waits a second, staring daggers at Houdin, then nods, taking two steps back and pushing up his sunglasses. “Actually… getting the whole story from you out here sounds tough. Let’s move to a better spot.” He makes a small hand motion, and the mesh surrounding Houdin dissipates into thin air. 

Cecilia jerks her thumb back, pointing at a nearby bus stop. “Does that work?”

Ed nods, prodding Houdin with his foot. “Upsy-daisy, doc.” 

(he’s doing well, declares Vicious. vicious knows you weren’t feeling particularly enthusiastic about this partnership, but see now — this fellow’s practically bagged betterman! Quite the accomplishment)

They step into a nearby bus stop. Houdin sits down with a definitive thud, brushing the rain out of his hair and wiping his tinted glasses against his shirt. His brows furrow as the futility of drying wet glasses with even wetter fabric dawns upon him. 

“All right.” Ed leans against the glass across from Cecilia and points two finger guns at Houdin. “Now spill. Everything you know about Betterman, now.”

Houdin closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and sighing. He pushes his glasses up to his forehead, glancing between Ed and Cecilia, then casts his gaze down and begins. 

“I first met Betterman — well, no. We’ve never properly met, I’d say. I was first contacted by Betterman six months ago. When that bridge blew up last year – whatever happened afterwards, I was part of it. There was a lot of… really gruesome, nasty stuff going on. A lot of weird cases, incurable diseases or injuries that made no sense. It affected me, and I had to take a month off, but I was feeling ready when I came back – until people around me started suddenly getting heart attacks. A few of my classmates, a janitor on campus, a-a doctor I was shadowing in the hospital…” Houdin gulps, shame and regret mixing on his face. “…and I saw these guys on my hand after every time it happened.” He raises his hand, showing the little creatures crawling over his fingers. 

“I thought I was having some kind of psychotic break, seeing patterns where there weren’t any, or some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder, from my rotations after that bridge incident. I had a therapist appointment scheduled and everything. But I got jumped by three guys in an alleyway on my way home and heard a voice telling me to close my eyes. For some reason I did and… when I opened them, all three were knocked out, and the voice introduced himself as Betterman. He told me not to turn around, so I didn’t even see him — I still don’t know what his face looks like. But he knew things about me that he should have had no way of knowing, and he told that I wasn’t psychotic or suffering a trauma response. He told me about the world of Stands, their strange powers, and how the disaster caused them to appear…”

Houdin turns his hand over, revealing all the froglike creatures stacked neatly on his palm. They stare at Cecilia with glassy eyes, the gold veins on their skin pulsing in rhythm to Houdin’s heartbeat. 

“And he told me that I could use my Freaks Come Out at Night, instead of having it use me.” 

One of the creatures on Houdin’s hand emits a little chirrup. He closes his fingers and they scamper down his arm in kaleidoscopic patterns, zooming along on their tiny treads. 

Cecilia admits to herself that when it’s not actively trying to kill her, the Stand’s pretty cute. “How did he hire you, then?” she asks. 

“Well, when I turned around in that alleyway, there was no one there. All that was left was a crumpled piece of paper — with an address written on it.”

“What address, doc? The fuckin’ White House?” asks Ed.

Houdin sighs, appearing to be debating with himself for a second. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again, then grits his teeth. “Ugh… the Ledbetter Municipal Water Treatment Facility,” he blurts out in a rush. “That’s where he calls me and the rest of his little group together —”

“Group?” interjects Cecilia. “Other Stand users?” 

“– yep. Exactly as you’d expect. It was me, an old guy named Burnside, and an asshole kid named Paradizo.” 

Ed’s eyes practically bulge out of his head as Houdin continues, waving a hand dismissively. “I don’t care if you somehow know them. Don’t ask me for information on them; I don’t know shit other than their faces. I don’t know how Betterman met them, I don’t know what they did, I don’t know their personalities… whatever. They didn’t even show me their Stands. He’d call us there, where we’d meet in a giant swimming pool, and he’d give us info on Stand users in the city and orders over the loudspeakers. The other guys were… a little strange, but nice enough, and I met up with them a few times to do some minor jobs.” 

“What kind of jobs?” asks Ed, still visibly pissed. 

“Stuff like… I dunno, breaking into government buildings, picking up AV equipment, sometimes protecting other Million operations. Under the right circumstances, my Freaks can take someone out in under a minute without hurting ‘em at all. I mostly just tagged a few security guards, then waited outside until I got a call saying we were done. And then I’d wait for orders from Betterman again… yeah.”

“He left more little notes for you?” asks Cecilia.

Houdin nods, grinning a little despite himself. “Yeah! Yeah, you get it. It was the tackiest thing. I’d just find ‘em in random places – left in front of me while I was walking back from class, or on the floor of a bathroom stall. Sometimes I found ‘em snuck into my pockets. He made sure they were in fairly obvious places. I never saw how he placed them down, and I never saw his face – all I know is his voice.”

“Is that all?” asks Ed quizzically. “You don’t even know his Stand ability or anything?” 

Houdin shrugs. “He’s never shown it to me at all, no. He’s a real secretive guy – I told you, I’ve never even seen his face. All I know is, his ability’s got an absolutely horrifying range. I guarantee you he’s been able to listen to us this entire time. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you anything, but…” He shrugs again, lamely. “Well, he hasn’t killed me yet. I guess he doesn’t mind too much.” 

Ed glances at Cecilia, his eyes perched inscrutably behind his sunglasses. The low half-glow of yellowy streetlights casts a gaunt pallor across his battered face. “Well. Anything else we need to ask the doc, Cecilia?” 

(name, stand ability, and betterman’s location, subordinates, and – sort of – his stand. good haul, murmurs Vicious pensively. you could always press him for more, of course, but vicious can’t imagine you’d get much, no?)

Cecilia shakes her head. “Seems like we’ve got enough. Sorry for holding you up like this and, uh, ruining your Friday night. Unfortunately, Betterman and the Million’s plans are a potential threat to the entire city, and our job is to stop them. And you know Betterman, so…” 

Houdin sighs and nods, pulling a comb out of his pocket and neatly reorganizing his hair. “Yep, I get it. Can’t blame you. I never really wanted to get involved in this Stand shit myself anyway, but it just sorta happened . Like, I discovered my Freaks, then Betterman found me, then you guys – I didn’t want any of it. All of this was… just forced upon me. If you guys somehow manage to take him down, I’d appreciate it, so that I can go back to just being normal.”

Cecilia purses her lips. “Honestly, I feel the same way. I don’t think any Stand user wants any of this, to be honest. But after that disaster, this is just the way things are. Hopefully you find a way to live normally, but really –” 

Misti’s words echo in her head as she repeats them aloud. 

“– there’s no such thing as normalcy for Stand users.” 

Houdin’s hands pause mid-comb and his face falls. “...Maybe. But, hell, the least I can do is try.” He finishes combing his hair, places his comb back in his pocket, and stands up. He gives a nod to Ed and Cecilia. “Um…” 

Cecilia watches Houdin consider what to say, seeing him struggle to consider each option. (you can’t blame him, ma’am. “thanks” – for what, tackling him and ruining his pants? “sorry” – for what, running away when he was threatened? or “see ya later” – will he? does he even want to? mighty odd interaction you’ve found yourselves in.)  

He opts for a brief, awkward smile and another nod. “Uh, bye.” Then he strides back off down the street, his long legs carrying him far away from the strange Stand-using pair. 

Ed plunks down on the bus stop seat, resting the side of his head against his hand wearily. “Well. How was that?” 

Cecilia sighs, leaning against the glass wall. “Went as well as it could have. We took him down, got Betterman’s details, and his Stand turned out to not be too harmful. Is your leg okay?” 

“I can walk on it. Not gonna be running any marathons, though — well, I already wasn’t, but it was nice to have the option.” He idly knits some of the webbing between the fingers of his free hand as he mutters. “Fucking Paradizo… of course Betterman would recruit an asshole like that…”

Cecilia watches him for a second, then asks, “So what’s our next move?”

Ed looks up at her. “We have Betterman’s location — should we tell Misti?” 

She shakes her head. “We can’t. The Bureau staffs their office with a skeleton crew this late, and she won’t be in the office. She always leaves her communications stuff in there… If what Houdin said is right, though, Betterman probably knows we’ve heard him now. He could attack us at any moment.”

(… and you don’t want to admit it, but he might have already started.)  

“Mehhh.” Ed’s nose wrinkles. “If Misti’s asleep, Betterman probably is too. Maybe his Stand, like, collects recordings he can replay, or maybe it’s attached to the morning paper or something. Anyway, I’m beat as fuck and I need to sleep. Can we split up for now, tell Misti tomorrow morning, and plan our little attack from there?” 

Cecilia raises her hands noncommittally. “I… guess that works. Rest up, sleep in, go after Betterman tomorrow. Just… if you see anything weird, please give me a call?” 

Ed’s eyebrows raise in mock surprise. “Weird shit? In this city?”

“Don’t be a jackass.” Cecilia smirks. “I mean Stand weird. Suspicious, abnormal, possibly Betterman-related weird. If you see anything that makes you think you might be actively being attacked, tell me, okay?” 

“Sure, sure. Same thing goes for me. I might not hear it, though — when I sleep, I sleep hard.” 

“Either way, I’ll be sure to let you know.” Cecilia waits a beat. “Should we meet tomorrow morning?” 

Ed snaps off a brief mock salute as he stands up from the bench. “Yep. I’ve got nothing going on, so just tell me where you and Misti are meeting up. See ya then.”

As the pair go their separate ways, walking off into the rainy night, Cecilia Valdez has many things on her mind. Ed Henderson is more skilled than she expected; without firing off that ability as he got close enough to Houdin, their quarry would almost certainly have escaped. She’s got to give him props for that. And Houdin’s intel, while worrying, is also promising – she knows Betterman has a long-range Stand and he doesn’t like to show himself. If they go to his location, his capabilities will likely be hampered, and Velvet Underground should be able to take him out, no problem. (be wary, ma’am – he might be quite the threat.)

There’s also the issue of her shoes and her feather boa, which haven’t handled the rain well at all. One drawback of Velvet Underground is that getting to know new things has been extremely difficult once she realizes how interchangeable they all are. A beloved gift like Vicious becomes a close friend over the years – they know her. But a gaudy, mass-market feather boa does nothing but endlessly talk, constantly spouting consumerist gibberish. She’s had this one for two weeks, not enough to get attached. Try as she might, she can’t bring herself to care about the loss of a future friend. 

Lost in her thoughts, Cecilia fails to recognize something stirring on the street beside her. An eye stares up from the gutter, and her footsteps vibrate an eardrum as wide as the city itself. Blind to the force she has awakened, she continues down the street, intending to exit the world of Stands for a night and dive back in the next morning. But the most paranoid Stand user in the city has other plans. 

— — — 

“…Is that all? You don’t even know his Stand ability or anything?”

 “He’s never shown it to me at all, no. He’s a real secretive guy – I told you, I’ve never even seen his face. All I know is, his ability’s got an absolutely horrifying range…”

Amidst the muted roar of the pipes, Betterman stretches in his seat, which creaks indignantly beneath him. He sighs, massaging his temple, feeling a low, pulsing pain throbbing behind it. Rightfully, he should be far, far angrier than he is right now. 

No, he counters, he should be positively fuming. Houdin is one of his carefully selected Stand users, whom he found within the ceaseless noise and chaos of city life and whom he taught how to not accidentally kill civilians. He has potential, without the downsides of Burnside’s abject paranoia or Paradizo’s hotheadedness, and has the discretion to use his Stand wisely. And yet, Houdin has just sold out the ever-patient Betterman, placing his position and goals – and consequently the Million’s – in the largest jeopardy they’ve ever been. 

Why shouldn’t he rage? Why shouldn’t he break something, shatter every pipe in the blasted complex? The pounding rises to a jackhammer of frustration. Truthfully, what prevents him from reaching out and crushing Houdin’s skull, and nodding off to sleep afterwards? 

… when it’s bad, think of babbling brooks, Sergeant. Think of waterfalls, and ocean waves beating tirelessly against the shore. Think of the sound of rain against rooftops, and rivers flowing into seas…

He sighs once more. The pulsing subsides to a steady beat. The questions are pointless. Even as Betterman asks himself, he knows the answer. The moment he first laid eyes on Houdin, the man’s presence gave him a hunch. And as ever, his hunches are never wrong. 

Betterman shifts in his chair once again, squinting his eyes against the dim but piercing glow of the fluorescent light. He gives a tiny nod to himself. Yes, even before he first met Houdin in person, he knew that the man wasn’t cut out for the world of Stand users. His head is simply screwed on too straight. He’s a normal student, with normal dreams and aspirations, who survived the disaster, resumed his normal life, and suddenly discovered that people around him were suffering heart attacks. Then, he finds himself the target of an enigmatic organization, whose representative offers to recruit him. And throughout all this, everything he’s done is entirely within the bounds of a normal, logical reaction. 

Of all Betterman’s recruits, Houdin’s normalcy has made him the easiest to manage by far, but that in itself indicates a weakness. He lives his normal life and obeys Betterman’s orders in a normal fashion; if someone else gets to him, he’ll undoubtedly take the normal path and cooperate with them. 

Just as he is at this very moment.

No, Betterman cannot be mad — he knew Houdin would eventually flake, even if he’d quietly hoped it wouldn’t turn out so. He can’t exactly blame the man; his actions are entirely rational, given the circumstances. But with Lobsterback disappearing off the face of the earth, Jovan Jorgensen’s brutal death, Duke and Pedro showing off while the host refuses to intervene, Paradizo tripping over his own dick and directly into an enemy Stand user, and now Houdin leaking Betterman’s location — even the ever-patient Betterman has to admit that business is getting to be quite frustrating. His temple throbs more irritatingly now, like some kind of warning sign. 

And now the issue of these two, the ones currently pursuing him. Betterman steeples his fingers in concentration as he idly listens in on their conversation with Houdin. Most pressingly, the pair have identified themselves as being members of the Bureau of Containment — and not only that, but the man with the mesh ability is very likely the Stand user who defeated Paradizo. Paradizo didn’t indicate that his opponent knew of Betterman’s existence, but based on his lack of familiarity with them, it’s most logical to assume that they’re Bureau contractors, somehow targeting his subordinates. Perhaps Paradizo unwittingly let Betterman’s identity slip? Or Burnside, even with his fierce loyalty, revealed information under duress?

Babbling brooks. Little mountain springs. Great, thunderous waterfalls, crashing and cascading down rocks for miles…

Feh, no matter. The unpleasant truth sits before him like a bastard child, dreadfully ugly and unable to be ignored: Betterman, the ever-watchful eye of the Million, is being targeted. And with Houdin revealing his headquarters, it’s safe to assume he’ll be the next one under attack. Perhaps not tonight or even tomorrow, but certainly very soon. And when that event occurs, countermeasures will be necessary. 

Countermeasures…

…A passing thought occurs to Betterman, and he laces his fingers under his chin. 

They have no way of knowing his ability, and thus no way of preemptively preparing to counteract it. If he initiates an attack now, and defeats both before they take action or alert their superiors against him… well, he can put this threat to rest, and perhaps teach Houdin a lesson on both the Million’s reach and the necessity of reticence. 

He fully hunches forwards now, his mood slipping towards decisiveness. Yes – if he waits until they split up and then initiates his attack, he can quash this leak before action is taken. He’ll need to be patient and attack them precisely when their guards are lowest, but that won’t take long. If all goes well, his Stand attack should be complete within the hour, and he can wake up the next morning worry-free. He could even show evidence of his victory to Houdin, and prove, once and for all, that nobody trifles with the Million.

At the scene, Houdin walks away, leaving only the pair of Bureau contractors. Betterman commands his Stand, and it subtly reaches out, tagging both; now, they cannot escape. He reaches inside his weathered vest and pulls out a map of the city, unfolding it against the humming pipes beside him. Licking his fingers, he locates the street corner within a second. With this, he will track them down, then thoroughly defeat them. By the time they discover his ability, it will be far, far too late.

For once, Betterman permits himself a brief grin. Perhaps Houdin’s revelation will ultimately be a boon to him. But the grin fades as he feels another hunch coming on. 

Six inches of mud can carry an entire car away. Imagine that. Just a small flood, and even tons of metal are powerless…

This will not be a simple fight. To make his victory truly certain, he needs to prepare. Slowly, he rises to his feet, pressing the map up against the pipes, and steps into the industrial maze, his boots thumping definitively against the hard metal floor. As he fades into the darkness, his consciousness slowly melds with the thumping of the water around him. 

— — — 

The door to Cecilia’s home always opens with a squeal. One of the hinges is busted somehow — the springs are loose or the swinging parts grind together or something. She’s tried to fix it before, even hired a repairman to take a look at it once, but it only stops the problem for a few days, at most. The squeaking sound always returns. 

It gives a scream of anguish tonight, making Cecilia involuntarily wince as she steps into the little condominium. The living room is lushly decorated to her tastes, with purple curtains lining the rain-coated windows and a fuzzy green carpet spread across the floor. Next to it sits a small kitchen, covered in jubilant pots and scattered Tupperware lids. She walks past it, brushing a cabinet with her fingers as she walks by (feeling its sense of maternal warmth, its pride of sheltering fragile cups and plates from the cruel world outside).

Eventually, Cecilia enters her bedroom. She sits down on her bed, placing her purse and Vicious down on the sheets, then unlaces her boots, leaving them strewn across the floor. Finally, she sprawls out on the soft comforter, raising her arms above her and closing her eyes. (What a strange, strange day.)

Her home is absolutely larger than she could reasonably need. A two-bedroom condo, right on the border of the Twelfth and Center City, in close proximity to some of the biggest tourist attractions and colleges of the city – the property is unquestionably in high demand, and for good reason. At Blanchard, students are always guaranteed on-campus housing, but it's technically not mandatory. Before her departure, Cecilia hadn’t been enthusiastic about sleeping in dorm room, but she hadn't pictured anything else. Shitty dorms were the college experience, after all. 

Her father, of course, had different notions of what was acceptable for a child of his. He’d purchased this condo on the spot for some absurd price and told her to decorate it as she saw fit. No child of mine would sleep in some rotten dorm room, she assumes his logic was. Unbefitting of a man of his stature to tell her more than exactly what she needs to know. Here’s the key, here's the code, here’s money for food and money for furniture, don’t trash the place or let your grades slip. Off you go. 

(You must remember, dear, that he’s a man who cares about results, Nana had once said. He’ll support you in whatever endeavors you take, as long as you get the result he wants. If you drink all semester, cut class every day, and still somehow manage to get straight A’s, he’ll send more money at Christmas without asking questions. But if you study hard, become the most popular girl in the class, and pull nothing but Cs, why, you’ll be enrolled in a new school before you can say a word of protest. 

A warm smile. That wouldn’t happen to you, though, dearie. I know my Cecilia will be able to get through, no problem.)

Vicious’s pearl handle brushes up against her arm, bringing memories of Nana’s support. Emboldened by the thought, she fights through the fatigue, pushing herself to the bathroom and towards the shower. (BLAZE! BURN! RAGE AGAINST THE WORLD, SISTER-IN-ARMS! screams the hot-water handle as she gives it a twist. LET THE FLAMING COALS STOKE YOUR SOUL TO FURY!)

As the shower begins to warm up, Cecilia leaves the door slightly ajar behind her and returns to her bed. For some reason, she feels unconsciously on edge. She sits back heavily, reflects back on the memories of the day, her fingers unconsciously beginning to curl around Vicious’s grip. First, her little standoff with Ed in his apartment, then meeting Misti at that restaurant, and the pursuit of Houdin – it feels like her entire situation with the Bureau has changed in just one day.

From running odd jobs and occasionally using her Stand to assist in investigations, now chasing after one of the Million’s higher-ups with a bizarre new partner… it’s a stark transition. Fitting for such an eventful day, she supposes. 

Ed in particular is the oddest part. Her thoughts turn to him once more. With his unassuming demeanor, his mundane living space, and his undisciplined stance to investigations, he seems like a completely normal person, barely even fit to be part of the Bureau. But to her, something about him gives the impression of capability. His Stand ability – what was its name? – seems surprisingly useful given its odd form, and the contentment of his living space indicates a deep, inherent kindness, or a fascistic devotion to cleanliness, or an all-abiding respect. Something abnormal no matter what. 

And – that’s right, she recalls now, none of that is the strangest part. She remembers what she glimpsed behind those sunglasses at the restaurant. Ed’s eyes – well, they fit him perfectly. His right is completely normal, a dully glittering blue-gray. But his left – well, his left almost looks –

“Cecilia! Fuck! Please tell me he hasn’t got you yet!”  

Cecilia jumps as Ed’s voice crackles over Misti’s communication device, cutting through the soft fuzz of the shower and breaking through her thoughts. She grabs her mirror from her pocket. “What’s happening, Ed?! Are you under attack?” 

“Houdin was right, lady – Betterman absolutely fucking heard us. Somehow, he managed to track me all the way back to my apartment. And if he could track me, he absolutely could track you. You need to prepare, because –”  

Cecilia sits bolt upright, her mind racing with alarm. “Ed, slow down. How is he attacking you? Stands are normally one to a user, so he might not be able to attack both of us simultaneously.” 

“No – God, fuck, you’re not getting it. Shit, I’m glad he hasn’t gotten you yet, though…” 

“Ed, how are you being attacked?” 

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” Ed sighs. “It’s water, lady! Betterman’s attacking through water! Whatever you do, don’t – ”

There’s a sudden, rough thunk and a clatter on the other end of the line. 

“Ed? Ed, are you okay?” asks Cecilia urgently, but there’s no response. Rising fully to her feet, she grabs Vicious, preparing for action, then suddenly freezes. 

Ice-cold fear stabs into her spine as she realizes the implication of what she hears. The familiar pitch of shower water against porcelain has been replaced by a different, terrible tone – the sound of the stream pattering against the curtain and dripping onto the floor. 

Slowly, painfully, Cecilia Valdez turns her head, and sees a shallow puddle of water beginning to spread from under her bathroom door. 

— — — — —

Stand: Freaks Come Out At Night

User: Jalil Houdin

— Freaks Come Out At Night is an esoteric Stand, born from Houdin’s unique expertise. The Stand’s form is made up of five “Freaks,” small four-wheeled amphibious creatures, which attach themselves to the carotid artery of a target within Houdin’s sight range. While the Freaks are attached, their victim’s resting heart rate will steadily increase, gradually causing arrhythmia and eventually inducing a full-on heart attack in the target. The ability’s effectiveness directly scales to the number of Freaks used; a single Freak may take up to an hour to cause any serious harm, while all five at once can knock an opponent unconscious in under two minutes. 

— Freaks Come Out At Night’s indirect ability and non-humanoid form prevent it from being useful in direct combat scenarios, but its long range, persistence, and subtlety makes it extremely effective at quiet takedowns and assassinations. Additionally, the Stand’s ability can potentially force a target’s heart to keep beating at high speeds, resuscitating them if they’re severely injured and allowing them to fend off cold. It’s unknown whether Houdin can use the ability on himself, or on other veins. 

— Because of his guilt from several accidental manifestations, Jalil Houdin has not fully explored his Stand’s capabilities. Such is the case with many Stand users in the city; after the chemical accident at the Byway Bridge, the confusion led many people to rationalize away their strange powers, unconsciously sealing away their Stand abilities from their conscious mind in the process. But buried thoughts occasionally rise to the surface, and as ever, Stand users have a tendency to attract one another.

Chapter Text

The first gurgle of trouble catches Ed with his face pressed to his bathroom mirror, squinting suspiciously at the surface. 

In fairness, the mirror would be quite expensive to replace, and a crack is the last thing Ed expects to see as he surveys the nasty scrape on his cheek. Feeling a slight dread rise in his stomach at the sight, his eyes trace the crack downwards. It branches off into two similarly sized fractures, which branch off into tiny hairline cracks of their own — cracks within cracks. 

Muttering an ambiguous expletive, Ed hoists a leg up onto the sink and looks around. The closer he looks, the more cracks he sees. It looks like the scales of a snake, or tectonic plates, or a urinal that someone kicked the everloving shit out of. 

Ed looks closer and closer until the temple of his sunglasses clicks up against the mirror. Among all the confusing and inexplicable things to happen to him today, this one feels the most invasive. It’s practically a personal insult – it’s his fucking bathroom! He’s stared into this mirror longer than he can remember, but now even his most faithful home implement is beginning to break before his very eyes. Did the landlord buy a cheap mirror? Is there such a thing as a cheap mirror? Or maybe his neighbor’s beating the hell out of the wall…

Whatever it is, he really doesn’t want the mirror to suddenly collapse on him outta nowhere. Jeez, do they make mirror glue? 

A deep glush from across the room suddenly derails the train of thought. Ed pushes himself backwards, feet landing on the ground as he identifies the noise’s source – his ever-faithful toilet. This confuses him even further, as he hasn’t used the bathroom since the morning. Even odder is that his toilet was only busted last month. After calling in a plumber, having a rather heated argument, and swapping out a few corroded pipes, it’s run perfectly fine since. 

It makes no sense that it’d just back up out of nowhere… but shit, if his mirror can crack on him, anything’s in the realm of possibility. Another, louder slooosh from the toilet, followed by a particularly concerning schlop, confirm his fears. 

“You’ve gotta be jerkin’ me…” Ed quickly steps over to the toilet and bends down, prying open the tank lid to search for the source of the noise. After a final glogogogogop, he eliminates the tank and confirms the location to be the bowl itself. He grabs a toilet plunger with one hand and secures the lid with the other, then suddenly gets a strange feeling of apprehension. 

Cautiously, he pries open the toilet lid. 

There’s roughly a second and a half after opening the lid for Ed to survey the roiling water. A great, shining cacophony of hands grasps aimlessly from beneath the surface, a whirlpool possessed by particularly freaky sewer ghosts. A bubble of water rises up from the rapidly swirling tide, then jets off into the air – triangulating itself to land directly between his eyes. 

Ed Henderson is not an especially talented man. He’s never been one for art, music, mechanics, literature, mathematics, physics, biology, social sciences, sporting activities, architecture, journalism, engineering, or entrepreneurship. In his final semester of high school, he had a report card of straight Cs with one B-minus mixed in, with one teacher summing him up as “passable, but deeply and thoroughly uninspired.” No, Ed’s true talents lay outside the academic sphere – and luckily for him, one of these talents is unparalleled reflexes.

Ed ducks downwards at just the right instant, slamming himself ungracefully to the floor. The water zings through the air that his head occupied a second prior, then splatters pathetically against the wall behind him. 

“Holy – !?” Ed rolls onto his back and bounds to his feet in one smooth motion. He backpedals as the toilet suddenly overflows, disgorging its contents onto the floor like a violent, unwieldy waterfall. The water expands out into a puddle, then contracts itself with a disgusting glop into a blob about two feet tall. The weak light filters strangely through it, illuminating shimmering, oily structures on the inside. Stubby hands rise from the surface of the blob, grasping hungrily in his general direction.

Another bubble rises from the water construct and fires at Ed’s face. One of his knees buckles and his head jerks to the side, cleanly avoiding the droplet once more. He tosses the plunger at the blob underhandedly; as it sails through the air above and hits his shower curtain, he quickly snags Electriclarryland from the sink. 

His mind races as he considers the best course of action. The blob glitters menacingly back at him, as if preparing something far nastier than a mere droplet. 

“You goddamn traitor of a crapper! You piece-of-shit shitter! I’d fucking —” 

Ed cuts himself off mid-insult, recognizing the abject futility of insulting a toilet. He exhales and pushes his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. Focus, dammit, focus!

This is probably – no, definitely – a Stand attack, so using his Stand is the smartest option here. If his mesh can reject anything he owns, and he can make mesh from his blood, then he can also probably make mesh with other stuff inside his body, right? And the human body is 70 percent water, or whatever. Must be a lot of spit. 

Thus, if there’s that much water in his body, he should be able to capture the blob with –

“Electriclarryland!”

Ed fires, and a torrent of mesh surges out from the taser, striking another jet of water in midair and grasping towards the main blob itself. The mesh envelops the blob on all sides, part of it diving beneath the floor. The blob stretches backwards slightly, making an awkward attempt to get out of the way, but the mesh folds itself shut at the back, completely containing the blob within it.  

The water construct struggles futilely against the mesh, its shimmering hues oscillating with frustration. Watching with some satisfaction Ed grabs his towel from the rack and chucks it, then stomps. The towel quickly soaks up the blob beneath it and falls to the ground with a wet thud. It faintly twitches, then lies still, completely waterlogged. 

Ed stares at the soggy towel for a second, breathing heavily. As his mind begins to catch up with his body, he runs through the events in his head. Weird noises, angry toilet water, a blob with a mind of its own… Could it be another enemy Stand user? Could it even be… Betterman?

He clicks Electriclarryland once more, canceling the mesh, and thinks back to earlier in the evening. Houdin had insisted that Betterman could hear them and talked about his voice coming from underground. That means the sewers… and what’s in the sewers? 

He said that Betterman was able to get messages to him anywhere, no matter what… because toilets are in every building, of course. 

It was raining out tonight, so there were a bunch of puddles around… so rain was in the gutter. 

And Betterman’s headquarters are a water treatment facility.

Oh. Fuck.  

Ed backs further out of the bathroom, pulling the toy phone from his pocket. He puts the receiver up to his ear, clearly stating “Cecilia Valdez.” 

He waits a beat, then hears slight static on the other end. “Cecilia! Fuck! Please tell me he hasn’t gotten you yet!” he blurts out in a rush. 

A second of silence, then Cecilia’s alarmed voice comes on over the other end. “What’s happening, Ed?! Are you under attack?”  

“Houdin was right, lady – Betterman absolutely fucking heard us.” Ed explains as fast as he can, the information unspooling in a disjointed rush as he slides his feet into his shoes. “Somehow, he managed to track me all the way back to my apartment. And if he could track me, he absolutely could track you. You need to prepare, because –”

“Ed, slow down,” says Cecilia, her voice growing more deliberate. “How is he attacking you? Stands are normally one to a user, so he might not be able to attack both of us simultaneously.”  

Ed shakes his head. “No – ugh, fuck, you’re not getting it. Shit, I’m glad he hasn’t gotten you yet, though…”

“Ed, how are you being attacked?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” He lets out a sigh of relief. “It’s water, lady! Betterman’s attacking through water! Whatever you do, don’t –”

Something cold and wet abruptly snakes around Ed’s ankles, then gives a sudden yank. His legs sweep out from under him, and he slams into the wooden floor with a painful thud. The toy phone clatters from his hand and falls across the ground. 

“Ed? Ed, are you okay?!” asks Cecilia distantly. Ed slowly flips himself onto his back as the wetness slinks further up his leg. He looks down and sees the soggy towel, its newly shimmering surface inching up to his knee. 

Oh, crap — he can still control the water while it’s in the fucking towel?! 

Ed raises Electriclarryland, but the towel casually whips up and wraps around his wrist, slamming it down to the ground. The sheer heaviness of it stuns Ed. He watches as the corner of the towel coils into an imposing rat-tail, slowly reaching for his face. 

The towel seems to freeze for a brief moment, grasping at him slowly. Something about the Stand’s method of attack feels off. 

His face… those water droplets were launched at his face. Why? 

It’s not like he’s throwing bullets or rocks or something actually painful – the attack is about as damaging as a squirt gun. Since it’s possessing this towel, it could be trying to soak into his clothes and control them, but then why would it fire at his face?

Unless… 

Right, 70 percent of the human body is water. 

And the vast majority of that water is – 

“– spit! You’re going for my spit, aren’t you?!” 

Ed’s free hand shoots up whip-quick and slams the towel onto the floor beside him with an open palm. It writhes in his grip, coiling around his wrist as he pushes himself to his knees. Quickly, he swings his arm, tossing the towel onto the wall and sending it tumbling to the ground; as it rises up, he gives it a firm stomp with the heel of his sneaker, grinding it into the ground. 

“You’re a strange fuckin’ guy, Betterman,” says Ed, panting heavily. “If Houdin was right and you’re listening through this water, you’re one weird fuck. You’re a big shot in this gang, your Stand controls water, and so your strategy is to try and get me through my goddamn spit?” 

The towel does not respond, wriggling ineffectually beneath his shoe. Its colors glimmer in apparent irritation.

“Looks like we did have the same idea, huh. Well, listen up, shitbag. I’m coming for you.” Ed gives another stomp for good measure, then reaches down and crumples the towel in both hands. “I’m gonna bust down the door to your little hidey-hole, and I’m gonna drag your bitchass out in the streets.” He reaches for the door to his microwave, opens it up, and throws in the towel, cramming it inside as it struggles feebly. 

“And listen up –” Ed vindictively kneels down, staring at the wriggling towel as he holds the microwave door in his hand. “– if any more of you Million shitdicks come after me, I’m gonna take every single one of you down.”  

He slams the door shut and punches 1 on the microwave. A light comes on, and the crumpled towel slowly begins to rotate, dragging against the sides. 

Ed pushes up his sunglasses once more and watches as steam begins to trickle out of the top of the microwave door, then pour in great hazy gouts as the water – along with the Stand controlling it – are scourged out by the heat. 

Eventually, the microwave beeps. Ed opens the door and the towel spills out, flopping to the ground. Its surface steams harmlessly but shimmers no longer. He prods it with his foot, and it lies limply, all life purged from it. For now, the Stand has been taken out. 

Ed walks over to the toy phone and picks it up from the ground. “Hey, Cecilia, you there?” he asks. 

A brief burst of static, then a heavy sigh comes over the line. “Yeah. Looks like you were right, Ed… I turned on the shower before you called me, and that Stand was all over my bathroom. So I just, uh, dealt with that.”  

“Wait, what? An entire shower?” Ed’s eyebrows shoot up. “Holy shit. Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, I managed to absorb all of it.”  

“Damn.” Ed’s eyebrows raise. “Nice work, at least. You might wanna double check to be sure you really got rid of it, though – I thought I got all the water in a towel, but the Stand still managed to possess it. Had to boil it all out.”

“Ugh. One sec.” The phone crackles with dead air, just long enough to unsettle Ed. Right before he says something, Cecilia’s voice comes back over the line. “Okay, I squeezed all the water out with Velvet Underground. Don’t think the Stand’s in there anymore.” 

“That’s dope. So…” Ed clears his throat. 

“So?”

“Well, what the fuck do we do now?”

“Hmm… I guess we know for sure Betterman is after us now. We obviously spooked him by going after Houdin, so now he’s trying to get rid of us. He knows where we live, and his attack comes through water, of all things… I don’t really know if we can sleep safely with this Stand after us.”

“...What do you mean by that?” 

“I’m saying that we have to take Betterman down tonight, Ed. We can’t wait for Misti and risk him drowning us in our sleep, or taking control of the rain to, like, erode the floors, or something even worse. This Stand is lethal if we get caught with our guard down. We need to take this into our own hands and end his Stand attack now.”  

“But…” Ed puts a hand to his head, stepping onto the warm towel. “That – how would we fuckin’ do that? We’re both in different areas of town, and we’d have to get all the way to that water treatment plant without getting murked by his Stand’s attacks. Heading to a water treatment plant, against an enemy with a water Stand, after it just rained… isn’t he gonna completely wreck us?”

“We don’t have any other choice, Ed,” hisses Cecilia suddenly. “If it was a Stand with an actual body, maybe, but – it’s water! It controls water! He’s got a huge range to attack both of us, liquid can slip through any crack, he managed to attack both of us at once, and we have no idea just how much he can control – we can’t afford to mess around with this guy. Taking him down now is our best chance!”  

“And you’re sure we can’t call anyone from the Bureau to help with this?”

“...I can send a call for reinforcements to the Watchtower, but at this hour of the night… don’t get your hopes up. Odds are, it’ll just be us two.”

“Damn it…” Ed pinches the bridge of his nose. He managed to take down the guy’s Stand once. Can he keep doing it? 

“I punched the location of the water treatment facility into my GPS. Get this – it’s located northeast of the city, up in one of the riverbends. If we both head in that direction, we can meet near Sturgeon Square, that little park off the boulevard. From there, it’s a half-hour walk or a ten-minute drive to the facility itself.” 

“That park with the fucked-up statue?”

“That’s the one. Meet me there in… twenty minutes or so? And then we can plan on how we’ll finish off Betterman. Does that sound good?”

“Hm. I guess it works for me.”

“Cool. See you there, Ed. And try not to get drowned in any puddles on the way there, okay?”

Ed nods solemnly. “Same to you. See ya soon.”

The static stops, and Ed has a brief moment to think to himself. Challenging a mysterious crime lord with waterbending powers, walking straight into the heart of his domain… it’s completely ridiculous, no doubt. But ever since he stared down that fucking alleyway, he’s been balls deep in ridiculousness, hasn’t he? Why not just take another step into the shitheap? 

He zips his jacket up and exhales. Turning his head, he looks at himself once more in the mirror. Licking a finger, he wipes the crusted blood from his cheek, revealing only a long, thin scab.

Will it turn into a badass scar? Probably not. Most likely it’ll just fade back into his face. But for now, it does look kinda sick. He grins at himself in the mirror, then opens his door and steps back out into the unknown. 

— — —

The city has a quite different feel in the early hours of the morning. Ed isn’t unfamiliar with it, but something about the darkness always puts him on edge — a feeling that’s greatly magnified, now that a hostile Stand is after him. Even though the rain has passed, every source of water sends a jolt of paranoia up into his spine. His hand tenses on Electriclarryland whenever he passes a storm drain or a particularly large puddle, and he’s extra careful not to walk under dripping gutters. 

After a long, unnerving trek past darkened storefronts, black-windowed offices, and eerily quiet restaurants, the buildings briefly part to reveal a triangular park next to a three-way intersection. Tall hedges border the little park, with several openings on each side for pedestrians and a copse of trees between them. In the middle of the park are several benches surrounding a spectacularly warped bronze statue of a short, stout man. 

Ed has walked through this park many times, but the sheer awfulness of the statue never ceases to amaze him. The statue’s pointing right arm, perhaps intended to give an impression of bold leadership, is disproportionately large for his body, and his bowlegged stance could have come straight out of an uncharitable political cartoon. The texture of the clothing looks like a futuristic spacesuit, or maybe a jacket made of Teflon. At least the head is well sculpted, with a monastic ring of hair around a bald pate and a rather dashing mustache giving the sculpture the look of a statesman. Unfortunately, though, a dent from a large hailstone or perhaps a well-hurled brick disfigures the forehead, giving the statue the unfortunate look of a lobotomy patient. 

The plaque, barely legible beneath a thick coat of graffiti, reads — 

MAYOR DIAMONDBACK STURGEON

IN OFFICE 1964-1976 

A TRUE FRIEND TO THE PEOPLE

Ed half-remembers the man’s name from a history class years ago, but he can’t recall anything else about him. Makes sense – if they stuck his statue in a dogshit little park like this, he can’t have been too noteworthy. 

Around the statue are eight benches, arranged in a shape slightly too loose to be considered an octagon. On one of them sits a shaded figure. As Ed gets closer, the sight of Cecilia’s feather boa puts a slight, relieved spring in his step. 

Cecilia looks up as she sees him, plucking a lollipop from her mouth to speak. “Nice night, huh? Hope the walk here wasn’t too bad.” 

“Pretty sketchy, but nothing happened. How about you?”

Cecilia shakes her head. “Nothing on my end either, which was strange. I feel like Betterman should be making more of a move, right?” 

“Yeah — if I were him, I’d mug us while we were walkin’ down the streets alone. Weird strategy.” Ed shakes his head, then furrows his brow. “Speaking of. What happened at your place? He attacked you, right?”

"Pretty much." Cecilia sighs, popping the lollipop back into her mouth. “Messing with my night showers is just cruel. After you called, I noticed that my bathroom had been completely flooded. I managed to soak up some of the water with my comforter, but I couldn’t get rid of it all. Luckily, I had secret weapons on my side…” She takes a small tube out of her bag and extends it towards Ed. 

Ed hefts it in his hand; it feels light, and the surface has an almost fluffy texture. “What’s this?”

“Huh?” Cecilia smirks. “Guess you wouldn’t know. It’s a tampon.”

“…Ah.” Ed nods, holding the tampon far out in front of him and regarding it from a distance.

“Yeah, ‘feminine products’ are crazy absorbent. I used some pads to finish off the Stand in my bathroom. Tampons are more portable and I can fire them with Vicious, so they’re probably the most effective weapon we can use against Betterman’s Stand. But they’re also stupidly expensive, so… we gotta save them for when we really need them.”

Ed strokes his chin, continuing to inspect the tampon from an arm’s length away. “That makes sense. I used a towel to absorb his Stand’s water, but he possessed it from the inside and attacked me…” He shrugs. “Well, I guess if we get beaten by a fuckin’ possessed tampon, we asked for it.”

“Plus, when I use my ability on it, it increases the cotton’s absorbency a ton. It’s like a powered-up bullet sponge.” Velvet Underground’s arm emerges from Cecilia’s shoulder, plucking the tampon from Ed’s grasp.

“It’ll be our trump card. so, if you’re really worried about that…” The Stand’s hand finger-guns at Ed. “I got you covered.”  

“Heh. Never thought I’d – hm?” A slurping sound catches Ed’s ear, giving him a tingling sense of deja vu. Turning his head, he sees the water in the street slowly retracting up and out of a storm drain, flowing in the opposite direction from them. In the dim light, he notices a strange shimmer in the water.

“Cecilia…” Ed raises Electriclarryland, turning towards the street. “Betterman’s cooking up some more bullshit.”

“Yeah – I see it.” Cecilia bites down on her lollipop, taking a step forward. “Whatever he’s doing, he’s not being subtle anymore… I guess he assumed that once we’re together, he can take us out more easily.”

“Fuckin’ jerk.” Ed takes two steps forwards. “He’d better not be trying any funny business – uh.”  

Behind his sunglasses, Ed’s eyes widen. Cecilia comes to a stop beside him, white-knuckling Vicious in both hands as they get a glimpse through the opening in the hedges. 

In the middle of the street, a wide wave is slowly picking up speed. The crest is as tall as Ed, and it only grows taller and taller as the runoff on the road feeds into it. The shimmering surface takes on a terrible glow in the moonlight. 

“Cecilia…” Ed takes a step back. “It’s coming right at us…”

“Do you think you can block all that with your Stand?” asks Cecilia, a note of panic in her voice. 

“…I don’t know…”

A beat passes. They stand, and the wave only gets closer. 

“Damn it. Run!” Cecilia gives Ed a shove. He nods in terrified agreement, then turns around and books it. 

Ed and Cecilia run for their lives through Sturgeon Square as the wave thunders over the sidewalk behind them. Ed leaps onto a bench as Cecilia’s combat boots thump across the cobblestone-paved paths. They’ve practically made it to an exit when the wave crashes fiercely against the ugly statue, knocking it over with a painful screech of metal and sending a spray of Stand-possessed water hurtling through the air. 

“Close your mouth!” shouts Ed. He raises Electriclarryland and fires off a wide mesh behind them. The falling water splatters against it in a wave, sliding to the ground limply. Internally, he pumps a fist. Can’t get him that easy! Eat shit, Betterman!

Behind the now-empty pedestal, the giant mass of water has already begun to reconstitute itself, preparing to rush at Ed and Cecilia once more. The bronze Diamondback Sturgeon lies awkwardly against the concrete block from which he’s been unseated, pointing up at the sky in a rather philosophical manner.

Ed’s eyes flick down to the pavement for a second, and he notices a small pool of scattered water on the pavement. A drop of the shimmering color lies in the center of the puddle, but the edges are perfectly clear – and the puddle lies unmoving. 

Ed reels a foot back, then kicks the puddle. The water droplets scatter across the grass, but the shimmery material lies flaccid on the ground. Something seems off about it, but he can’t focus too much on it now. 

He looks up at the giant wall of water building up across the park. Yes, there are certainly more pressing concerns. 

“The water’s coming at us again! Uh, I’ll try to block it, but it’s the full wall this time…”

“Relax.” Cecilia bends down. “I have a plan.” 

“Yeah?” 

“It’s really simple. I’m just gonna move the sidewalk.” She closes her eyes, and places her Stand’s purple hand into the ground. 

Ed warily asks “Cecilia…?” but his partner has already sunk into her Stand’s trance. 

He turns and stares at the giant wave as it slowly picks up speed, hoping Cecilia’s Stand works, and quietly wondering if he can throw up a defense for that much water. 

— — — 

(WHO DARES DISTURB THE HIGH PATRON OF TRANSPORTATION

AT SUCH AN UNTIMELY HOUR AS WELL

It’s me, she says. I require your assistance, O Infrastructured Lord. A generic opening, but it works on pretty much any public sidewalk.

UNTOLD AMOUNTS OF FEET HAVE TREAD UPON THE HIGH PATRON’S SURFACES

UNIDENTIFIABLE SUBSTANCES HAVE CAKED THEMSELVES IN THE HIGH PATRON’S CRACKS

AND YET YOU DEIGN TO BEND THE HIGH PATRON TO YOUR OWN WHIMS

MORTAL

The imperious voice rings out in the midnight air. Public walkways are so miserably pretentious, she thinks, but this one’s especially hostile. Concrete sucks to negotiate with, but she’s at least grateful it’s not asphalt. 

Your Grace, she pleads with cloying faux-deference, I make a thoroughly reasonable request; I understand that the duty of the sidewalk is a vital one. And I understand that impartiality is the central tenet of thine creed. 

THIS IS SO

You must not favor one traveler over another.

THIS IS SO

Yet we are in mortal peril. Does it transgress thine commandments to offer aid in a situation so dire?

NEUTRALITY IS ABSOLUTE

When we might be drowned at any moment, you will not move?

THE CREED OF THE HIGH PATRON WILL NOT BE DEFIED

Well, suit yourself, she thinks. Screw this, I’m done. Thanks for the help, High Patron. 

WAIT 

WAIT YOU VILE WENCH 

EXPLAIN YOURSELF WHAT ARE YOU 

Velvet Underground separates out from Cecilia’s body, its purple aura glowing in the air. Its hand reaches into the ground, grasps the concrete like an old elastic waistband, and pulls.)  

— — — 

It happens in a blink. 

One moment Ed is standing on the sidewalk, pressing Electriclarryland’s trigger as a lake’s worth of water bears down on him – 

Then suddenly he’s a block away, mesh dangling impotently in the air as he staggers from the sudden jolt. Behind him, Cecilia rises to her feet, her Stand’s arms dangling from her shoulders. 

“What the fuck?” Ed finds his sunglasses slightly askew on his nose and adjusts them. “Sorry,” he says, “but like – what the fuck?”  

Cecilia pulls a comb from her purse and carefully straightens her hair. “The negotiations weren’t going well, so I kind of forced the issue.” 

“Forced the fucking issue? I didn’t know you could — what was that, teleporting? Does your Stand do everything?”

“I wish. No, my Stand just changes the shape of inanimate objects by grabbing onto their soul, and that includes sidewalk tiles.” She glances down at the ground, shrugging as she runs the comb through her hair. “I’ve got no idea if the sidewalk will ever let my Stand touch it again, but it looks like we’re at least out of danger for now.” 

Glancing over his shoulder, Ed can barely make out the glob of water as it spills into the streets, dejectedly sinking back down into the storm drains. They’ve only bought themselves a few minutes, at most. He looks further and sees a few cars parked – ripe for the taking, maybe – and at his and Cecilia’s feet, a wide puddle of clear water. 

Was the water brought over along with Cecilia? Something about the sight of it gives Ed a delicious click, like scribbling in the last number to a sudoku puzzle. He stomps a foot in it, then turns to Cecilia with sudden vigor. “Wait, wait,” he blurts out. “On the call earlier — you mentioned that you were able to get the Stand out of the water?” 

“I did.” Cecilia kicks her boots against the ground, scraping off the mud. 

“And how’d you do that?” 

“I put my comforter and the pads in the bathtub, then used my Stand to squeeze the water out. It all drained away.” 

“What about that shiny junk?” says Ed urgently. “Did you see any of that?” 

“Thinking back on it…” The corners of Cecilia’s eyes scrunch up. “I’m pretty sure. Yep, there was some left on my comforter, but it all dried out and cracked.” 

Slowly, the corners of Ed’s lips begin to turn up, until an involuntary grin spans his face. “Holy shit. Yes! Okay.” He raises his hands and takes a breath to calm himself. “Let’s snag a car and head to that fucking water plant quickly. I don’t want to do this defensive bullshit any longer.” 

Cecilia looks at Ed, a bit suspiciously. “Did you figure something out?” 

“Oh, more than that. I know exactly how his Stand works…” 

With theatrical grandeur, Ed lifts up his taser. 

“...and my Electriclarryland has the perfect counter!”

Chapter Text

Ed Henderson first learned how to carjack from a delinquent friend in middle school. 

He quickly learned the tricks of the trade and, as he advanced, intuited two crucial lessons: be fast and don’t get caught. The intelligent application of these tenets has caused his potential to bloom, his skills even surpassing those of his old friend (who currently serves out a fifteen-year sentence in Orange Blossom State Prison for six counts of grand theft auto and two counts of aggravated assault). Ed’s never owned a vehicle himself, but he finds his way around the city with the help of borrowed cars – and his Stand has become a crucial tool in the process. 

Unlike his methodically inclined friend, whose technique involved a precise assembly and disassembly of machinery, Ed takes a far less scientific approach. He tests the handle of each car parked against the sidewalk and finds that the third one, a squat dark green sedan, is unlocked. 

“All right, this’ll do.” Ed slides into the driver’s seat, looks at Cecilia, and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Hop in.” 

Cecilia makes her way around to the passenger side and opens the door. “Is this your car?” 

“For as long as Betterman’s attacking us, it is.” 

“Wait.” Cecilia stops. “Ed, is this –”

Ed raises his hands. “Okay, okay, I know this doesn’t look great, but listen. Would you rather walk there with Betterman after us? Hell, ignore him for a second. Would you rather walk on the fuckin’ highway? At midnight? In this weather?” He adopts his most persuasive tone of voice. “I’m only tryin’ to save us a lot of time and hassle, lady. Just get in.” 

“Ugh.” Cecilia sighs and hops into the passenger seat. As she buckles her seatbelt, Ed places the barrel of Electriclarryland against the ignition and presses the trigger. After a few seconds’ pause, the motor rumbles to life and the headlights click on. 

The radio crackles with a whispery voice. “...the lottery has now reached over eight hundred million dollars. You heard me right, folks – not eight hundred, not eight million. Eight hundred million. We live in crazy times, man. In other news, mayor John Fisher continues to sink further into the quagmire of scandal…” 

“Feel free to turn the channel if you want. I’m not big on music, but I’m not big on news either.” Ed flicks on the lights and shifts the engine down one click into reverse, then one click more into drive. He executes a swift hand-over-hand turn and pulls out into the street, tearing away from the curb.

Cecilia casts a suspicious glance at Ed. “Do you do this often?” 

“It’s a simple method, really. I just use my Stand to – huh?” He blinks. “Oh, um. Yeah, I like to drive sometimes. Maybe once or twice a month? I dunno. It’s just a fun little way to blow off some steam.”

The eyebrow not obscured by Cecilia’s black hair raises. “You blow off steam by stealing cars?” 

“Hey, hey!” interjects Ed, indignation rising in his chest. “I don’t steal cars. I find one that looks shitty, borrow it for a few hours, and then put it back where I found it.” 

“Borrowing? Seriously?” Cecilia laughs out loud. “That’s – wow. Have you, like, been arrested?” 

Ed shakes his head as he clicks the turn signal. “See, that’s why I only borrow shitty cars. A Ferrari looks nice, but it has a top-notch security system, and anyone parading around a car that pricey is the exact type of jagoff who’d get pissy enough to press charges. So I only go after lame ones, ones where the owner might be a little bent outta shape but wouldn’t be mad enough to do anything real crazy. And I’m very careful not to wreck them or anything – I leave ‘em exactly in the condition I found them.”

“I…” Cecilia trails off. “You’re genuinely serious.”

“Why would I lie?” Ed snorts. “I’m not some trust-fund kid. And this is super lame, too – not cool at all. All my hobbies are lame as fuck, really. It’s all nerd shit, mundane shit, and steal– borrowing shitty cars. Why are you acting so weird about it, anyway?” 

“...we can only hope that the DA finds those tax documents and puts Fisher away. In other news, the recent rash of robberies in the city continues to grow. We interviewed Mildred Banglewood, a senior citizen who was nearly robbed this morning…”

“I guess I just don’t get the point,” says Cecilia, cautiously pulling out a lollipop and placing it into her mouth.

“C’mon!” Ed smacks the steering wheel as he stops at a red light. “You’re telling me, with that Stand, you’ve never felt the urge to just take a car for a spin?” 

“My Stand can’t control entire cars. More parts, more personality, which means there are too many parts to get a grip on —  and they can also refuse to cooperate. Like right now.” Cecilia places a hand to the dashboard. “This one’s pretty unhappy about being stolen.”

Ed sneers. “Fuckin’ wimp. Tell it to eat shit and drive.” 

“It won’t take that well.” She crunches the lollipop as punctuation.

“It can go eat shit, then. My foot’s the one on the goddamn gas.” He stomps down to assert his dominance, demonstrating flagrant disregard for the speed limit. 

“...turbulent times we live in, folks. With the cloudy economic outlook these past few years, we could all use a ray of sunshine, and the boom provided by the Birdland Mall just might be peeking through the clouds. This afternoon, we interviewed Stella Grace, one of the administrators overseeing the mall’s operations…” 

“Hey, careful!” Cecilia points at a stop sign, which Ed promptly blows through. He stamps the brakes, sending the car to a screeching halt. 

Ed smacks an open palm onto the dashboard. “Ah, shit. It’s midnight anyway. Nobody else is out driving except for me.” 

Cecilia shakes her head. “Still, be careful, okay? We can’t crash a stolen car.”

“Not stolen! It’s – whatever! I’m just shaving off time. We’ll be there soon.” Ed waves a hand dismissively and presses the gas pedal with a bit more restraint, gradually accelerating onto the turnpike. 

“...anyway, that’s the news, and we’ll be replaying it at the top of the hour. Now here’s some music — on 94.5 WREM, the sound of the city…”

Roiling water swirls beneath the wheels of the car as it tears down the road. At this hour, the city is very nearly sleeping. The storefronts gradually turn into rowhomes, and then the backyards of pretty little suburban houses. Each flashes into the view of Ed’s hi-beams for a mere second, then vanishes again into the surrounding dark. 

Spindly utility poles loom above, hungry giants silhouetted by the distant city lights. A flock of birds alights upon one of them, beady eyes fixed on the car’s headlights. As the vehicle passes beneath them, they wait a beat, then take to the air once more. Their squawks pierce the night air like needles through flesh. 

— — —

Betterman leans against a rusted wall, eyes closed to shut out the hallway’s dim light. The loud clattering of metal against metal has painfully flared up his head, sending waves of thudding agony from his temples to his chin, piercing all the way down into his abdomen. Worse, that irksome ringing in his ears is returning, reminding him of sun and blood crusting his eyes shut and dirt hot against his face, freezing cinderblock against the back of his head. 

A car is troublesome. He has the advantage on his home ground, but he would have vastly, vastly preferred them not to be able to access it whatsoever. At long ranges, his ability provides him a sure victory without fear of a counterattack. Has he gotten too complacent, too convinced of his own infallibility? Will he be able to manage them if they’re able to get inside? 

Focus, damn it, focus. The pain grits his teeth and, to his chagrin, he feels his grip on his Stand beginning to slip. Water sloughs off the edges and spills over the sides, flowing away out of his reach. 

Focus.  

He deliberately inhales, then exhales. Inhales, then exhales. 

In, out. Indifference, love. Zero, one. Tyranny, liberty. Water, air. 

Focus, Sergeant. Ebb and flow. It all goes back to neutral. It all evens out…

The breathing exercise steadies his mind, and slowly, the ground feels solid beneath him once more. He has maintained control and regained perspective. Everything happening has been within the scope of his hunch. This is not a failstate, but merely a change of battlefield. 

Betterman reaches downwards and picks up a piece of metal from the pile. Slowly, he takes several steps forwards and places his hand on the doorknob. The heavy steel door slowly opens with a creeeeak, and he steps out onto a tile floor, dragging the twisted piece of metal behind him. Carefully, he picks it up, slightly bends his knees, then hurls it across the room. It bounces off the far wall, scratching a divot into the tiling, then clatters to the ground. The sound echoes off the ceiling far above. 

Rubbing his callused hands together, Betterman takes two steps back into the hall, grabbing another jagged piece of metal and heaving it into the room. He continues chipping away at the pile until the floor is coated in scattered pieces of junk. Finally, he raises a hand, and water begins to slowly rise from a drain in the center of the floor. He steps back through the door and closes it behind him as the room begins to fill. 

Yeah, it did you some nasty damage, eh? Last I heard, you could barely make a sound. Seems they managed to stitch you up nice, though…

He doesn’t seriously expect this parlor trick to keep them occupied for long, but if he plays his cards right, he’ll be able to inflict substantial damage. As always with his Stand, this is a battle of attrition, and even this simple diversion has a purpose. Once they enter the deeper sections of the facility, they’ll be entirely in his territory, and he can begin a proper frontal attack. 

This environment lends itself both to offense and defense. He knows that they will have figured out its ability by now and brought countermeasures, but they naturally have to get him within their range to defeat him. With this quantity of water, he has an abundance of options available. They’re nothing more than puppets dancing in the palm of his hand. 

And if somehow they manage to get through his defenses, if somehow their Stands can fully negate his own, if somehow they turn the tables… 

He glances briefly down at his left hand, the mark of his sacrifice fully visible. Slowly, he clenches it into a fist. 

There will be no countermeasure. Crush, wash away, or drown – his Stand overpowers everything in its way. That is how it has been, and that is how it always will be. 

You always were the most upstanding fella in our regiment, you know. I’ll put in a good word for you with the VA. You’ll be back doing good work soon, I just know it…

He was put here, in this moment, in this place, to aid the Million. And that is exactly what he intends to do. 

Betterman slinks back into the darkness once more, a victorious hunch slowly building in the back of his mind. The thump of his boots echoes darkly off the walls.

— — —

There’s a prelude to the water treatment facility, a slow, gradual buildup appropriate for its infrastructural importance. At first, the only sign is a break in the buildings, poorly mowed grass accompanied by shrubbery of local and exotic varieties. Wind turbines are scarcely visible in the moonlight, and beyond them, the river flows as usual. 

A chain-link fence bursts suddenly into view on the right, clattering past Cecilia’s window like a steam engine. After about half a minute, a large white sign with stenciled black letters comes into view. In the glow of his hi-beams, the pair manage to read it: LEDBETTER MUNICIPAL WATER TREATMENT / PRIVATE PROPERTY / TOURS AVAILABLE BY RESERVATION. Beside it is a large metal gate, whose doors sit wide open. 

Cecilia peers out the window, adjusting her slightly soggy boa. “Well, we’re here.” 

“And Betterman hasn’t done anything yet. Absolute chickenshit.” Ed rips a sharp right turn onto the wide state road. Large vats with the appearance of alien structures glide past them on either side as the sedan slowly purrs through the night. 

Eventually, an imposing concrete building covered in pipes becomes visible in the moonlight. The road ends in a wide cul-de-sac surrounded by a sidewalk. A concrete awning sits above a pair of glass doors. Notably, there’s no sign on the building itself – and there are no windows at all. 

Ed jams the brakes, shifts the car into park, and removes his Stand from the ignition. He jumps out, stretching and giving a grunt of satisfaction. Cecilia opens her door, boots clicking against the slick pavement. “Weather’s still terrible… at least it’s not raining here.” 

A strange feeling comes over Ed as he stares at the brutalist facade. Connections start to twist like conveyor belts in his brain, and he gnaws his lip. “Lady, wait. Something’s bugging me about this.” 

Cecilia looks over her shoulder. “What’s up?” 

“Well, Houdin’s one of Betterman’s goons, right? And he told us that Betterman is headquartered here. We know that he can control water, and we know that this facility is full of it.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Cecilia waits a beat, blinking. “And?”

“And, what if this is a trap? Like, what if Houdin lied to us, or what if Betterman tricked him? What if Betterman’s hiding out somewhere else, and we get hit by a fuckin’ wall of water as soon as we walk in?” 

“Hmm.” Cecilia leans against the side of the car and regards the building. “Houdin didn’t seem like a liar. But even if it’s a trap, you do realize this is the only lead we have. And he’s still actively attacking us. So I say we might as well go in.”

“What do we do if he tries to screw us over, though?” 

“If we get trapped, you can ward off the water with your Stand and I’ll hold us out until Bureau reinforcements arrive. Then we continue the investigation from there. But –” She raises both hands, as if weighing the options. “– if we don’t, then we take Betterman down, bag him up, and bring him in.”

“Argh… You make a fair point.” Ed nods, watching Cecilia check her hair in the rearview mirror. “Lead the way, I guess.”  

“That’s the spirit. Let’s take this guy down.” Cecilia runs her fingers through her bangs, then steps onto the sidewalk. Ed follows her to the heavy double doors of the facility, which swing open with an imposing shriek.  

The lobby of the building is austere. An empty reception desk sits against the back wall and industrial-looking elevators flank it on each side. Rather than risk trapping themselves in the confined space, Ed and Cecilia elect to step around the desk, squeezing between a set of file cabinets and reaching a wooden door at the back of the room. 

Ed looks at Cecilia. “You think this is legit?” 

Cecilia touches the doorknob. “According to this door, there aren’t any traps yet. Let’s keep going.” 

The door opens to reveal a narrow, spiraling hallway, its walls painted the coral blue of beach houses. The air inside is musty, and the washed-out fluorescent lights remind Ed of home. Their gentle hum combines with the distant whisper of the water to create a hypnotic drone. Cecilia’s boots click lightly off the tile floor behind Ed as they wordlessly head forwards. 

Finally, Cecilia opens the door at the end of the hallway, and Ed squints his eyes at sudden, stabbing light. Industrial lamp fixtures dangle from the ceiling, casting a harsh glare on the large concrete room. Featureless concrete monoliths bordering the room serve as walls, and a concrete floor gently slopes down on all sides towards the center of the room. The concrete ends in a rectangular pit, paved with a cracked green-and-white mosaic and two-thirds full of water and scrap metal. 

“...Huh.” Cecilia rubs her chin. “A swimming pool.” 

Ed raises both arms in frustration. “Why the fuck did they put a pool in a water treatment facility?” 

“Maybe they could’ve been testing something out. Some new chlorine blend.” 

Ed shrugs. “Looks to me like somebody did it ‘cause they thought it’d be funny. Stupid-ass government facility…” 

Slowly, Ed begins to step down the sloped concrete with the cautious grace of a bowlegged mountain goat. As he gets closer to the still water, he notices something strange inside it. He takes a step closer, then rubs his eyes. Is the sleep deprivation starting to affect him?

He looks again. Nope – decisively not a hallucination. Barely visible beneath the bright reflections on the water’s surface is a thick metal door embedded against the opposite wall. Additionally, the floor of the pool is covered in various pieces of scrap, most of them broken and twisted beyond identification. In a small clear patch at the center sits the metal drain, cinched tightly shut. Something about it gives the sense of an obvious and catastrophic failure of design. 

“Okay. Somebody was definitely trying to fuck around here.” Ed points towards the pool. “The door outta here is under the goddamn water.” 

“Really?” Cecilia slides down the slope and gazes downwards. “We’d have to swim down to get through that.”

“Is this Betterman’s way of keeping us out? Let’s see how his little defense works.” 

Ed reaches into his pocket, pulling out a quarter. With a slight pang of remorse, he tosses it into the pool, sending ripples across the surface. The water’s color changes within a second as the shimmering pink substance slowly rises from the drain below. The surface of the water begins to ripple menacingly. 

“Yep. This is the goddamn trap.” Ed takes a step forwards, closer to the edge. “Now, Betterman, listen here. You’ve gotta be able to hear me, right? So, the thing that bugged me most about your Stand after I took it out was the form. See, I’ve only seen a few Stands so far, but they all have looked different. Weird-looking ghosts, a suit, little frogs – and my sick-ass taser.” He raises Electriclarryland, pressing the trigger with a taunting flourish. 

The water doesn’t respond, bubbling discontentedly and swishing the scrap metal within it in a fairly cowardly fashion. Beneath the surface, the door distorts and wavers under the fun-house mirror of the ripples. 

“But your Stand doesn’t have any obvious form,” continues Ed as the mesh spreads in front of him. “Like, it’s just water with weird stuff in it, right? I was wondering if your Stand was the water itself – like your ability was to control a little blob dude made of water, or something like that. That felt off to me, though, especially since you attacked both me and Cecilia at the same time. If you had one single cluster of water as your Stand, you couldn’t have pulled that off. But seeing you control all the water in the park –” 

The water suddenly bubbles and a tendril of water slashes up at Ed. Cecilia shouts “Look out!” as Ed raises Electriclarryland. But rather than sliding off the mesh, the water slices through it, wetting his clothes and spattering droplets on his face and sunglasses. He flinches at the sudden chilliness. 

“Ed, why did you do that?! Now he has your clothes! Be careful – don’t let any of the water get into your mouth –” 

Cecilia takes two steps back, then stops as Ed holds up his free hand. With one finger, he scrapes the water dripping down his cheek and licks it, then gives her a winning grin. “Relax, Cecilia. My mesh isn’t a shield – it’s a filter.”  

He points to the mesh’s surface, where the shimmering material hangs suspended in midair. It cracks under the brutal light, slowly crackling and disintegrating into the air. “This guy’s Stand is dissolved in the water. It puppets it from inside, like it’s wearin’ the shit as skin. Kinda creepy. But that means that without your Stand inside it, this water is completely harmless. Just regular old H-two-O.”

A larger tendril lashes out at Ed from the opposite side, but it runs itself straight through the mesh. Another harmless surge of water splashes against his back. 

“And since I can shoot mesh that filters out Stands — basically, you’re fucked!” Ed cancels his mesh, then shoots a new batch that stretches across the surface of the pool. The center of the mesh dips beneath the water’s surface, creating a pocket of clear, Stand-free water in the center. The scrap metal towards the top slowly stops circling around and begins to sink to the bottom again as it enters Ed’s zone of calm.

“So.” Ed, feeling the absolute certainty of victory, motions to Cecilia. “Now that I’ve gotten this asshole’s Stand out of the way, come and shoot that drain out of the way. That way, we can get the water out, and – GAH! ” 

Something flashes out of the water and hits Ed in the side of the head. He staggers as another object flies out, slamming into his chest. As he retches, white-hot panic flares up in his head. What’s happening?!

“Ed, get back! It’s the junk in the water! He’s using it as projectiles!” Cecilia leaps forwards, Velvet Underground flaring imperially from her shoulders. She quickly places a magazine into her pistol as Ed rolls to the side, barely dodging another piece of scrap. 

“This fucking – argh!” Ed puts his free hand to his cheek and grimaces as it comes away bloody. “I figured out his ability, but he figured out mine! Cecilia, quick –”

“Yeah, I got it!” Cecilia stops next to Ed, raising her pistol as her Stand disappears within it. With three quick taps and three sharp bangs, she sends three bullets down into the drain. Two bullets clang off of the metal, mostly ineffectively, but the third punches clean through — and a loud gluglugluk lets Ed know that they’ve succeeded. 

Ed scuttles back slightly on his ass, maintaining his iron grip on Electriclarryland as a fire extinguisher crashes into his knee. He raises his arms protectively, attempting to block Betterman’s projectiles from piercing any of his vital parts. This is such a dirty fuckin’ attack, man! 

As the water quickly drains through Ed’s filter, it begins to calm, a gentle vortex forming in the center. Betterman’s Stand presses up against the mesh in a feeble attempt to penetrate it, but to no avail. Ed feels a note of satisfaction; his mesh, as ever, is unbreakable.

Cecilia lowers her gun, clicking the safety back on as she gazes over the swirling Stand-matter. “Hm. Looks like you were right.” 

“You sound surprised.” 

She smirks. “Not at all.” 

After about half a minute, the water is completely drained. All that’s left are iridescent and brittle chunks of dried Stand-stuff, glistening pieces of twisted metal, and the door, now conveniently above water. Ed rises to his feet with a wince, staggering slightly. 

Cecilia turns towards him and raises an eyebrow. “Are you all right?”

Ed gives a winsome smile that probably comes out more like a grimace. “Never better. Managed to keep down the damage, at least.”

“Damn it, Ed, you really should’ve cut down on the monologuing. You even explained all that stuff to me already. Ugh… Look, how many fingers am I holding up?” 

She places her hand in front of Ed’s face. He squints, and after a second answers, “...Three.” 

“Okay, so hopefully no concussion. Can you walk?” 

Ed slowly takes to his feet once more, gingerly shifting his weight. He licks his hand, then wipes the dripping blood from his face and rubs it on his shirt.  “The car hurt worse. I’m fine.”

“...” Cecilia looks at him warily as she unwraps another lollipop. “We’re about to confront Betterman head-on in his territory, and this makes twice tonight you’ve taken a serious leg injury. Be careful, okay?” 

“Careful's my middle name. Well, it would be if I had one. And my leg’s fine! I can just walk it off.” Ed cracks his knuckles in front of him. “Let’s head down. It looks like Betterman’s just waiting to host us.” He scopes around the edge, finding a line of handholds built into the wall, then cautiously climbs down. 

Once both of them are at the bottom of the pool, Cecilia places her hand on the metal door. With a purple glow, the door slowly swings open. They walk onwards into the dark. 

The lights in this hallway buzz far louder than the one above, yet somehow shine even dimmer. Gnats swirl through the mildew-scented air, fruitlessly swirling around the flickering fluorescent bulbs as Ed and Cecilia cautiously step down the hallway. Ed’s gait slightly lags, but he trudges onwards, ignoring the dull, throbbing pain throughout his body. He can do this. All he has to do is keep this fucker’s Stand off, and Cecilia can do the rest.

At the end of the hallway sits a pair of double doors. Ed steps up to them, placing a hand on both handles. He glances briefly at Cecilia, who nods, and he pushes the doors open, stepping into a dark room filled with a maze of pipes. 

Naked lightbulbs dangle intermittently from the ceiling, flickering on and off according to some twisted pattern. Amidst the tangled network of metal, Ed can make out several narrow passageways, the sound of rushing water, cold metal floors, a warped throne sitting at the center of the room – but no Betterman. 

Ed raises his taser and cautiously steps forwards, glancing around him. This is the belly of the beast, the central hub of Betterman’s operations. The vague smell of mildew tickles his nose, but what strikes him is how clean everything looks – the floor appears recently polished, the pipes aren’t rusted in the slightest, and the concrete pedestal of the throne is unblemished. Someone’s been taking care of this place, and Ed can guess who that someone is. 

“Betterman’s nearby. Looks like we’re walking through his little man cave.” Ed takes a couple steps forwards and peers through the pipes; behind one, he sees a thick mess of cloth sheets that might pass for bedding. 

Cecilia nods, placing her Stand’s hand to the pipes. “Yep. He’s definitely around here… I can’t tell exactly where, but we’re on the right track. Let’s keep looking.” 

They walk towards the throne at the center of the room. It’s an impressively crafted structure with armrests, a serrated design topping the back, and what looks to be a comfortable seat, or as comfortable as steel pipes can get. Ed wonders if it was welded, or maybe crafted using Betterman’s Stand. Could he do that with water control? 

Walking up to the throne, Ed places a foot onto the seat. He begins to peer around, hoping that the higher vantage point might give him – 

“Please step down. From there. If you would.”

Out of the darkness to Ed’s left steps a tall man with a sturdy posture. He wears faded military fatigues and a combat vest, with tough gray pants and shining black boots. Ed can’t say why, but something about Betterman gives him the aspect of a JROTC kid. 

Woven across Betterman’s chest and coiling down each arm are thick ropes, patterned around his clothes from his neck to his knees. His face is strongly tanned, with deep creases in his cheeks and forehead. A black headband is tied directly above his dark, baggy eyes, concealing his eyebrows and forehead and reaching up into his matted hair. His lips are fixed in a slight frown, and his hands are clasped firmly behind him. Most notably of all, one large tattoo is placed on each cheek – on his right is inked a large teardrop, and on his left, a set of two exclamation points. 

Betterman returns Ed and Cecilia’s wide-eyed stares with a cold gaze. “I don’t want to kill you. Even to hurt you. But you must understand. You’ve been. Quite a nuisance.” 

The strangely clipped diction piques Ed’s attention. Can this guy only communicate in soundbites?

Raising a hand, Cecilia points at Betterman. “We know you’ve been committing criminal acts, and we know you’ve been organizing other Stand users to do your bidding. Turn yourself in, or the Bureau will be here next.” 

“Don’t bother playing tough,” says Betterman, his neutral tone completely unchanged. “After assessing you myself. I can conclude. This is not sanctioned. The Bureau would do better. Than send me their small fry.” 

Ed feels his blood beginning to smolder from the barb. Small fry? This asshole better have good dental insurance…

“And please do explain to me. What crimes I might have committed,” drones Betterman. “As far as I can tell. I have not once broken the law. The real criminals are not here. In the dark with us. They sit much, much.… Much farther above.” 

“Don’t try your little word games,” hisses Ed before Cecilia can respond. “You’ve fucked with us enough, you lousy pisscunt. You tried to drown me twice and you sliced me up with that scrap metal! If you give up right now, I’ll let you off with just a light ass-beating.” 

Betterman gives a short, harsh, barking sound that might pass for a laugh — if his face had moved at all. “You think that you are. In a position. To make demands.” He gives a short shake of his head. “Listen. I do not punch down. I will not pick. On my inferiors. You will surrender to me. This instant. And perhaps the Million. Will be… Merciful. It is not my. Duty. To decide.” 

Cecilia sighs and raises her pistol, clicking the safety off and pointing it at Betterman. “Sorry, no deal. Worst you can do is kill me, and I don’t trust a Million member to do anything less.” 

Betterman raises his arms and folds them across his chest. His shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and the movement disturbs something on the exposed skin, sending a white, ashy material flaking onto the ground around him. “Suit yourself. How dull… My hunch was correct. Again. In the end. Everything levels out.” 

He raises a hand and snaps his fingers. “Even Flow.”

There’s a brief delay, just enough time for the rumbling of water to cease. 

Then on every side of Ed and Cecilia, two dozen pipes explode simultaneously. 

Chapter Text

In the four seconds between the snap of Betterman’s fingers and the roar of the pipes, a flurry of action envelops Ed Henderson. 

Ed’s thought process in the instant following Betterman’s words goes something like Stand shit weird noises big attack oh fuck. His finger twitches, and a great stream of mesh pours from the taser, sweeping into a makeshift shell around himself and Cecilia. 

Electriclarryland’s precise rate of fire often varies depending on certain factors (the material emitted, the humidity, Ed’s mood, et cetera), but his Stand-repelling mesh, due to its intangibility, is extremely light. Therefore, it expands the fastest out of any mesh in his arsenal. The barrier assembles itself in a flash. 

Cecilia clenches Vicious tightly in her hands. Unlike Ed, though, she does not press the trigger, electing to preserve her limited supply of ammunition. Instead, she calls forth her Stand’s full form, all fur-lined shoulders and slick purple surfaces. It sweeps forwards, surging over the mesh with a tinny shout of “NICORAAAA!”, then hurls a wild blow at Betterman’s head. 

The Stand’s fist sails wide, denting metal. Betterman’s cold eyes flash as the pipes begin to fracture, and he takes a step back, vanishing into the ensuing chaos. 

In an instant, a deluge of water jets through the mesh and floods Ed and Cecilia from every side. Water spatters Ed’s sunglasses, splashes against his jacket, and soaks deep into his shoes. He reflexively raises both hands to protect himself, feeling cold water running down his face. “GAH!”

“Yuck!” Cecilia spits a jet of water onto the ground, then runs a hand across her waterlogged eyes. She grimaces in disgust as her Stand melts through the mesh and returns to her. “This was such a nice jacket, too…” 

Ed grabs onto his T-shirt and swipes a relatively dry section across his sunglasses. Looking out onto a slightly blurred scene, he notices Even Flow’s pinkish goop cracking and drying against the mesh, shining with bizarre hues in the dim light. “Crapsauce. We lost him!” 

Lifting up her soaked bangs with one hand, Cecilia squints. “He’s absolutely close. My Stand will find him through the pipes, and we can corner him from there.” 

“Sick.” Ed nods. “I’ll keep the defense up. Let’s track him down, and — glurk.”  

The saliva in Ed’s mouth suddenly congeals around his tongue, choking him off midsentence. Shit — he didn’t finish the barrier in time!

He leans over and attempts to spit the Stand out, his face reddening with exertion as his tongue sticks out of his mouth. But it’s too late: the water clings to the roof of his mouth, pushing on towards the back. 

“You okay, Ed?” Cecilia turns at the strange sound, and Ed meets her gaze, pointing to his mouth. Her eyes widen. “He got you?!”

“Thtan — imma mou!” Ed gestures to his tongue. “Ifudituh!” 

Cecilia reaches into her purse, but a light suddenly enters Ed’s eyes, and he raises a finger. With his other hand, he reaches Electriclarryland up to his neck and presses the trigger once more. A jet of Stand-repelling mesh phases through his throat, and he swiftly yanks it up past his lips, then crumples it in his hand and holds it up in midair. A gooey ball of Betterman’s Stand, about the size of a gumball, hangs suspended in the shimmering web. 

Ed leans down once more and emits a watery “gleaaargh,” followed by a gout of water and a very frustrated “FUCK!” He slams his fist against the ground. “Damn it, I fucked up! Even a little drop of this guy’s Stand can drown us!”

“Relax.” Cecilia prods the Stand with a finger. “Your filter’s up now, right? You just gotta keep it up until we get him within range of my Velvet Underground. This will be simple.” 

“Fucking pansy-ass army goon!” fumes Ed, clanging his fist against the metal floor. “He’s too scared to fight me head-on, huh?!” 

“Scared? Hardly.”  

Down the hall, one naked lightbulb flickers on. Ed sees Betterman, who leans against a set of metal rungs embedded in the wall. He clutches a leather shape in one hand and rubs his temple with the other, forefingers slipped under the cloth of his black headband and his face locked in that same slight frown. 

“Let me be clear,” says Betterman. “I do not plan to kill you. I am impressed. Very much impressed. For two Bureau contractors. You have performed brilliantly. But as long as I remain. Outside your range. Then the most you can do is shoot.” 

“And what if I do?” asks Cecilia, cocking her gun.

Betterman merely folds his arms once more, followed by a telltale rumbling in the pipes. “We know the Bureau. At least ostensibly. Has a policy. Against killing its opponents. So I can conclude. That gun is not loaded. With live ammunition.” 

“If that’s your guess, then we can sit here all night, just like this,” says Cecilia coolly. “I left a message with my supervisor at the Bureau. An entire division will be breaking in here at dawn.”

“Let me be. Abundantly. Clear.” Betterman lifts the leather shape in the air and unsheathes it, revealing a wicked-looking machete that gleams in the dim light. “No one. Enters this facility. Without my express consent. If they don’t have. A Stand similar in nature. To your partner…”

Water swirls in a vortex around Betterman’s feet. Iridescent tendrils rise from the ground around him, swirling up past his waist and coiling like rose petals. He holds his machete with the indifference of a butcher wielding a meat cleaver as white, ashy skin tumbles from his arms to the floor. 

“...They will simply drown. And that’s all.” 

Ed leans over to Cecilia and hisses, “Can’t you tag him with your Stand? Phase it into the pipes?” 

Cecilia shakes her head slightly. “That’s way too telegraphed. He’d catch on immediately. We have to find some way to get in close…”

“Argh!” Ed looks back at Betterman. “Damn it, this is tough.” 

Betterman regards Ed with an impassive curiosity. Slowly, he places a hand to his chin. “I do wonder why. You wear those sunglasses. Not only at night. But indoors.” 

“Hey, I have a condition,” retorts Ed. “My eyes are sensitive, dickweed. Why are you wearing that gym headband?” 

“Not a mere. Style choice. Curious.” Betterman scratches his chin, sending more of the white, ashy substance floating down to the ground. “Regardless. I have no intention. To have a little. Stand-off here.” He turns around and places a foot on the rung of the ladder as his Stand melts back into a puddle on the ground. “Should you wish. To continue this… Fruitless. Endeavor. I will be up top.” 

He places the machete between his teeth in the manner of a buccaneer and swiftly scales the ladder, leaving Ed and Cecilia amidst the dark, wet room and the distant humming of pipes. 

Ed rubs his face with a soggy hand. “He can’t get through our shield, but he won’t get close to us… Is there any way we can take this asshole down?” 

“Simple.” Cecilia raises her pistol, and Velvet Underground appears once more. It places a hand down Vicious’ barrel, then an arm, then fully disappears into the barrel like a dying star. 

Satisfied, Cecilia cocks back the hammer once more. “There’s a tampon loaded up in there currently,” she says softly. “It’s the same thing I did to Houdin earlier — they both have slower and long-ranged Stands that Velvet Underground can overpower. It’s extra easy with Betterman because my Stand’s bound to a tampon —”

“— so it can punch right through!” Ed nods vigorously. 

“Exactly. If I can tag him with this ‘bullet,’ we win.” 

 “So I have to keep his Stand away and make an opening for you. That shouldn’t be too tough at all.” Ed looks around, then bends down and picks up a broken steel pipe. He taps it on his forearm approvingly, then brandishes it like a stick. “Let’s see if that asshole can handle this,” he says with gusto. 

Cecilia takes a step forwards, then hesitates. “Well, there is one thing.” 

“Yeah?”

“I’ve never actually… punched someone with my Stand before.” 

“Well, you tried to punch Betterman just now, yeah?” 

Cecilia shakes her head. “I tried. I missed. I’ve just never used my Stand that way.”  

“Really? Boy, if my Stand had fists, I’d be punching anyone who looked at me funny.” 

“Look, the point is, I don’t know if I’ll be able to knock him unconscious myself.” 

Ed shrugs. “Don’t worry. If you grab him, I can give him the Henderson special.” He mimes two jabs, then a wide left hook. 

“Sure…” Cecilia sighs. “I guess we can’t worry about that yet. Just need to focus on taking him down first.”

Ed follows Cecilia to the ladder, willing his Stand’s mesh to expand with her. It almost looks like a long, shimmery bubble surrounds the pair. He looks down at Electriclarryland for a second as he grabs onto the ladder, slick metal squeaking in his grip. 

Idly, he wonders if he’s anywhere near his Stand’s limit. Is there even a limit? An image pops into his head of Electriclarryland’s mesh reaching up across the city to pick someone off a skyscraper, or reaching halfway across the world and grabbing someone in China. 

He grins as he clambers up the ladder, his ratty sneakers eliciting wet shrieks from the rungs. A range test, huh? Maybe he should give that a try sometime. Right now, though, he needs to focus — all he has to do is keep Betterman’s Stand away. 

As he reaches the top, Ed peeks over the lip of the hatch. Cecilia is crouched beside him, gun in hand. The ladder opens up to a wide steel landing with a metal railing surrounding it. Below the landing unfolds a humongous room, filled with a chaotic, expansive mess of tanks and pipes both thick and thin. Large windows cover the walls; through them, Ed can make out distant and ethereal drainage pools in the moonlight. 

“Looks like we’re in the back part of the building,” says Cecilia. 

“Damn.” Ed rubs his bleary eyes, then clambers over the edge, pulling his pipe out from his waistband when he reaches the top. “And that bastard Betterman’s hidden in that maze somewhere…”

“Probably went down from here.” Cecilia jerks her finger towards a set of metal stairs that winds down from the landing. “He can’t wait forever. Whatever he says, the Bureau is going to find their way in here soon.” 

“Well, we’ve got him in a corner. Let’s lock him out and take him down.” Ed does a mock bow. “After you, lady.” 

Cecilia smirks. “How chivalrous.” She walks down the stairs, Ed following her close behind and taking care to maintain the mesh barrier. Can’t have the rat bastard sneaking up on them. 

At the bottom floor, the pipes are twisted and intertwined together, giving the impression of a steel jungle. Puddles of shimmering water cover the ground between them; as the barrier approaches, they quickly slide away. Ed assumes Betterman wants to preserve his resources — but no piddling puddles of water are gonna save him from the sheer ass-kicking he’s about to endure. 

Cecilia steps onto a pipe and cranes her neck over a water tank; Ed crouches down beneath two pipes and scans from side to side. They continue down the little passageway, inspecting the sides, but to no avail. The mysterious Betterman has concealed himself again. 

Ed smacks a water tank, sending a resounding thwongggg into the air. “This wimp and his stupid water games! All he can do is hide, hide —”

Cecilia raises a hand. “Hold on. Let me see if I can find him.” 

“How?” 

“Talking to the ground. Obviously.” She takes two steps forwards, then turns back towards Ed and kneels down. Her Stand’s purple hand reaches out, pressing against the ground, and her eyes close with concentration. 

Ed scratches his head. In the presence of such an ability, he suddenly gets a strange feeling of inadequacy. Is it admiration? Jealousy? Deeply repressed attraction? Whatever it is, it’s draining. 

“Geez…” He clutches Electriclarryland tight in his hand and leans heavily against one of the tanks, briefly glancing up towards the ceiling. The fatigue hits him all at once. 

It’s been such a long day, hasn’t it? He did his usual delivery, saw that monster in the alleyway, encountered that asshole Paradizo, then Cecilia, Misti, Houdin, and now Betterman… So much has happened. This is his third Stand fight in twenty-four hours, and he’s taken injuries in all of them. 

Will he and his Electriclarryland be able to hold up? Can he gut it out long enough to take this asshole down? Has he truly figured out his ability? Is this all just some kind of delusive nightmare, his brain producing one last vision before he, too, is punched to death by that mysterious black-shelled man? 

Unfortunately, this single moment of distraction comes at the worst timing for Ed Henderson. 

Thwang.  

A thick steel pipe unfastens itself from the latticework above and bounces off the ground in front of Cecilia; the sound of its impact jolts Ed from his reverie. His vision instantly snaps towards Cecilia, still fixed in concentration. “Lady?!” he asks in a panic. 

A hefty stream of water now pours down from the broken pipe, passing through the filter and landing directly on Cecilia. Her eyes snap open at the sudden shock, and she pushes herself to her knees, raising her Stand before her as she gasps for air. 

“Lady, watch out!” shouts Ed. “He’s dropping stuff on us now! Watch your head, and be careful of —” 

Above them, a metal tank emits a stomach-churning squeal, then pitches over and collapses — right above both of their heads. 

“SHIT!” Ed leaps backwards, and Cecilia rolls across the ground, her Stand reaching up with a defiant “NICOOO…”  

The tank lands between Ed and Cecilia with a deafening KRANG. Ed rushes up to the metal surface and slams his pipe against it frantically. “Lady! Say something!” he shouts. “Lady, are you okay?!” He runs his hands across the dented metal surface, then shimmies to the side to see if he can squeeze around it. But it’s useless; the tank is thick enough to completely block off the path. 

“Here you are. Mesh user.”  

Feeling a tinge of dread boiling in his gut, Ed turns and sees Betterman standing atop a pipe, about ten feet above. He jumps down, then lands with catlike grace, standing just outside Ed’s barrier. Rising to his feet, the man folds his hands behind his back once more. 

“Now then. Let us begin. Shall we?” 

Fury boils in Ed’s veins. “You better not have killed my partner!”

“I’m sure. She is. Alive, at worst.” Betterman waves a hand dismissively. “As I said. I do not intend. To kill you.” 

“Then why did you drop a thousand-pound chunk of metal on us?!”

“Divide. And conquer. Elementary. Strategy.” Betterman pulls his other hand from behind his back, revealing the gleaming blade. “You must understand. If I remove your barrier. This situation becomes. Much. Simpler.” 

Ed clenches Electriclarryland in one hand and white-knuckles his pipe in the other. The contempt almost feels like it’s overflowing. “You lousy piece of puke…!” 

“You’ve talked much. About defeating me. ‘Beating my ass.’ As you said.” Betterman raises his hands deferentially, taking two steps and entering Ed’s barrier. “Well. Here we stand. Equal ground. No abilities. No partners. Man to man.” 

He raises his machete forward in a gesture of challenge. “Let’s see if you. Measure up.” 

A bead of sweat trickles down Ed’s forehead — or maybe it’s just dirty water. He swallows back a foul curse, placing one of his feet against the metal surface behind him. “You really think you can beat me? With no Stand?” 

“Before I ever. Honed my spirit. I first. Honed my body.” Betterman shakes his head. “With my training. A hoodlum. Could never —”

In the middle of Betterman’s sentence, Ed kicks off from the tank, closing the distance in an instant. He combines the motion with a wild swing of his pipe, slipping through Betterman’s open guard and smashing him on the cheek. The military man staggers slightly, his dilated pupils showing the ever-slightest sign of awe. 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a military asshole and all. You went through all that training. Did a lotta push-ups, huh? Big whoop — cause you’re still wide open.” Ed takes two steps back, raising his pipe in the air. “You really gotta cut down on the monologuing!” 

With this motion, any lingering doubts in Ed’s mind evaporate. He is a Stand user, he is here, and he will defeat Betterman himself. Besides, he’s already taken down two Stand users today. How tough can a third be?

Slowly, a thin, tight-lipped smile crosses Betterman’s face. “Admirable. You have spirit. My students. And fellow Trashmen. Could stand to learn. From you.” 

“Trashmen, huh? You have your own little club of shitbags?” Ed sneers. 

The man merely nods, his grin disappearing. “Hmph. Let’s see. If your money. Is where. Your mouth is.” 

Before Ed can retort, the man takes a step forwards, his machete whistling through the air. Ed barely leans backwards swiftly enough to dodge. With a flick of the wrist, Betterman gives a backhanded swing of the blade, but Ed parries with his pipe, sending both men reeling backwards with a bwang of metal against metal.  

Betterman nods. “Passable.” 

Ed spits onto the ground. This guy is strong — but Ed’s faster! If he blocks his attacks and strikes back fast enough, he can win!

The next swing of the machete comes down from above; Ed braces the pipe against his arm and blocks the blow. He quickly moves in and lands a strike on Betterman’s shoulder, making the man’s lip curl slightly. “Hmph.” 

He swings the blunt side of the blade up at a staggering speed, slicing into Ed’s cheek, then steps back before Ed can move to retaliate. As Ed raises his pipe to block, Betterman etches another slash into Ed’s forearm. He plants one foot, lifts his other into the air, then kicks Ed squarely in the gut. 

“Fuck!” Ed reels back for an instant, feeling the pain course through his body as he collapses back against the metal wall. Damn, this guy is better than he expected. He says he’s not trying to kill Ed, but he’s sure swinging like he’s on the warpath. Can Ed handle him?

A hand grabs Ed’s shoulder from behind, and he jolts. He turns to see the smooth purple face of Cecilia’s Stand poking out from the water tank, pale blue eyes staring back into his own. 

“Listen, Ed,” says Cecilia’s tinny voice through the Stand’s mask. “We can win this. Delay him for now, okay? I’ll find my way around. Keep up your barrier, and be careful for me.”  

Ed nods, feeling his resolve harden once more. “Thank you, lady… Cecilia. I promise I won’t lose.”

As he pushes himself upright once more, the Stand slightly squeezes his shoulder through his jacket, then melts back into the wall. Ed’s gaze turns back up to Betterman, who looks back at him. “You wanna go again, asshole?” he asks. “Or are you too scared?”

“Hmph.” Betterman snorts, then lunges with his machete once more. Ed quickly blocks Betterman’s wrist with the pipe, locking the arm in midair — and strikes Betterman clean in the eye with Electriclarryland. 

The satisfying THWACK of plastic against flesh and the sight of Betterman staggering put the electric taste of victory on Ed’s tongue. But the flavor fizzles out in an instant as Betterman gazes implacably back at him, his newly blackened eye giving him the appearance of some vengeful revenant. 

“Disappointing. I’ve taken blows. Far harder than that.” 

As Ed winds up for another swing, Betterman swiftly spins his machete into a reverse grip, then sweeps forwards and slams his elbow into Ed’s chin. He follows up with a low shin kick that knocks Ed off balance, then winds up for a haymaker. 

Fuck! Ed dodges to the side as Betterman launches a thunderous punch that — blam! — puts a huge dent into the steel tank. The sheer force tousles Ed’s hair, sending him reeling backwards even further. How strong is this guy? 

Betterman pulls back his hand, shaking it out slightly. “My Stand is blocked off. Your Stand is blocking... In a Standless match. With my past training. You are no match for me.”

Ed dodges once more as Betterman chops his blade downwards, cleaving clean through a pair of rusty pipes. Water pours from them in a deluge, coating the metal ground and spreading inside the barrier. 

Ed’s eyes bug out at the pipes. “Holy fuck!” Forget the wimpy-ass Stand — this guy is fucking jacked! Can military training make someone this strong?

Betterman steps forwards into the rapidly expanding puddle on the ground. Beneath his feet, the pink goo of Even Flow begins to proliferate in the water once more. He taps the flat side of his machete to his chin contemplatively. 

“Then again. This is no longer. A Standless match.” 

“Huh!?” Ed looks at the puddle on the ground, then at his mesh — sublime, perfect. The entire barrier has nary a crack. How could Betterman possibly get his Stand through it?

“You look. Confused.” Betterman takes a step forwards, the water swirling beneath his feet. “You see. I have a condition.”

He raises the arm clutching his machete, then forms his other hand into a fist and digs his knuckles viciously into the skin. Small, ashy flakes tumble down through the air. As they touch the surface of the water, they blossom outwards into the Stand’s structures, intertwining like spindly pink roots. 

“Yuck…” Ed’s eyes widen. “Wait, hold on — your Stand is in your skin?!”  

“How astute. But tragically. Too late.” As the flow from the pipes slows to a drip, Betterman waves his hands, raising the water into a short wall around himself. 

“Water is calm. Balanced. Clearheaded. Even. But when my skin. Dissolves in water…” 

A blob of possessed water slowly slides up Betterman’s body as he speaks, sliding past his leg and over his knee. He tosses the machete aside, letting the water flow onto him. 

“It bends to my will. Becomes my ear. My hand… My blade. Even Flow.” 

The chunk of water reaches over to Betterman’s arm, forming around his hand into a boxing glove-like structure. Betterman raises it at Ed as he continues to speak.

“You can repel my Stand. Your mesh is capable. But you will be. Abandoning. Your partner. If you do.” 

“Damn…!” Ed pushes his glasses up his nose with a trembling hand. This motherfucker! And his motherfucking skin! Cecilia has to be coming here soon… right? 

Cold fire burns in Betterman’s blackened eye. “Now drown under my tide. Wretch.”  

Betterman stomps the puddle, sending droplets splashing into the air. Ed raises his arm over his nose and mouth to block them off. As he raises his guard, the blob around Betterman’s hand uncoils into a long tendril that slashes forwards.  

Ed sidesteps, clenching his pipe in one hand. After an instant of hesitation, he presses the taser’s trigger, dismissing the mesh barrier. He’ll keep the man distracted, but please, please get here soon, Cecilia…

Two torrents of water lance towards Ed from both sides. He presses his taser once more, firing off a mesh shield and repelling all the water surrounding him. Stepping in close, he swings the pipe down, catching Betterman on his open hand — and feeling a satisfying crunch.  

Betterman doesn’t show any physical reaction, only nodding. “A fine choice.” 

A pillar of water rises up from the floor and coils around the pipe. In one fluid motion, Ed yanks his pipe out from the water and swings it backhanded at Betterman’s throat. Betterman barely manages to block the blow with his forearm, grabbing Ed’s own arm with his other hand. Ed struggles to escape his grip, but to no avail. Betterman grasps him in an armlock, twisting his elbow at a painful angle. 

“Agh — gyah!” Ed’s mind burns with fury as he considers the implications of Betterman’s ability for his Stand. Betterman’s Stand power is bound to his skin, but his mesh doesn’t recognize it as a Stand until it’s fully dissolved in water. Does that mean Betterman’s skin doesn’t count as the Stand? Or does Electriclarryland not recognize bound Stands as containing Stand material?

A tendril of water slides up Ed’s leg, creeping past his knee and towards his shorts. 

Dammit, he needs to get out now!  

Ed presses Electriclarryland with the brutal precision of a drone strike. A string of mesh snakes around Betterman’s throat, then suddenly tightens. The implacable man emits a throttled gack, and his grip loosens just enough for Ed to slip free. Ed doesn’t waste the opportunity: he turns around and smashes Betterman’s nose with his pipe, sending the man reeling. 

The water binding his leg splashes to the ground. Ed quickly backs up and presses Electriclarryland, quickly creating a Stand barrier around himself. 

Betterman places a hand to the ground, bracing himself. After three deep breaths, he stands straight up, then stares back at Ed as impartially as ever. He grips his nose between his thumb and forefinger, then aligns it back into place with an unpleasant pop. The slightest dribble of blood pours from his nostril, and he wipes it away swiftly. Ed wonders if he’s somehow controlling the blood with his Stand — or if he’s just that fucking tough. 

“You would make. A fine soldier.” Betterman cracks his neck slightly and steps forwards. “But now. You must choose. Once more. Water. Or flesh?” 

“Oh yeah? You gonna come at me again?” taunts Ed, waving his pipe. “You just looove the taste of steel in your mouth.” 

“You’re bluffing.” Betterman calmly steps through the new mesh barrier. “For you. This is. A no-win scenario.” 

As Betterman steps into Ed’s range, he feints low with the pipe, then goes to conk Betterman on top of his head. But Betterman reads his move like a cheap tabloid, catching the pipe in his hand. He raps Ed on the ear with a quick, sharp palm strike. 

Ed grimaces as his head begins to painfully ring. His left leg almost buckles under him — shit, is his balance messed up? Quickly, he wrests the pipe from Betterman’s grip, then raises it up as a sort of defense. He has to finish this now. 

Betterman throws another elbow at Ed’s head. Ed weaves backwards quick enough to avoid it — but before he can counterattack, the jerkoff steps forwards and throws a knee to the crotch! The wise axiom “pussies use pussy attacks” enters Ed’s mind a second before he brings down the pipe with both hands, blocking the attack just in time. 

But Betterman does not stop — he plants his foot on the ground and, with his free fist, swings a lethal hook through Ed’s dropped guard. 

The blow strikes Ed squarely on the jaw, and his world inverts. Betterman vanishes before him. His eyes roll back in his head, and all he sees are —

 — stars, reeling and whirling through the sky around him. He’s spinning through the air, free as a bird. He’s falling to his death. He’s relaxing at home. He’s walking through an industrial hellscape. He’s messing around in the Twelfth. He’s in some kind of heaven. He’s burning, burning, every inch of his body aflame with a passion he cannot hope to bear. 

And on the horizon, something taller than hell looks down on him and asks:

How many ways can two become — 

“ — whuh?!”

Ed finds himself somehow still standing on his feet, his battered legs barely managing to hold him upright. Betterman stares back at him, his eyes widened ever-so-slightly. Blood gushes in great red gouts from beneath the bandana on his forehead. His lips move to form words, but all that comes out is a shocked “You…” 

The ringing in Ed’s ear has stopped. He looks down at the pipe, which has dug into his palm, scraping the skin. The force of a powerful impact has forced it there. 

Did he strike Betterman while he was tripping out? 

Forget Betterman — what the fuck was that? 

“...” Betterman’s gaze hardens once more, and he places a hand to his head, an expression of pain on his face. He looks at the blood dripping down his fingers. “...This farce. Is no longer worthwhile. Your partner. Must be first.” 

“No! Leave her alone, you dick!” Ed takes a step forwards, but a column of water grabs him by the collar of his jacket, yanking him backwards. A slimy, wet surface wraps around his neck, and two more tendrils grab each of his wrists, binding them tightly behind his back. He struggles. “You — damn it—!”

“Sit still. If you would. I’ll deal. With you. In a moment.” Betterman turns to the side. Slowly, a puzzled expression crosses his face. “Hmmm…”

Ed watches Betterman’s face closely. Is he struggling to find Cecilia? 

Betterman glances downward briefly, then suddenly gazes up, scanning the tanks above Ed’s head. “How did. You—?!” 

BANG!  

A purple projectile strikes Betterman in his blackened eye, knocking him off balance. From the bullet, a purple upper body springs, reaching an arm around his neck and slamming him face-first to the ground. 

Ed feels the water binding him collapse to the ground. Looking up, he sees Cecilia perched on top of one of the tanks in a firing posture. She lowers her gun and waves to Ed. “Hey! Hope I didn’t take too long.” 

“Got here just in time, lady.” Ed exhales. “Boy, am I glad to see you didn’t get crushed.” 

“I climbed out of there as soon as I could. Figured you’d be able to distract him while I got the shot off. It was hard to find the right angle, but…” She gestures. “It paid off.”

“Boy, did it ever pay off.” Ed smirks, staring down at Betterman as Velvet Underground puts him in an armlock. He fires a flesh mesh that wraps around Betterman’s body, sealing off any shenanigans with his Stand. “To win like this… it makes this whole shitshow worth it.” 

He hefts the pipe, then bashes Betterman on the forehead. The hardened man’s face screws up in an expression of pain; he begins to ramble, “Pro… proprioception… the knowledge of body parts… that exist beyond your vision…”

“Shut up, dickweed!” Ed kicks Betterman in the gut, then looks at Cecilia as she slides down a steel pipe. “How long do you think it’ll be ‘til the Bureau gets here?” 

Cecilia shrugs. “Misti mentioned a White Satin Knight driver who works round-the-clock. I’d assume they’ll send him here, but I have no idea when he’ll arrive. Until then, we’ve got to keep Betterman restrained.”

“Sounds good to me.” Ed kicks Betterman again. Instead of a look of pain, though, the man’s mouth twists into a slight grin. 

“Can you hear me… Host? This is… My part to play… Just as… You said…” 

“What’s he blabbering about?” asks Ed. 

Cecilia’s brow furrows. “He’s not making any sense.”  

“My hunch… Was right… Again.” Betterman coughs, reaching out and pressing his left hand against the barrier. “There can be. No victory. Without ‘sacrifice…’ Burst your banks. Heed my call…”

Ed wipes a hand across his glasses and surveys the man's left hand. It looks normal, but — he counts, shakes his head to clear his vision, then counts again. No, the truth is right there — there are only four fingers on Betterman’s left hand. An open red wound sits where the pinkie should be. 

“The river… Heh.” Betterman’s head flops back, and he chuckles darkly. 

“Wait…” Ed’s eyes widen. “Lady — his Stand is bound to his skin. His finger’s cut off — and the ‘river’ —”

“Oh, no.” Cecilia grabs Ed’s arm, pulling him back from Betterman; her Stand returns to her in a blur, and he crumples to the ground, unsupported. 

Ed casts a glance at Cecilia. “Lady, I think he put his finger in the river! And his Stand comes from his skin, so doesn’t that mean —”

“Not now, Ed! Look!” Cecilia points, and Ed’s gaze turns to follow her. His jaw unconsciously drops open at a terrifying sight.  

The glass windows of the facility, which had a second ago shone out onto the filtration towers, are now rapidly being covered in Even Flow’s possessed water. Great walls of river water slowly rise over the sills — ten, twenty, thirty feet in the air. It almost appears as if the ocean itself has burst its banks. 

Slowly, agonizingly, the glass on the windows begins to crack. 

“My skin. My flesh. My bones… I offer it all for ‘rapture’… Great river. Heed my call…!” 

Betterman rises unnaturally to his feet, his arms dangling by his sides as a column of water pushes him up from behind. He reaches a thumb under his headband and tears it off, revealing a thick, jagged scar etched savagely into his forehead. His hair dangles unkempt across his blood-stained face, and a dark grin splits his stubbly cheeks. 

Slowly, Betterman raises both hands in the air, then thrusts them forwards. “Bury them, Even Flow!”  

The windows shatter under the sudden pressure — and all at once, with an earth-trembling roar, several dozen tons of Stand-possessed water pour into the building. 

Chapter Text

The roar of a torrential wave is one of the most imposing sounds audible by human ears. 

This is not to say it’s one of the loudest sounds, of course. Volcanic eruptions, meteorites, bizarre underwater rumbling — nature produces its fair share of absurdly loud noises. Man-made noises are similarly powerful: jet engines, nuclear bombs, and specialized audio equipment all make a fair claim to the title. But in their quest to be the loudest, these noises all run up against an all-too-common barrier: the inherent limits of human biology.

Above a certain decibel level, extremely powerful noises will simply induce deafness. When eardrums are ruptured and brains are turned to jelly from the mere presence of a sound, it’s impossible to properly describe it as “loud.” To any unfortunate souls who might have witnessed it, the Tunguska event must have been extremely awe-inspiring. But it’s difficult to truly capture the scale of a sound that kills anyone who hears it, or measure the magnitude of a noise that reflexively drives all listeners to cover their bleeding ears. 

Anyone who’s visited Niagara Falls, gone whitewater rafting, or even been to the seaside knows that water makes a primally intimidating noise. Standing under a waterfall is a humbling experience; the crashing current subjugates any other sound. Water doesn’t make one huge, discrete noise, but a continuous roar — a constant, thunderous reminder of its presence. Water is the embodiment of loud.  

This is all to say that, to Betterman’s ears, the cacophony of water in the Ledbetter Municipal Water Treatment Facility is nothing short of melodious. 

After all, Betterman has always been soothed by the sound of water. He recalls standing by the city’s river as a young man, feeling the heady rush of freedom in the air of the Twelfth. He thinks of the lake beside his basic training camp. How he’d close his eyes, focusing on the gentle lapping of the waves to clear his mind of the brutal regimen. 

And he remembers that day — that goddamned day outside Kandahar, when his platoon mate inadvertently stepped on an IED and blasted the entire world open. 

What led up to it is still a haze, even now. It was a routine mission. Heading out looking for whatever mean sons of bitches might dwell in this godforsaken land. A bright day? Maybe. The blasted dirt landscapes always made it seem that way. 

The explosion itself he doesn’t recall, but the pain — well, the pain he remembers all too clearly. Face-down in a ditch, his arm wedged agonizingly beneath him, blood caking his eyes shut, ears churning with static. His entire head throbbing like a single angry nerve ending. The very act of breathing like embers in his lungs. 

By some miracle, a trickle of water comes down through the ditch. Water, somewhere in this dried and godforsaken wasteland. He blindly drinks, drinks like it’s the elixir of life itself, drinks like filthy water in an Afghani ditch will bring him salvation. He drinks to stay conscious until the medics come, after which he slips into a tormented, dreamless fugue. 

The shrapnel is still lodged in his head. He feels it pulsing, the pain ebbing and flowing with each weak beat of his heart. Try as they might, the surgeons couldn’t remove every piece. There’s a chunk lodged in the left side of his brain somewhere, cutting off every sentence he forms. In dark moments, he can’t help but remember that ditch — the pulse of pain, the blood in his eyes, the sound of water trickling down the scarred earth like a lullaby. 

Sometimes he wishes he had been left there, to spill out his life into the sand. 

And still the worst is yet to come. Back home: honorable discharge, piddling benefits, ten-minute psychiatrist appointments every two months, where five minutes are spent reminding Betterman how proud he should be to serve his country. Betterman stops attending after the third. He’s lost his job by then, and his modest house would be gone soon after. He’s back in the city of his youth, now a life of concrete pillows, dumpster diving, and utter isolation.

Then one day, the miserable routine shatters. Panhandling in the Waterfront, Betterman sees smoke rising in the distance. Suddenly, a terrible pounding begins in his head — a worse pain than he’s ever felt before. It feels as if drills are being driven through his eyes, nails through his teeth. He steps to his side, tilting over a rail, and he collapses into the water. 

Betterman awakens far upriver, perched atop a public dock just north of town. He’s tired, cold, wet, hungry, but he feels a new sense within him — like he’s grown an extra limb. His perception flares far outside his body, bleeding into the surrounding river. 

He looks into the water, where an eddy swirls before him. As he silently watches, it stops, then begins to swirl in the opposite direction. Up, he thinks, and a bulge juts out from the water’s surface; down, and a great divot forms in the flow. 

Within two hours of the bridge’s collapse, the state governor declares a state of emergency, and state troopers are sent in to help the survivors of the toxic smoke. Betterman is escorted by agents in hazmat suits to a converted high-school gymnasium, where he receives a hot meal and a fresh set of clothes. He swirls the water in his thermos around with his mind, feeling a strange sense of inspiration. 

Within a week, the area is deemed safe. The smoke from the airborne toxic event has dissipated, and the survivors show no tangible signs of disease or contagion. Betterman is released back onto the street. He walks down the sidewalk, wondering where to go. 

Suddenly, his attention is grabbed by a rack of televisions tuned to YYZ News. He hasn’t watched TV since before the war. The programming on the station is as he remembers — interviews of tight-faced public officials who calmly say we are doing everything we can at the present moment, of government experts who deny responsibility for the strange attack, of epidemiologists who note that all citizens of the city should be vigilant for side effects. He sees the mayor, wearing his jacket and tie over a bare chest as usual, promising everyone in his calming baritone that the officials have the situation under control. 

They cut to the sweaty anchorman, who clears his throat. “W-Well, that about covers it. We at YYZ News will keep you updated on the disaster and, um, the government response. Now onto our next, er, story. You see, the American dream has been, ah, perverted. Ordinary citizens have been maltreated, starved, left to die on the streets… Even a veteran is not safe from the rot that has penetrated the core of this country. And the situation is about to get even worse.”

His gaze shifts slightly from the camera, and he stares straight into Betterman’s eyes.

“Where will you go now, Jeremiah?”

“…”

Betterman opens his eyes as the crashing of water slows to a gurgle. The growing pain in his head has disappeared. The filtration room of the Ledbetter facility is now three-quarters full of his water, and he is secure within an oxygenated bubble. 

A thick arm of water reaches down and slides wetly across his forehead, wiping off the dried blood. He takes a breath. Controlling so much water at once is troublesome. He’s tried it only once before, and he knows it’s within his capabilities. Yet the sheer volume demands focus, and prevents precision.

Reaching out into the water, Betterman searches for the unconscious bodies of the two young Stand users. Instead, though, he encounters a column of space that he can’t seem to move within. He presses his water up against it, but it merely goes around — as if repelled. 

The boy… Damn!

A very brief moment of frustration passes with a breath, and he focuses once more at the task at hand. Although it’s unfortunate, he had a hunch that this might occur. He suspected the boy’s Stand could be fast enough to throw up a guard in time. 

But now he knows their exact position. They cannot hope to hide anymore. 

Betterman feels a cold determination churning within him as he plucks his machete from the water surrounding him. This has advanced beyond a petty personal vendetta. This pair may become a legitimate threat to the Million. He must take them down for the Host. 

But he must not be hasty. Only with patience and caution will he come out the victor. He will wait for the perfect moment, and then he will defeat them handily. 

The water swirls and ripples around Betterman. His boots thunk off the ground as he strides away, seeking his opportunity. 

— — — 

Against all odds, Cecilia Valdez opens her eyes to discover that she isn’t underwater. 

(well, that’s not quite accurate, muses Vicious, and she begrudgingly agrees.) As she slowly turns her head where she lays on the damp metal, she sees one continuous wall of clouded water surrounding her on all sides. The water is murky with Stand-stuff, and vague shadows of pipes dance blurrily within it. 

Cecilia looks straight up and sees open air far above — and beside her stands a ragged-looking Ed. 

Ed notices her glance and gives a half-smile. “Yo, lady. Looks like we’re in a bit of a rough spot.” 

“How did you…?” Cecilia shakes her head. 

“Well, as you can see, Betterman brought down the whole goddamn river on us. Then I managed to guess right.” Ed looks around, regarding the Stand-possessed water surrounding them on all sides. 

Cecilia cocks an eyebrow. “What do you mean, guess?”

“Well, I figured that rejecting the Stand would be the wrong option, ‘cause then the water could just go straight through and flood us. And I couldn’t just create a regular bubble of mesh, ‘cause the oxygen might bubble to the surface. So I made a nice, big wall that reaches all the way up to the ceiling — just in time, too.” 

“Any idea how much water there is?” 

“Feels like my mesh is about, uh, thirty to thirty-five feet high. And there’s water almost up to the top of it. Damn, Betterman’s gone fucking crazy.” Ed shakes his head. “How can he even control all of this?” 

“Well, it’s Stand mechanics.” Cecilia rises to her feet, summoning Velvet Underground’s arm. “If his Stand takes control of water from the inside, it makes sense that the more he spreads it out, the more water he can command. But if it works like my Stand’s possession, he shouldn’t be able to make precise movements with it at all. Not that he’d need to, at this scale.” 

“Yep. He can just… throw stuff at us. Or move around without us noticing.” Ed sighs. “This is such a fuckin’ pain — how are we gonna beat him?” 

“Great question.” Cecilia flips open her makeup mirror and inspects her face. Ugh . Her outfit’s soaked, her hair is a mess, and if this night wasn’t bad enough, her face is going to have horrible breakouts tomorrow. 

Ed puts a hand to his chin and muses. “He’s gotta be bringing air to himself if he’s underwater. Maybe making little air bubbles?” 

“Could we pop them somehow?” asks Cecilia, fruitlessly attempting to brush some of the wetness out of her hair. She rummages around in her bag, looking for her makeup kit. (now is not the time, ma’am!)  

“I could block ‘em off with my Stand, but not unless we know where he is… which I don’t think we do right now.” 

“But he knows exactly where we are.” Cecilia tosses a knowing look at Ed. 

“Goddamnit.” Ed’s face falls. “Yeah, he can probably see us with his Stand, right?” 

“He babbled something about proprioception back there, so that probably means he at least can feel us.” 

“Proprio… what now?” Confusion crosses Ed’s face. 

Once more, Cecilia wonders what school this guy went to. “Proprioception,” she explains. “It’s a sixth sense everyone has. Effectively, it lets you know where your body parts are, even when you can’t see them. So —” She holds her hand out to her left, opening and shutting her palm repeatedly. “— you can touch things and walk even when you can’t see your hands or feet.” 

Ed waves a hand behind his head. “Ooh — gnarly!” 

“Betterman was able to track down both of our apartments — and fast. Even if he could see, that’d be a ridiculous feat. So he must have placed some water on us while we were interrogating Houdin and then felt where we were from there.” 

“Huh.” Ed places a hand to his chin. “Goddamn.” 

“Yep.” Cecilia sighs. “So he knows exactly where we are right now.” 

“Do you think we could… beat him?” 

Cecilia taps her gun. “I still haven’t fired off Velvet Underground yet. If we can locate him, my Stand will punch right through the water and grab onto him.” 

(vicious has been waiting quite a bit, madam. he is “ready to finish the job,” as they say.

You’ll have your turn, she replies.) “The issue with that is finding him. We need to know where he is to fire off Vicious, and to do that…” 

“Yeah?” Ed makes a go on motion. 

“I’ll have to find him first.” Cecilia kneels down to the floor and places her hand against the slick metal surface once more. 

(The ground feels as if it shifts ninety degrees under her, so that she’s clinging onto the floor with her fingertips and toes. It’s an annoying effect, but certainly not the most inconvenient she’s seen.

Welcome back, thingspeaker, says a gruff voice. How might the Department of Municipal Flooring be of assistance to thee at this time?  

Good evening, floor. Continuing my interrupted request from earlier, I would appreciate if you shared with me the location of Betterman, the person outside of this bubble. 

As ourselves requested of thee earlier, thingspeaker: what, precisely, is a betterman? 

A rather tall human being, she thinks. Decently heavy, I imagine, and — 

Ourselves are not aware of what you mean, thingspeaker.  

Cecilia considers her options. Brute force is out of the question. Without knowing where Betterman is, she can’t hope to draw him to her. The other option is playing the object’s game. It’s a risk she’d prefer not to take, but if this particular floor is amenable to her, it’ll prove valuable. 

Floor, she asks, what do you view me as? 

Thingspeaker, ourselves view thee as a pair of fine, fur-lined boots most precious in quality.

That’s it — of course floors would view people as shoes! It’s so obvious she wants to kick herself. 

And floor, she politely continues, kindly share the details of the nearest pair of shoes to me. 

A pair of sneakers, five paces west and three paces south. They were purchased a time ago from a thrift shop downtown. Surprisingly, very few signs of wear — their keeper appears to value them highly.

Floor, might you happen to detect another pair of shoes on the floor? Military boots, perhaps?

It seems today is thine lucky day, thingspeaker! Approximately twenty-three paces east and forty-five paces north, military boots are standing on the ground. Many good conversations ourselves have had with them before. Afghani sand in them, we’ve been told. 

Floor, should I ask you again, would you update me immediately on the position of these boots?

‘Twould be the highest of honors, thingspeaker.  

Thank you kindly, floor.) Cecilia rises to her feet and turns to Ed. “I managed to get his location.” 

Ed nods. “You’re really good at this stuff, lady. What’d you do this time?” 

“I asked the floor — it’s pretty polite. Looks like he’s…” She looks in roughly the opposite direction of Ed. “That way.”

(vicious is polite too! complains Vicious in a snide tone. does he ever get complimented for his hard work? do you really prefer stupid, simple-minded floors over him!? they get stepped on all day!

Stop being a diva, she scolds. You’ll get your praise after we take Betterman down, okay? 

vicious will hold you to that! he snips.) 

“Hell of a Stand, lady.” Ed shakes his head. “Shit, if I could talk to floors…” 

Cecilia smirks. “Hey, your mesh is the only reason we’re not underwater right now. Speaking of, you think you can move this at all? We’ve gotta catch up to Betterman.”

“Uh… Hmmm.” Ed’s face scrunches with concentration. Cecilia looks up and sees the mesh walls ripple slightly, then move forwards, pushing the water in front of  it out of the way. 

“Looks like I got it!” Ed pumps his fist. 

“Nice work.” Cecilia leans down and touches the ground once more. (Twenty-five east, forty-one north, thingspeaker.)  

“Just gimme a direction, and I’ll get after the shitbag.” Ed reaches down and picks up his dented pipe from the ground, hefting it in his free hand. “If he tries any of his bullshit tricks on us, I’ll just whack ‘em out of the way.”

“Awesome. Once we get within firing range, he won’t be able to avoid us anymore.” 

(and vicious will nail a shot with expert precision! as he always has done and will continue to do.)

Cecilia cocks Vicious and steps straight forwards, and Ed follows close behind her once more. 

Carefully, Cecilia navigates her way beneath a water tank (Twenty-two, thirty, now) and between a pair of thick pipes bolted to the ground (Twenty-three, fifteen). They reach a wall (Twenty, four) and manage to carefully navigate around it (Twelve and seven south, thingspeaker).  

“All right…” Cecilia raises her pistol. “Stop here, Ed. This should be a good range.” 

“Aye-aye, lady.” Ed snaps off a mock salute with the pipe, and Cecilia bends down to touch the floor one last time. (Where is he now, floor?

Ah — it appears the boots are moving now, thingspeaker. Eighteen paces east and fifteen-sixteen-seventeen paces south and rapidly increasing.

Oh, shit.) Cecilia turns around. “Ed, he’s caught onto us!” she says urgently, pointing behind them. “Let’s head that way now, and I’ll get a shot off when —”

Something detaches from the network of machinery above Ed and Cecilia’s heads. Ed shouts “Oh, shit!” and dives forwards, tackling Cecilia out of the way just before a bladed fan crashes from the ceiling above. They collapse to the sodden ground in a heap. 

“Ack!” Ed quickly slides off Cecilia and rises to his feet, looking flustered. “Sorry, lady — I didn’t mean — Er — Shit!”

Despite herself, Cecilia feels a grin cross her cheeks. It’s impossible to take this guy seriously. (vicious thinks you’re underestimating him, ma’am, croons her gun. he seems to be a man of great skill, you know.)  

She shakes her head. “Hey, you saved me, dude. It’s really no big deal.” 

“Still, y’know…” Ed moves his hands up and down as if weighing something. “I don’t wanna be, y’know…”

Cecilia touches her hand to the ground. (What’s the situation now, floor?

It would seem as if thou art a mite too late, thingspeaker. The boots are no longer on the ground.

…What? Cecilia feels a pang of dread. What do you mean, they’re not on the ground?

‘Tis as we said a moment ago. The boots were on the ground about twenty paces east and twenty south from thee, yet they vanished in a snap.

Uh-oh. Cecilia’s grip on the ground feels almost tenuous now. Can you feel anything at all outside our bubble, floor? 

Naught but chill water, thingspeaker. We bid thee good fortune. Something truly nefarious must be afoot.)  

Ed notices the troubled look on Cecilia’s face. “What’s the issue?” 

“His boots aren’t on the ground anymore.” Cecilia rubs her chin, consumed by worries. Was Betterman just creating a distraction so he could sneak away unhindered?

“...Are you sure that floor isn’t covering for him, or something?” asks Ed warily. 

(the lad has a point as usual, ma’am, chimes Vicious. how can you trust a dirty metal floor?)  

Cecilia shakes her head emphatically. “No way — no object has ever lied to me. That means he’s out there, swimming somewhere in all this water.”

“Wait.” Ed scratches his chin. “This is good, isn’t it?” 

“Hm?” Cecilia turns to Ed curiously. “What are you talking about?” 

“It means he’s trying to catch us off guard, right? That’s good — really good.” Ed grins, leaning into Cecilia’s ear and whispering. 

“That means we can make him come to us.”  

— — —

One year ago, a veteran with no name and a shattered mind finds himself seated in a concrete basement, surrounded by four bizarre people.

He feels the hard metal chair under him. The air feels stuffy in here, thick with mildew and long-buried tension. A series of spotlights illuminate the room, which has a stepped floor. Maybe this room was an auditorium once, or some kind of presentation space. 

The veteran turns to his right and sees a businessman in a rumpled button-up shirt with close-cropped black hair, half-closed eyes, and a shell-shocked expression. The man turns his head slightly, and the veteran swears he sees a dribble of shadow spilling from the corner of the man’s mouth. 

To the veteran’s left sits a young woman with hair dyed in several brightly-colored hues. She taps away at a chunky computer resting in her lap, her eyes reflecting the glow of the screen. The veteran has always wondered about the appeal of computers. Something about the digital light unsettles him. 

Turning his gaze forwards, the veteran regards two more people sitting across from him — an imposing woman in a black hat and long jacket and a diminutive man with heavily scarred arms. The woman stares back at him impassively, as if he’s an animal in a zoo. The veteran locks eyes with the man and feels a shiver down his spine. 

Between the two strange people sits a tall black device covered in fuzzy surfaces. The tall woman reaches out a hand, presses some invisible switch, and a staticky sound emits from the device. 

Immediately, the room seems to shift around the veteran: the strange black apparatus seems to grow before his very eyes. Although he can’t see the people flanking him, he somehow senses that they’ve turned their gaze to the object as well. As he watches, a metallic form pushes itself out from the device with a series of staticky clicks and pops. It rises to something resembling a standing stance, then gazes at the veteran through an eyeless surface. 

Greetings, says a strange, gentle voice. We are the Host. 

And we hope you will become the first of our Million.  

Betterman opens his eyes once more. This is the second time he’s had an unwanted flash of recollection. Did that blow to his head trigger something? He puts a hand to his temple, but he feels no pain — only a distant twitch of nostalgia. How could he possibly guess where he would end up?

…Regardless. He shakes his head once to dispel the memories. 

Betterman sits perched atop a sequence of interlaced pipes, the surface of the water gently undulating below him. He is certain that he has the upper hand. Even without access to his Stand within the boy’s zone, he has a wealth of tools at his disposal, and he has received a clearer hunch than ever before. He feels the pair approaching him and readies himself for battle. 

Betterman knows exactly how this confrontation will go. He will leap down upon the boy and batter him while distracting the girl. He will give an opening to the girl, and she will attempt to fire her Stand at him from her pistol. He will dodge the shot, neutralize her, and then confront the boy. Since his mesh is presently keeping out Even Flow, his Stand will be disabled. At his level of fatigue, he will be easy pickings. 

All is well. Betterman cracks his knuckles. Before the sun rises, this water will be returned to the river, and this pair of Stand users will be imprisoned at headquarters. Once more, the Million shall triumph. 

For now, he perches above the ground, silently waiting. The opportunity will arrive very soon. All he has to do is seize it. 

— — — 

The attack happens roughly where Cecilia expects it. It’s how it happens that catches her by surprise. 

“The place where he’s most likely to attack is from above,” she’d whispered to Ed. “Coming from the sides would leave him super open.”

Ed nodded. “Right,” he said, “so he jumps down, then we draw him in, right? And then your Stand can give him a fist sandwich.” 

It’s a simple plan, but sure to be an effective one. Unfortunately, Betterman refuses to cooperate. 

Now, Cecilia’s eyes flick up to the latticework of pipes above her head as she trudges across the metal ground. (you’ve got it, ma’am, croons Vicious. get the jump on him, and you both will “fuck him up,” as they say.)  

Ed picks his teeth. “You ever go on a dark ride when you were a kid?” 

“Can’t say I have,” says Cecilia. Above her head is a particularly dense network of pipes. Could Betterman be perched up there, waiting for the right moment to strike? 

“I did once. Went to a county fair with a few friends about a half hour outta the city. This kinda reminds me of that.” Ed looks around. “Pretty dark and noisy in here, and my voice is kinda echoing off all this water… yeah, this is freaky.” 

A hard thonk suddenly echoes through the chamber. Cecilia raises her voice to warn Ed, but he’s already in motion, spinning and raising his pipe just in time to catch Betterman’s machete. 

Before Cecilia can jump in to help him, something bounces off her shoulder. She turns and sees a shard of pipe on the ground. Before her eyes, two more come flying out at her from the water. Ugh, not this crap again! 

As Cecilia does her best to dodge the oncoming attacks, her eyes flicker to Ed and Betterman whenever she gets the chance. Betterman clearly has the advantage; he brutally swings his machete down at Ed, each strike blazingly fast and powerful enough to rend flesh. But Ed deflects every hit just as fiercely, beating back Betterman with his battered pipe. 

Eventually, one of them will break. And if Betterman’s too preoccupied with this little faux-attack… 

Cecilia dodges another barrage of decently-sized junk as Betterman winds up for one final swing. The strike is powerful enough to dent Ed’s pipe, and the force knocks him flat on his back. He grimaces, gripping his taser like a talisman. “Damn…!” 

Betterman looks at Cecilia, and they make eye contact for an instant. Cecilia realizes that he’s stopped the barrage. In a flash, she raises Vicious and presses the trigger. 

BLAM.  

The tampon sails through the air, perfectly bending towards its target — or where its target would be. Betterman does a swift sidestep, and the cotton bullet sails wide right, landing with a harmless splash in the water. 

“Tch.” Betterman shakes his head. “You were. So close. But now. You are open.” 

Before Cecilia can react, a series of metal pipes spring from the water behind her, interlocking tightly in front of her. She slams a hand against them, but they only grow tighter, pulling backwards hard enough to nearly yank her off her feet. 

(ma’am, this wasn’t part of the plan! shouts Vicious fearfully.) 

“My Stand. Has many. Options.” Betterman raises a hand magnanimously. “Such are. The virtues. Of water.” 

“Cecilia!” Ed scrambles to his feet, panic in his eyes. 

Cecilia meets his gaze. She wants to tell him that this is all part of the plan, but this is beyond her expectations. She presses her hands against the pipes, listening to their distant chant. If she can only get through to these bastards in time…

Betterman inclines his head. “One down.”

“Lady!” cries Ed. “Hold on, just give me one second —”

“Don’t worry, Ed.” Cecilia grins. “We’ve got this. Take the prick down, okay?” Slowly, a sense of determination washes over her. Her plan will work. It has to, or else —

“How touching. How sad.” Betterman snaps his fingers. “Goodbye.”

The pipes constrict, and in an instant, Cecilia Valdez is dragged underwater.

— — — 

Splash.

The sound of the water’s surface breaking tolls through Ed’s mind like a death scream. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Without her Stand, how can he hope to beat this bastard? Can he save her before she drowns? Shit, shit, shit. SHIT!  

As Ed turns around, he sees Betterman approaching him as steadily as a zombie. His stony face betrays no hint of doubt, remorse, or pleasure. Ed waves the bent pipe at him. “B-back off, you dickbag! You took out my partner, and now I’ll beat your brains in!” 

Betterman sniffs. “Chivalrous. But ultimately. Harmless.” 

The man cocks his arm back and swings his machete with enough force that Ed feels the gust as he backsteps. Ed raises his shitty pipe once more. Damn, this is gonna be close. 

As Ed tightens his guard, Betterman suddenly swings his machete up, hooking the tip into the bent crook of the pipe. With a flick of the wrist, he jerks it out of Ed’s hand, sending it rattling to the ground.  

“Oh, fuck!” Ed takes two steps back, then pauses just in time. His back is almost against the barrier — one step away from the Stand-possessed water. 

“Nowhere left. To run.” Betterman drops his machete, extending his callused hands towards Ed’s neck. “I don't need. Water. To drown you.” 

For some reason, Ed doesn’t feel panicked. Instead, a curious sense of calm descends over him, and his mind races. Okay. Betterman is within grabbing distance of him. He’s surrendered his Stand’s biggest advantages in range and defense. So what does Ed do here? 

Ed thinks back to how Betterman’s Stand works. By all appearances, Betterman is a normal human who can’t breathe underwater, so he was probably bringing air to himself. Cecilia concluded that Even Flow couldn’t precisely control water at this large of a scale. And because of those two facts, it’s easy to conclude that… 

As Betterman wraps his fingers around Ed’s throat, Ed hefts his taser and realizes exactly what he should do. 

The coldness of his hands catches Ed off guard — then Betterman begins to squeeze, and it fucking hurts. Ed jerks backwards involuntarily, loosening Betterman’s grip on his throat just enough to get a quick hiss of air. As Betterman adjusts, Ed glares at the man, gripping his wrist with his free hand. 

“Hm. Curious,” says Betterman, his face a mask of indifference as he begins to squeeze. “You have. Spirit, but —” His eyes widen suddenly, and he gasps. “What is… This…?”  

Ed raises Electriclarryland and smiles, moving his face towards Betterman’s. Fury blazes over the rim of his sunglasses as he wheezes, “We drown… together.”  

A sense of triumph comes over Ed as he sees Betterman’s face. He watches Betterman trace the path of the Stand’s mesh — watches him realize that it no longer reaches to the outer shell, but instead is wound tightly around the man’s own throat. He sees a flash of scorn — with no barrier, his Stand will be able to smother Ed easily — but it fades as the man realizes that any attempt to use his Stand so imprecisely will drown both of them. 

Finally, he sees the look in Betterman’s eyes — the recognition that Betterman’s hands will give out before the mesh wrapping around his throat. 

Rather than accept defeat, though, Betterman’s face hardens in cold determination. He tilts his head forwards slightly, and — what the fuck!? — drools on his own arm. 

At first, Ed thinks he’s just doing some kind of freaky little stunt, but he suddenly understands its true purpose as the spittle begins to shimmer. Damn it, that’s right — Betterman’s Stand controls water, and it’s bound to his skin! 

The spit slowly collects together and begins rolling down the man’s arm at a quick pace. Ed swiftly realizes that he won’t knock Betterman out before the Stand-spit gets into his mouth. He weighs his options for a quick second, then clicks Electriclarryland’s trigger and wrenches himself out of Betterman’s grip an instant before the spit reaches him. 

“Ghaaa… haaaa…” Betterman exhales, placing his fingers to the red line on his throat as the mesh melts away. “You performed… Admirably. I commend you… But this battle. Is over.” 

Ed stands on one knee, breathing heavily. Shit. Cecilia’s gone, and he lost his best opportunity. He’s out of options. 

“Anything else… To try?” Betterman takes a step towards Ed, massaging his throat carefully. “Or do. You accept… Defeat?” 

Ed flips Betterman off with his free hand and presses Electriclarryland. One final barrier of mesh sweeps around him once more. “Go to hell, you fucking pansy.” 

“Defiant. To the end. Goodbye. Mesh user.” Betterman takes another step forwards, extending a hand. He takes a deep breath, then calls, “Even —”

WHOCK.

A sudden blow to the back of the head cuts Betterman off midsentence and sends him staggering. He turns around in confusion, but another purple fist emerges from the water, catching him dead in the jaw with a crack. He staggers backwards, a dazed look crossing his face. 

Ed can’t quite believe his eyes. “That’s — Cecilia?!”  

From the wall of water emerges a thoroughly waterlogged Cecilia Valdez. A metallic pipe surrounds her nose and mouth and extends far into the air; it falls away as she stares daggers at Betterman, her Stand flaring up at her side. “I’m back, asshole.” 

“You did it!” A wide grin crosses Ed’s cheeks. “You did it, Cecilia! It’s all over for this shitbag!”

“How… Your Stand… !?” rasps Betterman. 

“Well, see, I wasn’t being very subtle with my planning. I knew you could hear us through your water, and I knew you’d be counting on the fact that Velvet Underground was in that tampon.” She takes a step towards Betterman. “So I took my Stand out before I fired it.”

Ed steps next to Cecilia, letting the mesh wrap around her. “You scared me, lady!” he exclaims. “But — how did you breathe in there?” 

“Well, he gave me these pipes.” Cecilia taps her gun against the pipe. “I shaped them into a super-long snorkel with my Stand, and managed to get some air through there.”

“Gh… You…” Betterman’s face screws up as the wall of water behind him moves forwards. He takes a step back. “River… Take me. Away…” 

“Fuck no you don’t!” Ed fires Electriclarryland, and the mesh wraps around Betterman’s wrists and neck, yanking him forwards. “Get him, Cecilia!” 

Betterman grits his teeth, a dark look crossing his face. “You children. Can’t fathom. What you’re —”

“NICO!” shouts Velvet Underground, landing a punch on Betterman’s face, then one on his gut. The Stand slowly gathers speed, landing blow after blow after blow after blow. The mesh yanks him back into place, locking him in its range — and leaving him unable to block any of the punches. 

“NICO, NICO, NICONICONICO — NICORAAAAA!”  

Ed gives one final click of the trigger, and Betterman flies backwards from the force, skidding across the ground. He painfully hisses “Rap… ture…” and his head lolls back, landing against the metal surface with a quiet thonk.  

Ed waits a second, clutching his Stand cautiously, but the man doesn’t move. Betterman lies unconscious, sprawled on the ground. 

“FUCK yes!” Ed whoops and does a suitably badass victory jig. “Take that, you dumbass fucking loser!”

Cecilia shakes her head, looking too exhausted to even crack a smile. “All right. The Bureau should be sending transportation to us soon, hopefully. They’ll definitely be happy to see this.” 

“Don’t have to tell me twice, lady! Man, we might be good at this,” muses Ed. He surveys Betterman’s limp form once more, shaking his head at the sight of a job well done. Damn, what a productive first day on the job. Maybe they'll give him a raise.

“Wait, hold on. Ed, listen.” Cecilia locks eyes with Ed, looking very alarmed. In the water, something is faintly rumbling. 

“Yeah?”

“Now that Betterman’s knocked out, what happens to all this water?”

“…Uh-oh.” Ed gulps. 

With a mighty roar, the walls of water collapse all at once, carrying Ed, Cecilia, and Betterman away on an ebbing tide. 

— — — — —

Name: Even Flow

User: Betterman

— At its most basic level, Even Flow lets Betterman control the rate at which his skin flakes away. When this shed skin dissolves in water, it forms a pink-and-yellow neuron-like structure, the true form of his Stand. Even Flow lets Betterman control water that it’s dissolved in. The density of the Stand heavily affects the precision with which it can control water; when densely focused, it can control water down to a drop, and when spread thin, it can crudely control enormous quantities. 

— Through Even Flow, Betterman can hear soundwaves and vaguely see his surroundings through their ripples on water. He often places small amounts of water on targets to track them, and his extreme expertise with his Stand and strong proprioception allow him to pinpoint the precise distance his Stand is from him. Combined with the vast amount of water he can control and a range of dozens of kilometers, Even Flow makes Betterman a stealthy, potent, and incredibly resilient threat. However, his Stand is rather slow, and the concentration required to maintain his ability becomes an issue when faced with multiple targets. 

— During Betterman’s tour in Afghanistan, he was caught in an explosive blast and suffered a debilitating head injury that left him homeless and barely able to speak. On the day of the Byway Bridge incident, Betterman accidentally plunged into the river — and was reborn anew, discovering his Stand. He took the name “Betterman” to reflect his desire to elevate himself. Whatever fuels his devotion to the Million is unclear, but he has a fanatical belief in “rapture.”

Chapter Text

When the water recedes, Ed Henderson finds himself facedown in a patch of mud. 

The mud has crept up his nose, and now threatens to enter his mouth. He takes a quick assessment of his situation: his Stand is clutched firmly in his hand, his sunglasses are on his face, but his body is stuck firmly in the mud. He wriggles slightly, but the suction holds his arms and legs secure. Shit. He gasps for breath, but all he inhales is mud. Shit!   

Ed flails his arms out with a shluck and braces them against the ground, then pushes. His head and upper body fly out of the mud, and he flops backwards onto the ground with a splat. After spitting out the mud in his mouth and taking a deep breath, he realizes that his sunglasses are not on his face. 

“Goddammit!”  

Ed grits his teeth with frustration, groping blindly along the ground for his sunglasses. Eventually, his hand finds their lens, and he victoriously places them back on his face. Another unpleasant realization now confronts him: his lenses are completely caked in mud. 

Wiping them off is out of the question. Ed’s clothes and hands are too mud-coated to do anything but soil them further. And taking them off… he could do it. Maybe it wouldn’t even be that bad at this time of night. But is it really the only option?

Suddenly, an idea blossoms in Ed’s head. He raises Electriclarryland and presses the nozzle against his face. With a click, a brown mesh sweeps downwards, then out, rapidly peeling the mud from his glasses, face, and clothes. He takes extra care to remove the mud from his shoes. 

With his vision restored, Ed looks down at himself, feeling a swelling sense of pride in his abilities. He dismisses the mesh, then fully rises to his feet and looks around. 

The Ledbetter Municipal Water Treatment facility has been completely soaked. A giant swath of mud, scattered trash, and upturned earth surrounds Ed on all sides, extending from the riverbank up to the facility itself and as far inland as Ed can see. Betterman wasn’t fucking around with water control, Ed realizes. This guy’s ability is something else. 

Ed looks down to the ground and sees a shimmering patch of scales beneath a plastic bottle. He bends down, rummages around in the mud, and plucks a freshly dead fish from the sodden earth. He looks over the fish’s body, feeling the slickness of its scales. Something about it is just plain sad. This dumb little creature was picked up from its home, jerked around by forces beyond its understanding, and drowned without even realizing what had happened to it. Ed can’t help but sympathize. 

Ed trudges down to the riverbank, laying out a mat of mesh before him to protect his shoes. He stops at the edge of the water, cocks his arm back, and hurls the fish into the water where it lands with a meaty sploosh. At least the poor thing got a proper burial. 

“Ugh, nasty…”  

Ed turns his head and sees Cecilia standing knee-deep in the river in a waterlogged blouse, her purse slung around her shoulder. She rinses her jacket in the water in a vain attempt to clear off all the mud. “Lady, are you okay?!” he calls, striding down the riverside. 

Cecilia looks up at him, strands of sodden hair dripping down her grimacing face. “Ah… Hey, Ed. I’m just trying to clean this off.” She looks down, crestfallen.  

“Shit, I’m really, really, really sorry about that, lady.” Ed rubs the back of his head and glances down, feeling sheepish. “I should’ve put my mesh back up there. I could’ve blocked all the water…” 

“Hey, why are you apologizing?” Cecilia gives a half-smirk. “That was all Betterman’s Stand, dude. Not like it was your water.” 

“I guess, but still…” A sudden idea jolts into Ed’s mind. “Hey, can I see that jacket for a second?” 

“Sure.” Cecilia hands the jacket to Ed. He stretches it out and places Electriclarryland beside the collar, then presses the trigger. A translucent mesh sweeps through the jacket, and a thin spray of water emerges from the bottom, splashing against the ground. 

Ed hands the newly dried jacket back to Cecilia. “Here ya go. Shouldn’t be as gross, I think.” 

Cecilia takes the jacket back from Ed and wraps it around her shoulders. A slight smile crosses her lips. “Thank you, Ed. Seriously.”

Ed waves a hand. “No worries at all, lady.” He hikes up his leather jacket around his shoulders. “Believe me, I know how important these puppies can be. By the way, do you have your gun and all that?” 

“Got ‘em right here.” Cecilia slings her purse down from her shoulder and unzips it, revealing the pearl-encrusted pistol nestled neatly inside. 

“Fuck yeah. And your bosses sent someone over to pick us up?”

“I’m pretty sure. Now, we have to find Betterman.”

“...Ah. Shit.” Ed grimaces, stroking his chin. “He’s gotta be somewhere around here, right?” 

“Let’s look around. I’ll check around the water, and you can look up there.” 

Ed nods. “Sounds good to me, lady.” They step back out onto shore, fanning out to inspect the muddy riverbank. 

Ed strides up the steep incline, stepping towards the austere concrete porch at the rear of the facility. After awkwardly clambering over the metal railing surrounding the porch, he glances around, attempting to identify anything potentially Betterman-adjacent. Scattered detritus covers the ground, including a fridge door, a coagulated mass of packing peanuts, and a large plastic eyeball. A metal bench is welded into the wall, and an emergency exit illuminated with rusted red paint leads back into the large room. 

Looking at the nearest corner, Ed spies a lump wedged awkwardly against the railing. If he squints, he can almost make out a metal pattern and what looks like several interwoven ropes. He steps towards the shape, then prods it with his foot and flips it over. On its back, the mass is clearly an unconscious Betterman, eyes closed and mouth still set in a neutral expression. 

He looks over his shoulder and shouts, “Hey, lady! Got Betterman over here!” 

“Got it!” calls Cecilia. As she walks in Ed’s direction, he looks over the man’s limp body. Yep, it doesn’t look like he’s in any danger of waking up soon… uh…

Uh-oh. 

Feeling a sudden chill, Ed bends his knees and reaches down towards his enemy. A vision flashes through his mind — a memory of a black-clad figure in an alleyway, crouched over a man with a bloodied head. Ed closes his eyes as he rests his hand on Betterman’s throat, feeling the eyes on that smiling mask staring into him, leaving him stock-still. 

Please , he thinks. Please don’t tell me I’m a killer, too.  

Betterman’s skin is lukewarm and slick with water. Ed moves his hand over the man’s neck, trying to find that big artery, the one with the pulse. He reaches around to the side, eyes scrunched shut, and finds his fingers greeted by a steady pulse. 

Ed stands up once more. He leans back against the railing, rubbing his eyes and expelling a breath he’s been unconsciously holding. The familiar beat of Cecilia’s boots greets his ears, and he turns as she approaches. “Looks like the jerk’s alive. Thankfully.” 

“I mean, yeah, my Stand’s not that strong,” says Cecilia. “We gotta take him to the Bureau.” 

“Ahhhh. That shouldn’t be too hard, I guess…” Ed fires Electriclarryland, and a pinkish mesh cleanly surrounds Betterman, cinching around him like a candy wrapper. Ed leaps the fence, grabbing the mesh and tugging on the man’s body. He winces at the burden — how much military training did this guy do? — but manages to yank Betterman under the railing and drag him along the muddy ground. 

Cecilia steps up to Ed’s side and they walk forward together, trailing through the haze of the early morning. They drag Betterman past drainage pools, between humongous pipes, and around unkempt hedges. Suddenly, they turn a corner, and the whole front of the facility comes into view. Dew soaks Ed’s shoes as he steps from the grass onto the curb, hoisting Betterman up behind him like a sack filled with bricks. 

Ed plunks down heavily on the side of the curb and lets out a deep sigh. Cecilia sits down next to him, sweeping her hair over her eye once more and sitting silently. The night is quiet save for the distant chirping of crickets and the muted hum of the city’s thrumming organs. 

A thought crosses Ed’s mind. “Say.” He points his finger around the cul-de-sac. “Do you remember that car we took to get here? Can you, uh, see it?” 

Cecilia smirks. “Wait. So you not only stole a car—”

“Borrowed!” objects Ed. 

“—but it also got wrecked during the Stand fight?” Cecilia cranes her neck. “Geez, I can’t even tell where it went.” 

“Look, just —” Ed runs his hands through his hair, lowering his voice. “Okay, you gotta admit, we wouldn’t have been able to get here without the fucking car, right? So, like — could you not mention this to Misti or your bosses or whatever?”

“Ed, relax.” Cecilia reaches into her purse and rummages around. “Look, it’s been a long night, but this has been a crazy productive day, right? We identified two Stand users, defeated one of the most powerful members of the Million, and we did it all with only a few scrapes and bruises.”

“Yeah,” Ed says. “Yeah, we did pretty good, didn’t we?” 

“Exactly. So what’s a busted car between friends, yeah?” She pulls two lollipops out of her purse and proffers one towards Ed. “How about a toast to a great first day?”

Ed hesitates for an instant, wondering as to the implications here. Does she have ulterior motives? Is she going to try and use her Stand on the lollipop to get dirt on him? Or will she think he’s weird for taking it so eagerly?

His sweet tooth wins out over his suspicions, and he plucks the lollipop from her hand a second later. Cellophane wrappers crinkle together merrily as he taps the candy against Cecilia’s. 

“Cheers,” says Cecilia, her eyes sparkling brightly behind her waterlogged bangs. 

“Cheers,” responds Ed, smiling as he carefully unwraps the lollipop. His eyes widen slightly behind his glasses as the taste hits his tongue — artificial cherry, the absolute best flavor. The perfect way to celebrate this remarkable occasion. 

As he savors the candy slowly melting on his tongue, he stares up into the night sky. His cuts and bruises don’t emit individual pains so much as a sort of collective throb, a passive humming of hurt that echoes throughout all the tissues of his body. It doesn’t seem like he’s taken any serious internal damage, and he’s definitely not in danger of bleeding out, but the injuries he’s accumulated throughout the night still pulse through him. 

Despite the pain, though, he feels surprisingly refreshed. Some combination of cool night air, residual adrenaline, and the cherry-red taste of victory energizes him, making him feel almost euphoric. He glances at Cecilia, her chin resting against her palm as she swirls her lollipop stick between her teeth. Her hair is matted and her clothes are still wet, but her gaze is resolute. 

Ed Henderson has never been the type of person to make friends. But maybe, he thinks, that’s beginning to change. 

— — —

A few minutes later, the distant screech of tires against asphalt rings out through the night. A light appears on the faraway road, resolving into a pair of headlights. A gaudily painted car turns down the road to the facility at blazing speeds. It neatly swerves around a deposited piece of metal junk, hangs a sharp right turn, then drifts into a sudden, shrieking halt about five steps in front of Ed. 

The engine’s roar swiftly trails off to a dull purr. The driver’s side door opens, and a tall, thick-set man with an unlit cigarette in his mouth steps out onto the wet asphalt. His face is dark and well-worn with age; he sports a black handlebar mustache shot through with streaks of gray, a yellow-and-black baseball cap with a blocky 91 on the front, and a pair of black overalls over a yellow jumpsuit with ad-coated sleeves. Loose greyish-black locks of hair coil from the brim of his hat and cascade down to his shoulders.

The driver pulls a matchbook from his pocket and strikes one aflame. He holds it up to the end of his cigarette, then takes a deep drag, exhaling a smoke ring into the air. Finally, he touches his fingers to the brim of his cap and extends a hand. “Pleasure to meetcha both,” he says in a twangy accent. 

Ed jumps to his feet and shakes the man’s hand as Cecilia stands up beside him. “You’re the driver that the Bureau sent?” she asks. 

“That I am.” The driver grins. “Name’s Jerry Jarvis, and I’m a whadayacallit. A Big White Knight or whatever the term was.” He smacks the hood of his car affectionately. “Means I drive Cap’n Pierce over here, and the good folks at the Bureau pay my bills. You’re lucky my service is two-four-seven three-six-five, as it seems I’ll be yer driver this lovely evening.” He glances back at the dashboard. “Or, ah, morning now, I wager.”

“Cool beans, dude,” says Ed, nodding. “I’m Ed, and this is Cecilia.”

“We really do appreciate the quick response,” says Cecilia. “Like I said, we’re both contractors working under Misti Mountainhop, and we’ve managed to defeat one of the Million’s higher-ups.”

Jerry glances at Betterman, who remains slumped on the ground. “So I’m drivin’ you two to wherever you’re sleepin’ tonight and takin’ our pal here into custody? Can do. What’s the intel on his Stand ability?” 

Ed nudges Betterman with his foot. “It’s named Even Flow. He sheds some shit from his skin that can control water at a super long range. Since it’s part of his skin, it’s not getting through this mesh, but he can be pretty fucking scary.” 

Jerry grimaces. “Watch the cussin’, kid… But hell, a water-based Stand, and you fought him in a water facility on a rainy night? Hoo-wee.” He whistles, blowing a clean ring of smoke into the air. “Impressed you managed to take the bastard down.”

“It wasn’t easy. I couldn’t have taken him out on my own,” says Cecilia. 

Ed finger-guns at Jerry. “Teamwork makes the dream work.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Jerry walks to the back of the car and pops the trunk, then gestures to Ed. “You two pick ‘im up, and we can stow ‘im away for now. It’ll be a tad spooky for him if he wakes up, but I doubt he’ll be able to get any water in this here compartment. After you kids tuck in for the night, I’ll drop him off at the containment facility, and then I’ll head home to resume my slumber. Sound like a plan?” 

“Uh, we have to grab him?” Cecilia asks. 

“I swung by the laundromat just last night, and this is my nicest pair of overalls. Sorry, but I ain’t stainin’ my hands on that muddy sumbitch.” Jerry takes another drag on his cigarette, leaning against the car complacently. “You kids take your time, now.” 

Ed exchanges a glance with Cecilia, who rolls her eyes. “Whatever. I’ll give these clothes an extra spin cycle. I’ll take the legs, you take the head?” 

“Sounds like a plan.” Ed steps over and grabs the mesh around Betterman’s shoulders, hoisting the man up in sync with Cecilia. Ed’s fingers burn as he walks backward, maneuvering down from the sidewalk and around the car. Finally, he and Cecilia toss the man unceremoniously into the trunk. 

Ed stares down at Betterman for a second, looking at the man’s closed eyes and slack face. He hates to admit it, but this guy was strong. Again and again, he came so close to victory. But now Ed is the one standing, and Betterman is folded up unconscious in the back of a car.

Silently, Ed closes the trunk, and Jerry claps him on the shoulder. “Mighty excellent work, folks. Let’s get on our way now.” He drops his cigarette, grinds it under his heel lackadaisically, and pops open the driver’s side door. 

Cecilia grins at Ed as she claps the dirt off her hands. Ed raises his eyebrows in return before stepping around to the right side of the car and slipping into his seat. 

The car is cozy on the inside; Ed marvels at the heated leather seats. As Cecilia buckles her seatbelt, Jerry turns up the radio, and classic rock wafts through the car. “Cranked up the heatin’ in the backseat for you kids,” he says in his pleasant drawl. “Figured it’d help with the cold and wet and all. Take some of this for yer wounds, while you’re at it.” He plucks a spray bottle filled with shimmering orange liquid out of a cupholder, then tosses it into the backseat. 

“What’s this?” asks Ed, holding the bottle up in the air. The liquid looks like some sort of ancient amber that traps bugs, or maybe a new brand of Fanta. 

“That’s called ‘sun in a bottle,’” says Cecilia. “They fill up bottles of it back at the Watchtower. Every White Satin Knight gets a supply, provided by the administrators.” 

Jerry nods. “It’s great stuff. Seems like you two got a bit banged up, an’ that’s exactly what it’s here for.” 

“How do you use it?” asks Ed. 

“Spray it on yer cuts, bruises, abrasions, amputated limbs, whatever yer malfunction may be. Like so.” Jerry mimes pressing the trigger of a spray bottle. “Wablammo! It fixes ‘em right up. Tell me when you kids are healed, and we can jet outta here.”

Ed looks in the rearview mirror, eyes landing on the cut from Betterman’s machete. It’s still oozing on his cheek, even through a thin crust of dried dirt. He sprays a bit of the amber liquid on the wound, and his eyes widen as it knits itself up, dirt crumbling away and skin smoothing before his eyes. Damn, this stuff is no joke. 

Next, Ed sprays a bit on his arms, hands, and injured legs. Finally, he lifts up his shirt slightly, spraying a scrape on his chest. He marvels at the way the pain instantly vanishes with the wounds — the spray doesn’t just heal him, but makes him feel a teensy bit more energized. “It really is the sun in a bottle…” he mutters. 

“Good stuff, yeah?” says Jerry. 

Ed passes the bottle to Cecilia, who quickly sprays her own wounds. She tosses the bottle into the front seat; Jerry catches it one-handed, then places it back into the cupholder. 

“All righty, folks. I believe Misti told me where both of you are stayin’, so I’ll be able to navigate there. Better buckle up, cause I drive fast.” Jerry grabs the gearshift and jerks it back three clicks, causing the engine’s rumble to jump slightly in intensity. 

“Really? Wouldn’t have thought—” Ed’s voice is cut off as the car abruptly accelerates, swerving to the side hard enough to send him crashing against Cecilia. 

“Don’t underestimate my ride, kiddo!” Jerry flashes a shit-eating grin in the rearview mirror. “I used to race stock cars back in the day. Ol’ Cap’n Pierce goes from zero to sixty in four point two seconds!” 

“S-Sorry…” mutters Ed, sheepishly pushing himself off Cecilia and buckling his seatbelt. Cecilia smirks at him, her knuckles white as she grips onto the car door for dear life. 

“So, what do ya kids do for a livin’? Other than Bureau work, I mean,” Jerry asks as he makes another swift turn, tearing down the highway. 

With a quick gulp, Cecilia leans forwards. “Uh, I’m a sophomore at Gillespie College, in Center City.” 

“Ahhh, yer a college kid, huh? I’ve heard that’s a pretty good school.” Jerry nods approvingly. “And what’re you studying?” 

“Well, I haven’t committed yet, but maybe… hmm, history?” Cecilia shrugs. “There’s some really cool resources on local history there. There’s so much in this city that people don’t even know about.”

“I hear ya! Hell, my family has deep roots in this here city. My great-grandpappy used to be the mayor around here, as a matter a’ fact. One of the best damn mayors this city’s ever seen, I’ll tell ya that much!” Jerry hooks a sharp turn that presses Ed into the side of the car. 

“Wait. That Jerry Jarvis?” says Cecilia. “Didn’t they name City Hall after him? But then that would make you…”

“Jerry Jarvis the Fourth, technically, but I’m not too keen on the whole ‘fourth’ thing, ya see. My grandaddy was Junior, and my pops was Trey. Me? I’m just Jerry. How about you, kid?” 

“Oh, uhhh…” Ed briefly deliberates. “Nothing too exciting, honestly. I’ve just been doing a bunch of odd jobs. I work as a delivery boy for this Chinese restaurant, and sometimes I take shifts as a receptionist at this sick game store. I even carpooled a bridge club around for a few months. That was a weird time.”

“Oh, really?” Jerry perks up a bit, eyes focused on the rearview mirror. “A fellow man of the road, I see! You also got some experience navigatin’ these streets, huh?” 

“Uh, that’s a red—” Ed cringes. “Yeah, I guess I kinda do? It’s not as exciting as your driving, though.” 

“Well, there are all sorts of drivin’ in this world. But you can make regular drivin’ excitin’ if you put yer mind to it. Whoops — hold on…”

Jerry depresses the brakes, and the car slides to a smooth halt in front of an old man standing in the street. He looks up at the car, then gives a thumbs-up and a tired grin as he hobbles across the road. Jerry waves back at the man and looks knowingly into the rearview mirror.  

“What? I see the looks on yer faces. ‘Ol’ Jerry’s gone off his rocker! He’s blowin’ red lights and goin’ over the speed limit — what’s next, killing pedestrians?!’” He twirls his finger by his temple and crosses his eyes. Then his expression hardens. “But see, what you young’ns don’t understand yet is that driving, like life, is all about negotiatin’.” 

The old man crosses the street, and Jerry presses the gas, letting the sentence hang for a second. 

“You negotiate curves,” he says. “You negotiate with other drivers, you negotiate with other pedestrians, and you negotiate with yourself. Do I look in my rearview now? Do I turn here, or am I gettin’ off at the next exit? Do I drive into town durin’ rush hour when I’m already late, or do I wait a half hour for the traffic to clear out? MLB or Nascar? Cook, eat out, or order delivery? It’s all negotiations — laws, and negotiations. Order born from chaos, ‘n all.”

The car brakes sharply at a red light. Jerry plucks a bottle of water out of the cupholder and takes a deep swig.

“And furthermore,” he continues, “you’re makin’ negotiations with luck. ‘Please don’t let me get T-boned by some drunk-ass bastard drivin’ a souped-up pickup,’ yeah? Government, business, religion — it’s negotiatin’ all the way down. You might think I’m reckless — and I can’t blame ya for it! — but every second I’m aware of the situation around me. I know what negotiations I’m willin’ to make.” 

Jerry gazes into the rearview mirror, looking Ed dead in the eyes. “You kids might do well to consider yer own negotiations.”

As Jerry makes a sharp right turn, Ed sits slumped in his seat, slightly dazed by the philosophical barrage. Before he can even begin to muster a response, the car screeches to a halt. 

“If my records are correct, miss, I believe this is yer apartment block,” says Jerry. “I expect Miss Mountainhop’ll be around to fetch you in the morning.” 

“Uh… awesome!” Cecilia hikes her purse up onto her shoulder. “Thank you, Mr. Jarvis.” 

“Please — that was my great-grandpappy. Call me Jerry!” Jerry tips his hat slightly. 

Cecilia reaches into her purse and pulls out a crumpled receipt and a pen. She unfolds the receipt on her leg, scribbles something on the back of it, and drops it in Ed’s lap. 

Ed picks the paper up and looks at it quizzically. “Huh?” 

“My number,” says Cecilia. “Calling you on Misti’s Stand is kind of a pain, so this should work better, right?” 

“Oh!” Ed’s eyebrows rise in astonishment. “That’s awesome, lady! Uh, when should I call you?” 

“Anytime.” Cecilia pops open her door. “Tonight was… well, it wasn’t fun, but we sure got stuff done. We’re probably going to get assigned a new mission by Misti soon. But before then, I’m, uh, open the rest of this weekend if you wanna hang out.”

“Sure thing!” says Ed. “I’ll give you a call sometime tomorrow?”

“Sounds good.” Cecilia steps outside, then turns back. “See you around, Ed.”

Ed snaps off a mock salute. “Catch ya later, lady!”

The door shuts, and Jerry gives Ed a look in the rearview mirror. “Seems like quite the respectable young lady.”

Ed leans back against his seat and exhaling. “Yeah, she’s real nice.” 

“Heard some mighty good things about her in the Bureau. Quite the Stand power — seems she’s goin’ places.” Jerry accelerates down the street once more. “When did you two kids start workin’ together?” 

“I just got assigned to work with her today,” replies Ed. “This is my first day on the job, actually.” 

“Really, now?” Jerry’s hooded eyelids shoot up and he whistles. “You bagged that high-level of a Millioneer on yer first day? At yer age? Hell of a performance, kiddo.” 

“I kinda got lucky,” says Ed.” My Stand was just the right kind to keep his out.” 

“Still, though. Definitely wouldn’t’ve been able to take one of ‘em bastards down on my first day. Cap’n Pierce and I would give it a damn good try, though.” Jerry pats the dashboard affectionately. 

“That’s your car’s name?” asks Ed. 

“Darn right it is! And a darn good one too, I’d say. I used to race stock cars back home, and Cap’n Pierce was the finest one I ever had. Made some refurbishments to cozy ‘im up a little, make him road-safe, but the ol’ codger still has that racin’ spirit.” Jerry chuckles, slapping the dashboard. “Fits me damn well, I’ll say.” 

“Pretty sick ride, man.” Ed looks out the window, contemplating what Cecilia might be able to learn from the car. What kind of stuff has this old bucket of bolts been through? If it’s like Cecilia’s gun, it might even have a mind of its own. A talking car sounds super sick. 

Ed notices that the car is continuing along the freeway, which now arcs into the air in a large concrete band. The elevated view gives a vantage point of Center City and the Financial District. At this time of night, the great electrical grids of the city are powered off. The only light is the moon, peeking through the clouds and illuminating the glass panels like facets of black diamonds. 

A twinge of alarm suddenly rings in Ed’s mind, and he turns back towards Jerry. “Uh, shouldn’t you have turned a bit ago?” he asks. “My apartment building’s in the Twelfth, but we’re heading west through Center City.” 

“Oh, you’re not goin’ home tonight, kiddo.” Jerry rubs a finger across his mustache guiltily. “You’re stayin’ the night at the Watchtower. Admin’s orders.” 

“What?” Ed’s eyes bug out. “You guys can’t fucking put me in jail! I just beat an enemy Stand user! I’ve done nothing wrong! This is against the goddamn law!” He reaches for the door handle, scenes from the day playing out in his mind. Did he make too much trouble when chasing Houdin? Did beating up Paradizo get him in trouble? Was there something wrong with giving that old lady her money back? 

Or maybe… just maybe…

I’m taking you into custody. Government orders.  

As blind panic sets into Ed’s mind, Jerry raises a hand. “Hold your damn horses, kiddo! And would it hurt you to watch your mouth just a tad? Look, buddy, you’re not spendin’ the night in a cell. The Watchtower is just the fancy name for Bureau headquarters, and they have dedicated beds there for your situation.” 

“What situation?” asks Ed warily. 

“The chief administrator wants to speak with ya.” 

“The chief administrator? You mean — like — the big dude in charge?” Ed’s voice wavers. He pictures what a chief administrator looks like in his head. Tall, dark-haired, sharply receding hairline. Add on an impenetrable suit of armor, and…

“Yessirree!” says Jerry. “The chief administrator of the Federal Bureau of Containment is mighty keen on gettin’ to know ya. Wants to give you a personal orientation briefing. That doesn’t happen often, kid.” 

“What the hell does a guy like that want with me?” Ed leans his head against the side of the car. “Is he gonna punish me or something?” 

Jerry shrugs. “I doubt that. Only talked to him once or twice, but he’s a real kind feller from what I’ve seen and heard. The other two administrators are a bit…” He rubs his stubbly chin. “Odd, let’s say — which you did not hear from ol’ Jerry. But so long’s you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, he’ll like ya just fine.” 

“I hope so.” A kind fellow… Maybe not that guy in the alleyway, then? Ed allows himself to relax slightly, the tension deflating in his chest. “I just don’t want a guy who’s that important thinking I’m some kind of jackass.”

“Well, remember, kid: it’s all about negotiations. Ya gotta negotiate with yourself, too.” Jerry’s voice slips into a conspiratorial whisper. “Just between you and me, kid, my Stand ain’t all that. It don’t let me blow people up or run at lightspeed or walk on water. None of that mumbo-jumbo. But I use my ability the best I can, and I ended up mighty satisfied. Know how?” 

“Negotiating?” guesses Ed. 

The corner of Jerry’s lip quirks up. “You’re gettin’ it now, kiddo! I’m not fixin’ to think I’m total hot shit, but I’m also not cornerin’ myself as the weakest Stand user. I negotiated with my bosses to get where I am, and they gave me a position doin’ my favorite thing in the world. And when I get into a Stand battle — well, I’m negotiatin’ with my enemy to mess ‘em up real bad.” 

“Negotiations, huh.” Ed places a hand to his chin. “If that’s all there is to it…”

“You got the spirit, kid!” Jerry thumps the steering wheel in celebration. “Think about that when you’re talkin’ to that admin, yeah? If you just negotiate, everythin’ will turn out peachy. Hell, look at this — we’re comin’ up on the Watchtower right now.” 

Ed looks out his window. His eyebrows raise in recognition at the capitalist cathedral of steel and glass rising from a vast parking lot. 

On the side of the wall is a huge sign, gold lettering spelling out: 

BIRDLAND SUPERMALL 

“You guys work out of the mall?” says Ed.

“Pretty impressive, yeah?” says Jerry. “Wait ‘til you see it on the inside.” 

Jerry throws on a turn signal and swiftly veers off the highway. At this time of night, the lot looks almost like a deserted kingdom, black expanses reaching far and wide beneath a soft sodium glow. The car blazes across the level terrain, eventually pulling up to a metal grate built into the side of the mall. Jerry presses a button on his dashboard, and the grate clatters upwards, revealing a concrete tunnel that slopes downwards into the ground. 

“There’s even a secret entrance? Holy shit!” exclaims Ed. 

“Sure, in a manner of speakin’,” says Jerry, driving cautiously through the tunnel. “The federal government, specifically the Bureau, put a hefty amount of fundin’ here. It’s safe to say that it wouldn’t’ve been built at all without their help. So, we got our headquarters built, and our own little parking garage. Whole bunch of back entrances, too, should the need arise. Ain’t that just peachy?”

Ed nods. “This is super dope, man.” 

Jerry drives the car into a modestly sized underground garage lit by sterile orange lights. Empty spots line the walls, and an elevator is set into the back wall. Jerry pulls up in front of the elevator door and puts the car into park, then opens the driver’s side door and steps out. 

“Well, this is yer stop, kiddo.” Jerry reaches back and extends a hand. “Take the elevator up — there’s only one other floor — and follow the directions to the overnight rooms. I look forward to workin’ with ya in the future, so stay outta trouble, y’hear?” 

“Thanks, man.” Ed shakes Jerry’s hand. “Especially for getting up so early to give us a ride! Plus, you’re a way better driver than I thought.” 

Jerry frowns slightly. “Appreciate that, I guess… Well, have a nice night, kiddo. And let that chief admin know I could use a raise, eh? Well, don’t actually do that, but…”

“I’ll put in a good word if I can.” Ed claps the back of the leather seat as he opens the door. “See ya around, Jerry.” 

Ed steps out of the car and presses the button next to the elevator. As Jerry’s car roars back up the tunnel, the elevator doors open, and he steps into the circular elevator. There are two buttons on a panel next to the door, labeled G and W. He assumes he’s on G now — G for ground, maybe garage? — so he decides to press W. The elevator doors close behind him, and the floor shoots up fast enough to make his knees buckle slightly. 

Within thirty seconds, the elevator reaches the top. Ed steps out into a drab beige hallway lit by dull yellow lights. Across from the elevator is a black sign covered in various directions. Ed notes the one labeled Overnight Quarters, followed by an icon of a bed and an arrow pointing right. He dutifully follows the arrow, walking past closed doors and dimmed hallways whose lights clack on around him. Finally, he sees a hallway with a bed sign pointing to it. 

Ed enters the hallway and opens the first door on his left. The living quarters pass for a rather sparse motel room with a dresser, an analog clock on the wall, an open doorway to a bathroom, and a clinically comfortable bed. Most importantly of all, the pillows look damn soft. 

Slowly, the fatigue of the day enters Ed’s body. Running from the killer, fighting Paradizo, walking with Cecilia, chasing Houdin, and Betterman… Goddamn, he’s so fucking tired. He barely has the time to kick off his shoes before falling face-first onto the bed. Within a few seconds of touching the pillow, he drifts off to sleep, the events of the day washing off him like sidewalk chalk in the rain. 

— — —

The first rays of sunrise grace the roof of the Ledbetter Municipal Water Treatment Facility. The mud surrounding the building has begun to dry, hardening into half-solid dirt shot through with diverse varieties of trash. A few birds alight upon the ground, picking through the grass for worms as the river rumbles contentedly beyond them. The scars of the fight seem peaceful in the morning light. 

Suddenly, a motorcycle leaps over the gate, tearing across the grounds. The birds scatter as the motorcycle roars up to the back of the facility, then drifts to a halt next to the shattered windows. A skinny young man with a jean jacket and a scruffy beard clings to the helmeted driver; when they stop, he hops off the back of the bike, taking a few steps onto the ground. “Damn,” he says. “What the hell happened here?” 

The driver leans the bike against the wall of the facility and takes off her helmet. Her hair, dyed varying shades of red, blue, and green, cascades around her shoulders, and she wears a wireless earpiece in her left ear. She surveys the scene impassively, regarding first the drag marks in the dried mud, then the trash surrounding the ground, and finally the tall, broken windows. “Hm.” 

The man turns towards the woman. “Jeez. You think Betterman got jumped?” 

In lieu of a response, the woman steps towards the back door of the facility and lifts up her left wrist. A complex network of wires and transistors spills forth from her shoulder, cascading down her arm and forming a metal keypad on her wrist. A blue holographic screen buzzes to life above her arm. She taps at the keyboard with several thocks, the screen shifting in front of her until it reaches a page with Betterman at the top. 

The woman presses a button on her wrist. “Time: five twenty-three AM. Date: June nineteenth, two thousand and ten,” she says in a clipped tone. “Current objective: Welfare check on Betterman, administered by Liaison Reggatta and Trashman Telegram. Location: Betterman’s headquarters, the Ledbetter Municipal Facility. Upon reasonable suspicion that Betterman was involved in an unreported Stand incident last night, Trashman Telegram and I have been dispatched to get a sense of the situation.” 

Reggatta holds open the back door and motions Telegram towards her. He hurries through the entryway, stopping and looking around as he sees the waterlogged interior of the facility filled with broken pipes and shattered glass. 

“Whoa,” Telegram says. “Okay, shit definitely went down here.” 

“Upon sight of the facility, prevalence of mud and displacement of trash indicates use of Betterman’s Even Flow on a mass scale. The obvious assumption is that his Stand was used on the huge amounts of water within the facility,” continues Reggatta, stepping calmly around Telegram. “But the sheer quantity of water at hand and the pattern of damage in the interior of the facility both lead to a curious conclusion: the first damage dealt to the windows was by water bursting in from the outside. Thus, it can be concluded that Betterman was forced to use his Stand on the nearby river, and/or the facility’s drainage pools. This mass amount of water then drained out of the facility after the battle.” 

She turns her cold blue eyes on her partner. “Telegram will now commence initial analysis.”

Telegram gulps. “R-Right. Uh…” He closes his eyes, and the air around him begins to warp with a sudden influx of heat. Three circular lanterns slowly phase into existence around him, crackling with yellow energy inside as they slowly revolve. Telegram points forwards, and the three lanterns move, casting a strong amber light onto the various metal surfaces around them.

Reggatta gestures towards Telegram. “Continue.”

“She’s in Parties is picking up some pretty strong residuals.” Telegram puts a hand to his chin, his eyes remaining closed. “Looks like Betterman had his Stand all over this place. I’ll have to fine-tune my focus some more.” 

As Reggatta watches, the light cast by the ghost lanterns begins to warp and twist, taking on shape, then form. Eventually, the light coalesces into smoldering outlines of three figures. One figure is tall and broad, one carries a handbag, and one wears a jacket. 

“Impressive,” says Reggatta, a note of pride creeping into her voice as she taps another of the buttons on her arm. “Please interpret these results, Telegram.”

“Hmm…” Telegram’s eyebrows shoot up slightly. “So, three Stand users were fighting here. I’d bet Betterman’s the biggest figure. The residuals covering him match one-to-one with the stains all over the facility, which makes sense with his ability. These other two are more curious, though. The second has particularly strong concentrations in that weapon they wield, but it’s not the aura of a bound Stand user.”

“And the third?” asks Reggatta, feverishly thocking away at her keyboard.

“The third… this is very interesting,” says Telegram. “Very strong aura within that weapon they’re holding. Pretty similar to Even Flow. I’d be inclined to think it’s something like a bound Stand, as of now. But…”

Reggatta pauses typing. “But?”

“…I don’t know how to put it, but the aura of this Stand just feels… odd. I dunno. It’s not something I’ve seen before.” Telegram scratches the back of his head.

“Noted. Do you have a guess on their abilities?” asks Reggatta. 

“Maybe. Well…” Telegram cocks his head, and the ghost lanterns revolve slightly. The scene shifts before them: the figure with the bag vanishes, and the two remaining figures are locked in a grapple. Telegram steps into the circle, inspecting the scene up-close. A faint band of aura extends from the end of the other Stand user’s weapon, winding around Betterman’s neck. 

“So this isn’t a projectile weapon,” muses Telegram. “I’d guess it fires some kinda supernatural string or wire. And…” 

Telegram waves a hand, and the scene shifts once more to illustrate a beatdown. The weapon user’s wire extends around Betterman as a humanoid Stand batters the man, sending him backwards. 

“Yep.” Telegram nods. “Classic power-type, looks like. I think we can pretty decisively say here that Betterman has been captured.” 

Reggatta adds some final touches to her keypad before waving her hand, dismissing the holographic blue screen. She places a hand to her ear. “Liason paging headquarters. Betterman’s capture has been confirmed by Telegram. Repeat, Betterman’s capture confirmed.” 

The intercom crackles. “Copy, Reggatta. Trashman Betterman registered out of action. Sitrep?”  

“Telegram reports two opponents, very likely Bureau. Traces of a power-type Stand repeatedly used. The other is either a bound Stand user or, less likely, a mundane.” 

A brief pause is followed by “Confirmed. Betterman subdued by two unknown Stand-using operatives, most likely with Bureau affiliations.” 

“Copy that.” Reggatta lowers her hand, then glances over at Telegram. “What’s your situation report, Telegram?” Her tone softens. “This must be a stressful time. With Jovan Jorgensen’s death and now this…” 

Telegram shrugs dejectedly. “Look, don’t worry about it. Me and Jovan have been — well, were — buddies for a while, but…” He swallows. “I dunno. He was a volatile guy, I guess you could say. Even before the whole incident, he was an idealist, and the Producers used that to make him a loose cannon. Turned him talking shit into preaching holy war… God, I still just can’t believe he’s dead.” 

Reggatta extends her hand, placing it on Telegram’s shoulder. “Jovan was reckless, yet he had conviction,” she says. “It’s admirable to have such dedication to a purpose. I can’t imagine what you must be going through, but… you should be proud to have had him as a friend.” 

Telegram nods. “He would want me to keep helping you guys. So would Betterman — and Lobsterback, wherever he is. And… well, rapture is coming, after all. It’s gettin’ closer every day.” 

“Rapture is on its way,” says Reggatta, squeezing Telegram’s shoulder gently. “And when that day comes…”

“‘...Every sacrifice will be avenged,’” finishes Telegram, resolve returning to his face. He glances around the cold room. “Are we done here?” 

“Certainly. It’s imperative to return at once,” says Reggatta, her voice formalizing once more. “The Host will be expecting a report soon.” 

Telegram gestures towards the door. “Lead the way.”

The sun has completely risen by the time the motorbike revs up once more. A few birds glance down from the roof as it roars through the grounds of the facility, heading for the open road. Within a minute, the motorbike returns to the road, and the battlefield is silent once more. 

— — — 

The red-haired man’s gaze turns away from the city and back towards his desk. He pulls out his rolling chair and sits down. A displeased look crosses his face as the chair creaks beneath him. One of the wheels has become stuck with use; he'll need to report this to Brubeck.

By the end of the day, its faulty parts will be reoriented or re-oiled as needed, and the trouble will be gone. The thought brings him a measure of satisfaction.

On the corner of the man’s desk sits a box labeled In with a small pile of papers inside. He picks up the first page and scrutinizes it.

I-310-500B, Incident Report Regarding Unauthorized Stand Use

Follow-Up

Date: 2010-06-18

Involved Parties: Kurt Vandyke (Bureau, Administrator, Nirvana), Jovan Jorgensen (Million, ???, “Goodbye Blue Sky”)

Location: 1700 14th Street

Nature: Excessive Force…

The man skims the rest of the paper briefly, then picks up a pen. In a box at the bottom labeled Recommendation, he writes: 

As previously stated in form J-283, while lethal force violates inherent Bureau tenets, offender’s decades of service and masterful control of his Stand combined with extenuating circumstances offer a scenario sympathetic to offender. Add a demerit to offender’s record and reinstate immediately.

The man places the paper into a box marked Out. He cracks his knuckles and picks up the next page. 

U-092, Unregistered Stand User Profile 

Request for Revision

Name: “Betterman” (identity search pending)

Affiliations: Million

Occupation: Unknown Hydraulic technician

Ability: Unknown Skin-based hydrokinesis

Status: Uncontained Contained…

The man nods approvingly. He ticks two boxes, scribbles a signature at the bottom of the page, and places it into the outbox. He picks up the last page in the inbox; as he reads it over, his eyes slowly narrow. 

U-457, Unregistered Stand User Profile

Request for Filing

Name: Ed Henderson

Affiliations: Bureau

Occupation: Gig worker

Ability: Repellent mesh generation

Status: Employed

Motion to Register: ( Y / N )…

As the man touches his chin, the intercom buzzes. “Chief, Ed Henderson is confirmed to be in overnight quarters.”  

“Excellent.” The chief administrator of the Bureau of Containment glances down at the paper once more, leaning back as his chair creaks slightly beneath him. “Please send him in when he awakens.” 

Chapter Text

“PRIVATE BOURNE! Wake the fuck up, you jerkoff!”

Cecilia Valdez jolts awake at the sudden shout. She blinks her eyes wearily as she stares up at the ceiling, listening to her bunkie’s snores beneath her. Turning over in bed, she sees the sergeant standing over the bunk beside her, shining a flashlight into the eyes of a dozing private. Goddamn it. Hopefully, the sergeant vents his sadistic urges quickly. 

“Good mor-ning, sunshine!” hollers the sergeant in a mocking voice. “Wake the fuck up, you philandering bag of shit, or you’ll be on lavatory duty for the rest of your goddamn career!”

“Ngh…” Private Bourne staggers to his feet, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the light. The sergeant grabs his forearm and twists it to the side, turning the private’s face into a rictus of pain. The private snaps into a salute and gives a weak “...Sir.”

“Private Bourne, we have just apprehended a young local lady who somehow found her way inside the base,” says the sergeant with barely contained venom. “Apparently, she had been wandering around the grounds for hours, because whoever smuggled her in wasn’t enough of a fucking gentleman to escort her home. Needless to say, she was quite eager to give up the name of her intimate partner.”

What a numbskull, thinks Cecilia. If he wants to get some townie ass, the least he could do is put some effort into keeping it quiet. 

Bourne cringes. “Sir, if I could only —”

The sergeant winds up, then clocks Bourne in the jaw with his flashlight, sending the private reeling with pain. “Get on your fucking knees, private!” shouts the sergeant, and Bourne hastily complies. 

“I believe this isn’t the first time you’ve gotten yourself in the shitter, Bourne,” says the sergeant. “Possession of illicit substances, attempted dereliction, and now fornication with locals. You have seen the full fucking gamut of punishment, and to be frank, I’m not sure if there’s anything more the administration can do to deter you. So, let’s throw it to your peers.” 

The sergeant turns around, his insectoid eyes staring directly into Cecilia’s. “Private Valdez.” 

With an inner groan, Cecilia rolls over to her ladder and clambers down. She steps around her bunk towards the sergeant and salutes. “At your command, sir.” 

“Valdez,” says the sergeant, a note of pride in his voice. “Though you may not be one of our most boisterous cadets, you are one of the hardest-working members of our platoon. You’re a model Marine, and I think it’s high time you were rewarded for your efforts.” He gestures towards the kneeling Bourne. “I order you to give this lousy leech twenty hits.” 

Bourne’s bleary eyes shoot open in alarm, and he looks at Cecilia with horror. “Wait. Y-You can’t…”

Cecilia remains silent, staring impassively at Bourne as her fingers curl into a fist. 

The scene shifts. Cecilia is sitting half-slumped in an armchair. The walls around her are drab beige, and the floor is a shag carpet. Her head throbs with pain as she stares numbly into space. 

An older, grizzled Bourne sits across from her, pity in his eyes. “How’re you holding up, buddy?” 

Cecilia doesn’t respond, merely staring into space. 

Bourne nods, looking down. “...Yeah. It did you some nasty damage, eh? Last I saw, you could barely make a sound.” He grins. “Seems they managed to stitch you up nice, though.”

Cecilia licks the corner of her mouth, but says nothing. 

“I know it’s tough, Sergeant. But they hired me to talk with you.” Bourne’s bearded face cracks into a grin. “You remember back in basic training? I always wondered why you held back on me. But I gotta finally say, thank you for that — you put me on the right track, man. You changed my life. You did me a favor, and now I want to pay it back.” 

Cecilia’s grip tightens on the arms of her chair. Why is this idiot lecturing her now? She doesn’t need his pity. Her breath becomes ragged, and she sinks further into her chair. 

“Sergeant, are you all right?” A look of concern enters Bourne’s eyes. 

Fucking idiot. Fucking Marines. Fucking VA. Why are they bothering to bug her now? Christ, they should’ve just left her back in fucking Kandahar, where she — 

“Hey.” Bourne leans forward and grabs Cecilia’s hand, staring into her eyes. “Deep breaths. Focus.” 

Cecilia looks back at Bourne, and is moved by the genuine compassion in his eyes. This is someone who legitimately gives a shit, who hasn’t been swallowed up under all the propaganda. Unconsciously, she feels her breathing begin to steady. 

Bourne nods encouragingly. “Focus, Sergeant. Ebb and flow. It all goes back to neutral. It all evens out.” 

Cecilia feels her mood begin to soften. She closes her eyes and gives a slight sight. “What. Do you. Want?” she croaks. 

Bourne smiles. “That’s the Sergeant Valdez I know. Basically, the VA sent me here to check in on you. Teach you some coping mechanisms, sharing knowledge among the corps. Truthfully…” His smile wavers. “Truthfully, I don’t know why they put me up to this. I’m not a smart guy, Sergeant. But if I can help you feel even a bit better after what happened, then maybe I really have done something good.” 

Cecilia looks back at Bourne. “What. Are we. Doing?” 

Bourne sighs. “Most of this stuff is a crock of shit, to be honest. One of the handbooks suggests telling vets to count sheep.” He snorts. “For real.” 

“...Then. What… works?” asks Cecilia haltingly. 

“Well, when it’s really bad… I always think of babbling brooks, Sergeant,” says Bourne wistfully. “Y’know. Waterfalls, and ocean waves beating tirelessly against the shore. Think of the sound of rain against rooftops, and rivers flowing into seas.” 

Cecilia feels her pulse begin to slow. She thinks of a rainy day on a wide lake, splashing in the river behind her childhood home. 

“Babbling brooks,” says Bourne. “Little mountain springs. Great, thunderous waterfalls, crashing and cascading down rocks for miles.”

Cecilia realizes her eyes are closed. The sound of water has enraptured her. She remembers the ocean, how wide it looked before her eyes. 

“Six inches of mud can carry an entire car away,” says Bourne. “Imagine that, Sergeant. Just a small flood, and even tons of metal are powerless. Don’t that just beat all?” 

Cecilia opens her eyes to see Bourne across from her. Slowly, her lips curve up into a smile.

“Heh. Seems like you’re already feelin’ better.” Bourne pats Cecilia’s hand. “You always were the most upstanding lady in our regiment, you know. I’ll put in a good word for you with the VA. You’ll be back doing good work soon, I just know it. Now lemme just get the receptionist…” 

He gets up from the table, leaving Cecilia alone once more. The sound of distant waterfalls echoes in her ears. 

The sound becomes much louder as the scene shifts once more. Cecilia sits silently in a twisted tangle of pipes. The room is dark, save for one solitary lightbulb that flickers solemnly at the center of the room. 

The clanging of footsteps on the metal floor disturbs Cecilia. She lifts her head and looks at the figure walking into her domain. Black jacket, black sunglasses, black lipstick… white hair. “Discoman,” she says, by way of a greeting.

“Cecilia.” Discoman takes a small bow. “Been a while. How’re you holding up out here?” 

“Decently,” says Cecilia tersely, eyes fixed on the intruder. 

“Excellent, excellent…” says Discoman, looking around. “This place really rips. You kitted it out, huh?” He thumps a pipe approvingly. “Do you sleep in here, or what?” 

“I assume. This isn’t. A social call,” says Cecilia. 

Discoman shrugs. “Jeez, I guess not,” he says. “Anyway. Reggatta sent me to check in with you. Your intel’s been consistent, so we want to make sure everything’s going well with your quarters and the recruits.”

“This place is. Fine.” says Cecilia. “Recruits are. Fine.” 

“Got it, got it. And you’ve got them all under control? No issues?” asks Discoman. 

“None,” says Cecilia. 

Innumerable quantities of water churn through the pipes as the pair stare at each other for a moment. Finally, Discoman sighs. “You’re wondering why I’m the one checking in, aren’t you?” 

“Where’s. Reggatta?” asks Cecilia. 

“Well, that’s the other reason I came here,” says Discoman, stretching as he speaks. “Thing is, Reggatta’s been a whole lot busier recently. We haven’t seen much of the Producers, either. Me and the other Trashmen are able to run the ship on their own, but…” He raises his eyebrows.  

“The Host. Is planning. Something big,” says Cecilia. 

“All the pieces are on the table. We’re just waiting for the word. Rapture is coming,” says Discoman gravely, “and you’d better prepare yourself.”

Cecilia puts a hand to her chin. Thoughts whirl through her mind too fast for her to formulate a response. 

“Anyway. I just wanted to tell you that much. I know you don’t like to be disturbed, so I’ll head out now.” Discoman turns around, his footsteps echoing as he vanishes into the darkness. 

Cecilia barely notices the man’s departure. Rapture is coming, she thinks. It’ll all be finished soon. 

— — — 

Cecilia’s eyes slowly flutter open. 

“Ugh.” She places a hand to her head and stares up at the ceiling of her living room. Slowly, she musters the will to shift herself into a seated position on the couch, bracing her hands against the cushions beside her. What a strange dream, she muses. 

Dawn rays pierce through Cecilia’s window, illuminating her apartment. She glances through the violet curtains at the sidewalk outside, where a few early pedestrians walk in and out of view. Feeling a hunger pang, she pushes herself to her feet, stretches, and walks over to the kitchenette. 

Cecilia plucks a piece of white bread from the bag and puts a hand on the toaster. (Aha, you return! it sneers. Have you finally decided to face my true power? Is your feeble mortal form prepared for annihilation?

Morning, toaster, she thinks. Golden brown as usual. She puts the bread into the toaster and presses down the lever. 

Gah! You yellow knave! Grrr… just you wait, I’ll make the finest toast you’ve ever seen, and THEN vaporize you!)  

After a minute, the toast pops. Cecilia spreads some peanut butter on it and chows down as she ruminates on the dream. It’s decidedly less surreal than most of her dreams, which makes it even stranger. Plus…

She reaches into her purse, rummages around, and pulls out Vicious. (ah, ma’am! good morning, he says. vicious has been “bored as shit,” as they say. 

Vicious, I had an odd dream, she thinks. You mind if I talk through it with you? 

sounds wonderful, ma’am. exactly how strange was this dream?  

Right. So I was in a military barracks, and I saw a guy I didn’t know get picked on by a sergeant. But then I was in this therapy office with the same guy, and it was years later, and it looked like we were both veterans by that point. 

probably freudian, somehow. have you called your father recently?

Vicious, I’m being serious, she thinks. And after that, I was underground, in a bunch of pipes, and I was talking to this dude about recruits, and something called 'rapture.' It was really strange. 

rapture, eh? and vicious supposes the pipes were a holdover from last night?

That’s the thing, thinks Cecilia. In the dream, I’m pretty sure I was Betterman. 

what do you mean, ma’am? water powers and a rather poor attitude? 

No, he was ex-military, right? So the stuff in the barracks and the veterans would make sense. And in the last part, I was in his hideout, speaking the same way he did. 

…hm. there’s no way those could be… his memories, perchance?)

Cecilia puts a hand to her forehead, her mind awhirl. She saw visions of Betterman’s past. She was speaking in the same cadence. And last night was the first time she’d ever punched someone with Velvet Underground. 

Of course, it could be that she just had a weird, Betterman-centric dream. It’d make sense, with how stressful that fight was. But the last guy, Discoman, wasn’t anyone she recognized: he could be another Million member, right? And if those were Betterman’s actual memories…

Rapture is coming… and you’d better prepare yourself.

Alone in her apartment, Cecilia Valdez feels a shiver down her spine. 

— — —

Ed Henderson wakes to find himself trapped in darkness.

He moves his arms but finds them constricted on all sides. The foul smell of rot permeates the air around him, pungent enough to cause a physical ache in his nostrils. He clenches his fingers, grasping for his Stand, but it’s nowhere to be found. 

“Damn it!” he cries, flailing his arms wildly. His fingers scrape against a rough surface somewhere in the darkness. He grabs onto it, then steadily pushes himself upwards, dark objects shifting in front of him. After vaulting himself over the edge, he falls to the ground with a rough wham, then gulps down a deep breath. He turns to the object he’s just emerged from: a large metal container, filled to the brim with black plastic bags. 

It seems that Ed Henderson has just pushed himself out of a dumpster. 

“You gotta be shitting me,” mutters Ed, running a hand through his hair. He glances around him furtively, inspecting the hostile-looking alleyway. Quickly, he recounts the past day’s events in his mind. Stand users… water blobs… stolen car… and the Bureau wanted to see him, got it. That’s all cool, but why the fuck is he here?

“Hey, shitbag. You done scrounging around in my fuckin’ dumpster?” 

Ed looks up and sees a man gazing down at him from a fire escape. Long blond hair, baseball hat, vine-woven vest, bitch-ass face… Damn it, this jerk again. “Hey, why am I here?” he calls up. “Did you put me in this dumpster?” 

“Are you deaf or something?” says Paradizo, clutching a lit joint in one hand as he clings to the fire escape with the other. He takes a drag, holds it in for a second, then blows a smoke ring into the air. “This is my trash, asshat, so do me a favor. Fuck. Off.”  

“I’m asking for a little help here, man. What, do you want me to kick your ass again?” 

Paradizo takes another drag. “Man, why do I even bother with shitheels like you? Say, you’ve got a bigger fuckin’ problem on your hands, anyway.” He snickers, smoke seeping from his nostrils. “They’re after you now, shitbag. You better start running, y’know.” 

“What are you talking about?” says Ed, feeling a pang of panic. “Who’s after me?” 

“They’re allllll coming for you, heh-heh. I bet you really pissed everybody off.” Paradizo giggles, vacantly staring into space. “Can’t wait to see your head on a fuckin’ street lamp. Or a fire hydrant. Heh-heh-heh.” 

A splashing at the end of the alleyway catches Ed’s attention. A figure rises unnaturally from the ground, liquid tendrils surrounding him and lifting his body into an upright position. Finally, the man raises his head, and Ed’s heart freezes. A wraithlike Betterman stares back at him, hatred flickering in the man’s dark-pitted eyes. “Drown under my tide, wretch,” he growls. 

Ed takes two steps back, but the sound of clicking shoes jolts him. At the other end of the alleyway is a tall, stocky figure with a receding hairline and a black suit. An eerie smile is plastered on his face. As he steadily closes in on Ed, a chitinous black suit of armor with a smiling mask sweeps across his body. “I’m taking you into custody,” echoes his voice, distorted through the mask. “Government orders.”

Betterman glides across the ground from one direction as the armored man steps leisurely towards Ed from the other. Ed turns back and forth, white-hot terror gripping his spine. He reaches down, but his holster is empty. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit… 

Paradizo cackles down from the landing. “You’re fuckin’ dead!” he crows. “You’re fuckin’ toast! And I get to see it all myself! Ready to die, shitbag?! Gahahahaha!”

The man’s screeching laughter fills Ed’s ears as his enemies close in on either side. He lashes out at the armored man, but a viselike grip clenches down on his wrist, hard enough that he feels his bones crackling. On the other side, a tendril of water wraps around his shoulder, reaching up into his mouth. He turns and sees Betterman’s stone-cold gaze. 

Cold water fills Ed’s lungs as scorching panic fills his mind. If this guy works for the government, if Betterman was supposed to be in custody, then this had to be planned. The Bureau must’ve set up this whole fucked-up scenario, just to kill him off here. No one is coming to save him. He is completely and utterly alone.

Ed Henderson screams, but all that comes out is a strained gurgle. 

— — —

“AH!” 

Ed jolts upright in bed, cold sweat pouring down his face. For a second, the unfamiliar room confuses him, until he remembers the events of the previous night. The mall, the elevator, the chief administrator… Right. 

Jesus, what a dream. He takes a few deep breaths, feeling his racing heart slowly recede as he squeezes the barrel of his taser for comfort. He squints at the clock on the wall and carefully does the math in his mind. The big hand being two clicks before nine means… six forty-four AM. That means he got, what, five hours of sleep? On a weekend? After all the shit that went down yesterday?

Upon rubbing his eyes, Ed is surprised to discover that he is not completely exhausted. After a day like that, on this little sleep, he should barely be functioning as a human being. But even after that dream, he feels just fine.

Ed jumps out of bed and stretches his arms into the air. After pushing his sunglasses up his nose, he holsters Electriclarryland in his waistband and walks to the bathroom to take a leak. He turns on the sink afterwards to wash his hands, looking at himself in the mirror as he does. 

The face staring back at Ed is pale and slightly ragged. The mud from last night is gone, but his hair is messy, and he still feels like he needs a hot shower. Whatever. He runs his fingers through his hair. What, are they gonna expect him to be in a fancy suit? Nope, the chief needed to see him as soon as possible, for some reason. And since Ed spent the last night taking down one of the toughest Stand users in the city —  

A gentle knock on the room’s door startles Ed. He dries off his hands, then walks to the door and opens it. The knocker is a slim, middle-aged man with broad salt-and-pepper sideburns and a double-breasted suit tied together with a ribbon-like bow. He bows slightly to Ed. “Good morning, Mister Henderson. My name is Brubeck, and I am the Watchtower’s receptionist. I hope our facilities have been maintained to your satisfaction.” 

“Morning,” says Ed. “And yeah, the bed was pretty sweet. Didn’t think you guys would have rooms here.” 

“In-house lodging is vital for overnight security shifts and operatives whose homes may be under threat,” says Brubeck smoothly. “Providing these quarters is more convenient than a hotel, and I hope offers comparable comfort for our guests.” 

“Definitely.” says Ed. “Way comfier than my mattress at home, for sure.” 

The ghost of a smile dances across the receptionist’s lips. “I am esteemed to hear that,” he says. “Regardless. The chief administrator wishes to meet with you. This is your first time in the Watchtower, and as such, I will guide you.” 

Ed nods. “Slick.” Brubeck turns and walks right into the main hallway, his shoes tapping soundlessly against the ground. Ed follows him dutifully. 

The Watchtower’s ambience is completely different during the day. The meager fluorescent lights of the early morning have been turned off. Instead, natural light pours through carefully placed skylights, giving the floor and walls a warm yellow glow. It looks kinda pretty for an office, Ed thinks, and is a lot easier on the eye. 

Ed’s stomach grumbles with discontent, and he winces slightly. Damn, the last thing he ate was that burger at the Soul Kitchen last night. All that fighting must’ve worked up an appetite.

“Per our agreement with the mall, we have breakfast options provided to our operatives,” says Brubeck, as if reading his mind. “Coffees, teas, fresh fruits, and breakfast pastries shall be provided at your convenience.” 

“Sweet.” Ed licks his lips. “You guys got croissants? And… hot chocolate, extra milk?” 

“I’ll place an order at once.” Brubeck flips open a phone and taps out a quick order, then closes it and turns to a door beside him with 8F ACCESS stenciled onto its surface. With a mighty heave, he pushes the door open and beckons Ed forwards. “After you.”

Ed nods to the man. “Appreciate it, dude.” He trots down the staircase, his steps echoing off the linoleum walls and floors. At the bottom is another door. Ed pushes it open and steps out onto a balcony overlooking the heart of the Birdland Mall. 

The mall is just as impressive on the inside as it is on the outside. A giant eight-sided clock hangs down imposingly from the ceiling, with two rotating billboards suspended in midair below it. Escalators line the sides of the atrium, lined with gargantuan advertisements, and garish storefronts appear on every floor. At the bottom level, an ornate fountain sprays jets of water in elaborate patterns through the air. 

“Are you all right, Mister Henderson?” 

Ed jumps slightly and turns to see Brubeck standing behind him. “Yeah. Uh, sorry,” he says sheepishly. 

Another faint smile crosses Brubeck’s lips. “I cannot blame you. It is an impressive sight, no?” He steps next to Ed and glances down. “A testament to the resolve of the chief administrator.” 

“This was his idea?” says Ed. 

“It was his brainchild from the start. To be quite frank, its current existence is nothing short of a miracle. Strikes, zoning permits, budget shortfalls, community resistance… by all appearances, the project was doomed. And the business with the bridge last year complicated our duties horrendously. But the chief administrator saw it through.”

Ed follows Brubeck through the eighth floor. “Did he put his office in the mall?” 

Brubeck shakes his head. “He prefers to assess prospects out-of-office.” 

“Prospects?” Ed furrows his brow. “Prospects for what?” 

“I shall let him explain.” Brubeck guides Ed through the mall, past a few shuttered jewelry shops. Eventually, Brubeck stops, sweeping a hand in front of him. “Here we are. The chief administrator will see you now.” He bows once more, turns and walks off, his feet brushing soundlessly against the ground.

“Uh, thanks!” calls Ed. He turns around and sizes up the shop in front of him. The awning reads High Hopes Batting Cages in yellow text atop a swirling purple background. Inside the large entrance to the shop are a set of wire walls with green turf flooring, extending off to the distant back of the room. To the right are a row of identical pitching machines, whose sky-blue surfaces gleam in the dim lighting; to the left, a sequence of home plates and chain-link backstops sit in front of a walkway buttressed by metal benches. The golden tune of a distant trumpet filters throughout the room. 

A skylight shines sunlight down onto the farthest cage. Inside it, a solitary figure stands hunched over the plate, clutching a bat. As Ed walks through the room, a whizz-crack prickles his ears, and he watches the figure smash a line drive that clatters off the fence. Another whizz-crack, and a second ball sails through the air like a meteor, followed by a third. 

Ed’s mind begins to race as he approaches the last cage. What if the dude is pissed at him for stealing the car yesterday? What if he’s going to pull up something from Ed’s middle school records to fuck him over? Or, worst of all… 

Swallowing down the sudden dryness in his mouth, Ed banishes the armored Stand user from his mind’s eye and takes a breath. This is an interview. This guy probably wants to offer him a job, and if he has any brains at all, he’ll fuckin’ take it. 

As Ed steps up to the back of the cage, the figure clubs one final line drive, then lowers his bat and wipes his brow with the back of his arm. He turns, glasses glinting in the light, and fixes an appraising gaze onto Ed’s face. 

“You must be Ed Henderson,” says the chief administrator, cracking a smile. “Tell me, do you listen to jazz?”

Chapter Text

Cool trumpet music plays over the loudspeakers as Ed Henderson sizes up the chief administrator.

The chief’s red hair is neatly combed, a few loose strands dangling across his forehead and over his ears. He looks as if he must be in his thirties or forties, but not a strand of gray is in his hair — good genetics, Ed muses. A pair of red glasses are perched on a stern-looking nose, and he wears an unbuttoned black suit jacket over a white shirt with a vibrant, orange tie.

This man could pass for a school principal or a mid-level bureaucrat, but his stance and the cragginess of his face belie years of experience. His irises shine a swirling orange and yellow as he gazes at Ed expectantly, as if waiting for an answer.

Fuck! Right. “Um, not usually,” says Ed. “I’m not big into music. Haven’t really heard jazz before, either.”

“It’s as good a time as any to start, then,” says the chief administrator. He jerks up a thumb. “The band is the Sadao Kujo Quintet, with John Clayton filling in on bass, recorded live at the Lincoln Jazz Center.” He pauses and closes his eyes, letting the silvery trumpet melody ring resoundingly in the air. “This is ‘The Sidewinder,’ a composition by Lee Morgan. Kujo’s impressionistic style, as well as the interplay between him and the saxophonist, elevate the melody to a new level. You’ve managed to catch the tail end of it. Feel free to sit down, by the way.”

“All right,” says Ed, sitting down on a nearby bench. He carefully watches the chief, whose eyes remain rapturously shut. The song finishes on one sustained trumpet note, followed by a shimmer on the piano. The audience briefly applauds, and after a moment of silence, the band bursts back in with a bright, faster tune.

The chief points up a finger. “This song is ‘Starfruits,’ Kujo’s signature composition,” he says. “It’s become a standard over the years, but Kujo’s version is absolutely the definitive edition. His solo on this particular track is simply some of the best trumpet music ever recorded.” The chief’s eyes open once more, and he fixes his gaze on Ed. “Where are my manners, though? My name is Robert Sawyer, and I’m the chief administrator of the Bureau of Containment.”

“Yo,” says Ed, waving a hand. “I’m Ed.”

“Ed Henderson,” says Sawyer, his eyes sparkling slightly. “You know, you really seem like you would like jazz, Ed. I assume you have some idea why you’re here?”

Ed shakes his head. “...Uh, no. The car dude told me you wanted to meet with me, and the reception guy said I was some kind of ‘prospect.’”

Sawyer gives a slight tsk. “Decently accurate descriptions, but both incomplete.” He leans over and presses a button, and the pitching machine begins to whirr once more. He steps to the right of the plate and takes his stance. “Honestly, Ed, your existence confuses me.”

“My existence?” repeats Ed, his nerves suddenly on edge.

Sawyer swings the bat and blasts a curveball away with a crack. “The Twelfth District is positively lousy with Stand users, but you managed to avoid contact with any for an entire year.” Crack. “And in that time, judging by your performance yesterday, you’ve reached a pretty high level of proficiency with your own Stand.” Crack. “Higher than some Stand users ever reach, to be frank.”

“What do you mean? Like… is that weird?” says Ed cautiously.

“It’s very unusual,” says Sawyer, “that we haven’t heard anything about you up to this point.” Crack. “I assume —” Crack. “— you have the basic gist of the situation in this city?”

“I hope so?” says Ed.

“Break it down for me, then.” Crack.

“Uhh…” Ed thinks for a second. The Million are dozens of Stand users… Well, we know that they started popping up last year… attacks on government and economic installations… The Bureau put a hefty amount of fundin’ here…

He puts a hand to his chin as a picture coalesces in his mind. “So,” he says, “something happened with that gas attack last year, and now there are Stands all over the place. The Million are a bunch of Stand users who keep blowing shit up and killing people, and you guys at the Bureau are trying to stop ‘em. Is that, like, accurate?”

“Hm.” Crack. Sawyer looks intensely into space between swings. Crack. Crack. Finally, he licks his lips and begins to speak. “Well. It’s not inaccurate, but definitely incomplete.” Crack. “Before I give you my pitch, I’ll give you a better picture of the situation.”

The pitching machine falls silent once more as Sawyer drops his bat to the ground. He clasps his hands together as he steps across the narrow hallway, then turns to face Ed. “Now then. Let me start from the top. I assume by now you’ve gotten the gist of Stands in function, but conceptually, they are far more nebulous. A Stand is far more than a magical taser or a punching ghost. Put simply, Stands are the manifestations of every person’s perspective.”

Ed scratches his chin slightly. “Um…”

“It’s hard to explain this directly, so allow me to use a hypothetical. Say, for instance, that you and I are…” Sawyer waves a hand. “Coworkers.”

“What kinda job?” asks Ed, steepling his fingers.

“Middle management, let’s say. Clerical work. Gray cubicles, phone calls, spreadsheets.”

With some difficulty, Ed visualizes himself in an office job. “Gotcha. What’s the deal with the job?”

“The details of the job itself are irrelevant,” says Sawyer, his shoes clicking against the ground as he begins to pace back and forth. “What matters is our boss, a self-professed family man who believes in treating his employees fairly. Unusually, he actually seems to believe it: we’ve both been promoted by him for hard work and dedication to the company. However, you and I have independently heard rumors about the man. I have recently heard that he donates his excess income to orphanages, which improved my opinion of him even further. Yet you have been informed that he has conducted a yearslong affair with his secretary.”

“Jeez!” says Ed, rocking back. “What a fuckin’ scumbag!”

“Because of this, our perspectives on our boss differ. I view him as a standout guy, while you view him as a hypocrite. Even if these rumors aren’t true, our perspectives are still colored by them, which leads into our actions. I might be more inclined to treat our boss kindly, while you may avoid him where you can, chafing under the burden of working for such a deceitful man. You may even end up quitting the job because of your distrust of him. Does that make sense?”

“I think I get it,” says Ed. “So since we both know different stuff about the dude, we view him in different ways?”

“Indeed,” says Sawyer. “Now expand that out on a larger scale to every portion of a human life. Personality, education, trauma, inborn biases, family relationships, friendships, cultural backgrounds, self-perception. Stands are the sum of all these special traits, the method through which Stand users exert their perspectives upon the world around them. Your biased perception of yourself and the world manifests in a unique ability. Therefore, Stands are the energy of your perspective.

“And because of the diversity of perspectives among people, there is a similar diversity among the forms of Stands. Your Stand takes the form of an ordinary taser, while your partner’s takes the form of a humanoid. Both Stand users you dispatched last night had non-humanoid Stands, according to Cecilia’s report, and Betterman’s was a bound Stand, similar to yours. Just as no two snowflakes are alike, it’s safe to say that each individual person will manifest a unique Stand ability.”

“Gotcha, gotcha,” says Ed. “But…” He thinks back to Paradizo. Oh, shit! You can see my ‘Stand...?’ “Most people can’t see Stands, right?”

“Well, of course,” says Sawyer. “Only other Stand users can see Stands, so the general population is unaware that they exist.”

“But why isn’t everyone a Stand user?” says Ed. “What do I have that lets me see Stands?”

Sawyer sighs, coming to a stop. “Conceptually, Stands are the manifestation of each person’s perspective and accumulated experiences. Their souls, if you want to get poetic. But biologically, a Stand is an immune response. You either have the antibodies that will allow you to manifest a Stand, or you don’t. When exposed to certain stimuli, those antibodies—and their potential to get a Stand—will be triggered. Then, a Stand will manifest.”

“What happens to people without the, uh, antibodies?” asks Ed.

Sawyer rubs his chin, staring silently off into space once more. The air conditioning system rumbles far overhead as he and Ed sit silently behind the batting cages. “I assume you were in the area during the Byway Bridge incident last year,” he says finally. “Tell me, Ed. What do you think happened on that day?”

“Uh…” Ed scratches his chin. “I dunno. That bridge blew up, and the news said that a terrorist bioweapon got released, which killed a bunch of people. The president thought it was Iraqis or some environmental terrorists. But… maybe it was that trigger thing you were talkin’ about?”

Sawyer nods, continuing to pace back and forth. “You're keeping up with me so far. The accident on the bridge caused a Stand-granting particulate to be released into the air, which spread throughout the city until it dissipated harmlessly into the wind. This induced lethal allergic reactions in people without the potential, but caused those with it to generate Stands. Some — like yours, I’m assuming — manifested simply and painlessly. Others manifested more, ah, violently.”

Ed grimaces. All those exploding cars on the news… 

“Now, let me backtrack a little,” says Sawyer. “I am a representative of the Bureau of Containment. We intended to establish a location in this city, as it was the headquarters of a former Speedwagon Foundation chapter.”

Speedwagon. The name rings a bell. “That charity group?”

“They are today, but they were once far more,” says Sawyer. “Since around World War II, the Foundation has been the leading world authority on Stands and related supernatural phenomena. When the Federal Bureau of Containment was first established in the 1960s, a generous grant from the Foundation helped get our fledgling organization off the ground. The Foundation maintained operatives in the world of Stands, and we provided them with resources, as well as aid in domestic operations.

“Regrettably, the Foundation’s influence began to decline in the last decade, as its leadership began to prioritize research into oil drilling and biomedical technology — two fields far more profitable than the esoteric domain of Stand research. In 2007, a truly unfortunate operation happened in Italy, where many of the Foundation’s resources, monetary and human, were squandered in an attempt to wipe out a rogue mafia boss with unprecedented Stand power. I assume you saw the news of an earthquake rocking Italy a few years back?”

“I think so,” says Ed. “You’re telling me that was Stand stuff?”

“That was our work, as a matter of fact,” says Sawyer. “Many of the Speedwagon Foundation’s agents were reported dead or missing, so the Bureau of Containment was dispatched to aid them. Our elite Roosevelt Squadron devised a plan to cut the threat off at the head, which regrettably involved ultra-high-ordnance explosives.”

“Jesus,” says Ed, whistling. “So you bombed the shit out of him?”

“It was a bit more fine-tuned than that. But yes, in a manner of speaking, we bombed the shit out of him,” says Sawyer. “We evacuated all the civilians beforehand, but the property damage was still much larger than we expected. It ended up well, though. It’s safe to say that not a hair of the boss remains on this earth.”

Ed leans back, his brain churning as Sawyer continues. “All this is to say that the Bureau of Containment has moreorless usurped the Foundation within the United States, and as such, the skeleton crew of the Foundation’s Stand branch have begun transferring their analog archives to the Bureau’s digital collection. Their private funding and invaluable legacy material have been much appreciated.

“The most relevant point, though, is that the Bureau intended to establish a footing in this city, to document Stand users in the mid-Atlantic and northeastern United States. We secured funding for our headquarters in this mall, and I brought in my own Stand users to assist me. My bosses assigned me here assuming this would be a quiet posting, but…” He gives a humorless chuckle. “Here we are.”

“Got it. I think I understand,” says Ed, his temples throbbing slightly as he processes the information. “So you guys are, what, cataloging Stands?”

“Cataloging, yes, but also much more,” says Sawyer. “Members of the Bureau have a dual mandate to preserve life and to record Stands, both of which are inherent in our goal of ‘containment.’ Following this, our core operating tenet is that hostile Stand users should be defeated nonlethally. Stand abilities are all unique, after all, and every one is worthy of study.”

These guys don’t want to kill people! Ed exhales and internally whoops. Maybe that armored dude in the alleyway was just a bullshitter. Hell, maybe he was even a Million member, lying to throw Ed off. These guys are definitely doing the right thing.

“To this end,” Sawyer continues, “we’ve recruited many new Stand users in the wake of the Byway Bridge incident. We offer them protection and guidance, and in exchange, we gain more contractors to contain dangerous Stand users in the city, protecting mundanes from receiving collateral damage. It’s a win-win scenario for both parties. And in the unlikely event that a Stand user doesn’t want to become a contractor, we’ll simply record their ability and send them on their way, keeping an eye in case they become a potential future asset — or liability. Above all, our goal is to register every Stand user in the city.”

“Cool, cool,” says Ed. “And you have beef with the Million?”

“The Million…” Sawyer pauses as he takes a seat on the benches across from Ed. “I assume Misti must have given you some information about them, but I’ll try to elaborate. The Million are a mysterious organization that has emerged since the Byway Bridge incident. So far, they have vehemently opposed our efforts at every turn. We have no inkling of their motives, we do not know their goals, and we’ve only been able to identify their top members through code names. They’re led by a mysterious Stand user only referred to as the Host. What we do know is that they have been confirmed responsible for a number of crimes, and are suspected to have perpetrated many others. High-ranking Million members use a certain calling card.”

Sawyer pulls a glossy Polaroid from his pocket and hands it to Ed, who leans forward and takes it. The polaroid depicts a pair of blocky exclamation points, carved into a wall.

“This is the Million’s symbol,” says Sawyer. “It’s been scrawled at several locations across the city, including at the sites of several grisly murders. We can only assume it’s a campaign of terror. By attacking the mundane population, the Million are trying to send some message.”

“Any idea what it is?” asks Ed.

“They’ve made no effort to communicate it,” says Sawyer. “They only interact with our own Stand users through violence, and captured members refuse to reveal anything about their leadership even under duress. The Million have some notable tendencies, though. For instance, we’ve conclusively tied their methods to several robberies of AV equipment. And, more pressingly, they’ve been noted to pursue non-Bureau affiliated Stand users relentlessly. A dozen Stand users have been hospitalized at their hands in the last month alone.”

Sawyer casts a knowing glance at Ed. “We want to be sure you don’t become a statistic.”

The entire fucking organization’s gonna be hunting you down!

Ed’s fingers tighten around Electriclarryland’s handle, and he squeezes it for reassurance. “So they’re gonna come after me, you think?”

“That’s precisely why I wanted to speak with you so soon,” says Sawyer. “We take care of our own, Ed. And if you join the Bureau, we can ensure that you will receive protection and backup whenever you find yourself in need.”

The thought of a team of superpowered users springing to his aid comforts Ed. “That sounds pretty solid,” he says. “And what am I doing for the actual job?”

“You already know the broad gist of it,” says Sawyer. “Because of your excellent performance yesterday, you’ll be assigned to a formal role alongside Cecilia Valdez, and you will continue to be supervised by Misti Mountainhop. Your contracts may include tracking or defeating Stand users, but they might also be specialized tasks assigned to you based on your ability. You will, of course, be compensated for your work yesterday, as well as any future contracts you take on.”

Ed’s tempted to shout “Fuck yeah!” but he settles for a “Sweet.” After a beat, he adds, “And whaddaya mean, specialized tasks?”

“If my files are correct, your Stand is a taser that fires out a prehensile, repellent mesh. To be honest, it sounds like it’d be extremely useful in repair efforts. The mayor’s policy has been heavily focused on rebuilding infrastructure, especially since the incident last year.” Sawyer throws Ed a knowing look. “You could help a lot of people as a contractor, Ed — and make some darn good money, too.”

“Hmm…” Ed pictures himself on a construction site, holding metal beams together with mesh while some dude welds.

“So what do you say, Ed?” asks Sawyer, leaning forward in his seat as he spreads his hands out magnanimously. Light reflects off his copper-colored hair, giving it an inner glow. “I’m offering you a position as a contractor at the Bureau of Containment. Defeating enemy Stand users. Making this city a better place. Will you join us?”

Ed drums his fingers on his knee at the thought. Protection from the Million, money, and job security. He thinks back to that shitty dream he had. He’d thought the Bureau had set him up to die… but maybe the problem was that they weren’t there. Maybe, if he joins them, he’ll never be in danger again.

Finally, he looks up at Sawyer and nods. “Sure, I’ll take it. And do I, like, need to sign anything?”

“I’ll get your signature from Misti later, but with your consent, we’re pretty much all set.” With a smile that warms up the room, Chief Administrator Sawyer extends his right hand, which bears an orange half-sun mark. “Welcome to the Bureau, Ed. We’re glad to have you on board.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Ed takes Sawyer’s hand and shakes it firmly. “Thank you, man. Really.”

“No, thank you, Ed,” says Sawyer, the light glinting off his glasses. “Misti will be in contact with you sometime today to discuss your next mission. Until then, may you always remain in the sunshine.”

Ed nods. “Sick. Uh, see you around, then.” He rises to his feet and walks past the batting cages. Hopefully it’ll be easy to get back up to the Watchtower. That Brubeck guy did say there’d be breakfast, after all, and Ed is feeling pretty damn hungry.

From a distance, the chief administrator watches Ed walk back into the mall. As the trumpet music trails off, the man sits back, permitting himself a private chuckle. He feels an inner warmth flow through him from the light above.

Yes, Ed Henderson may not be ideal, but he’ll most certainly suffice.

Chapter Text

There are many harrowing statistics about life in Ed Henderson’s city, but one of the most disturbing is that the percentage of homicides solved by the police department presently hovers just above thirty percent. 

The inverse of that statistic – almost seventy percent of murders in the city go unsolved – is just as disturbing, but something about the symbolic figure of 30% strikes a potent chord with activists. If your loved one is gunned down on the sidewalk, struck dead in a hit-and-run, or beaten to death on the docks, there’s only a three in ten chance of finding the culprit. 

Even before the Byway Bridge incident, the city’s clearing rate hovered around forty to forty-five percent, placing it in the league of other major metropolitan cities. But after the catastrophe, inexplicable homicides caused 2010’s rate to plummet catastrophically. 2011’s rate is projected to end up in the low 20s, indicating that the issue has no sign of abating anytime soon. 

Incidentally, this number is more a matter of optics than a practical issue. The city’s murder rates are actually relatively low for its size, and a fair amount of recent murders are so obtuse that even the most observant, well-funded, and incorruptible of police departments would struggle to solve them. But the prospect that most murderers in the city go unpunished strikes a powerful chord with civilians. 

This powerlessness leads to despair. The friends and loved ones of murder victims are used to their cases being mishandled by city police. They feel unseen by the government, unheard by the world. When their loved ones are victimized, they have no recourse beyond hoping for catharsis and praying to have their injuries repaid in kind.

They crave justice, no matter the hand that provides it. 

On this sunny day, approximately ten hours after Betterman is placed into the custody of the Bureau of Containment, a man steps from the shadows behind a dumpster. Looking up, he squints and raises a gloved hand to shield his eyes. A pair of dark glasses with circular lenses conceal his sunken eyes, and he wears a long leather jacket covered with pins and patches. His shock of white hair and ghostly pale skin give him the appearance of a creature most at home in the dark. 

The man briefly orients himself in the alley, glancing out into the street. He nods, then turns around and strides further into the alleyway. Soon, the alleyway surrenders to a gravel path, which winds down into a story-deep depression paved with scattered patches of dirt over hard concrete. This was once a reservoir in decades past, but after the water system was centralized, it was abandoned and surrounded by new construction — and then reclaimed for other purposes. 

There are some locations where the layer of shiny chrome and austere concrete peels back, revealing the vice festering beneath the city’s surface. Once, this lot had been among them, a black market in its own right. The man had never witnessed these illicit proceedings himself, but he’d heard rumors: contract killings, illicit real estate trades, drug shipments, and vast-scale mergers were all negotiated in this small plaza. Those apartments to the left once held a vast illegal casino, unfettered by state regulations and enforced by mafiosos. That little balcony to the right was the site of a city politician’s bizarre murder, which continues to befuddle cold-case investigators til this day.

Try as they might, the government could never quash this ulcer. Whenever the police attempted to shut down operations, they had been predicted days in advance, and not a trace would remain of anything illegal. Time and time again, the city made promises, and time and time again, the corruption emerged unscathed.

But the Byway Bridge incident was different. The airborne toxic event scourged this little plaza more effectively than the police department could ever dream of. Toxic smoke is more effective than state intervention, and lacks its pesky scruples. 

Now, this former bed of vice serves as a shelter. Rusty pipes line the walls beneath the surrounding buildings, whose tattered brick-and-concrete backs loom nakedly over the patched-up tents that dot the flat expanse. The man trudges down the asphalt hill, stopping in the center of the encampment. 

An emaciated homeless man with long, unkempt muttonchops emerges from his tent and regards Discoman for a brief second. Discoman stares back at the homeless man, waiting patiently. 

All of a sudden, the homeless man’s eyes light up. He looks over his shoulder and hollers, “Hey, ev’rone! Discoman’s back!” 

“Whuh?” 

“Discoman?!” 

“Did he take that bastard down?”

Several more homeless people emerge from their shelters, all eagerly looking at the darkly dressed man in their mist. Once all of them are staring at Discoman with rapt attention, he clears his throat theatrically. 

“Ladies. Gentlemen.” He bows. “Let me recount the circumstances as I understand them. A man named Kenneth Doolittle is one of your longtime local benefactors. From your descriptions of him, he’s a generous man and a pillar of the community. Last month, Doolittle was hospitalized with severe injuries after being mugged and viciously assaulted by William Porter, a local teenager.”

A few grimaces and jeers break out through the crowd. 

“One of Porter’s friends captured the incident on video, and security camera footage provides even further evidence,” continues Discoman. “Because of the high position of Porter’s father, however, Doolittle was pressured to drop any charges. Am I correct so far?” 

A middle-aged woman standing close to Discoman nods. “You’ve just about got it.”

“Excellent. And due to this uniquely challenging scenario, you made a contract with the Million, through me, to bring justice to Porter.” 

Discoman waits a beat. 

“You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve fulfilled the contract.” 

“Did you get ‘im?!” shouts a man in the back. “You better have gutted him like a goddamn —”

The woman in front raises a hand, and the man falls silent. She smiles apologetically at Discoman. “Sorry, mister. You see, we’ve all been waiting for this. Kenny’s important to us, and the thought that that little punk could get away with a terrible thing like that… even when it was caught on video…” 

A slight shiver passes through the woman’s body, and her face darkens. 

“You want justice. Punishment,” says Discoman. 

The woman nods once. “Right. Punishment.” 

The crowd murmurs a collective assent. Punishment, punishment.

“As I’m sure you’re well aware, the Million are experienced in meting out punishment,” continues Discoman. “It is our policy that no one should be above justice. And the man who assaulted your ally deserved to be punished. I’m proud to say that I’ve successfully punished him.”  

A round of applause and several whoops rise from the crowd. 

“Hold on! Where’s the evidence?” shouts a shrill voice in the crowd. “How can we trust ‘im?”

“Didja get a picture?” says a toothless old man, his eyes shining brightly at Discoman. “I wanna see that sumbitch cryin’ for his mama!”

“You did promise to bring some proof,” says the woman in front, raising an eyebrow. “I trust you, but you gotta uphold your end of the bargain.” 

“...Of course,” says Discoman. Silently, he reaches a hand into his coat, rummaging around in the dark for a moment. His fingers wrap around something slightly soft, and he holds back a grimace. 

In one fluid motion, he pulls the item from his coat and hurls it into the air. It arcs through the sky, then lands in the middle of the crowd.

The homeless people all involuntarily step back from the flung object, then look down at it. A sudden murmur breaks out in the crowd as they all jostle to identify it. 

Suddenly, a woman whoops, lifting the item into the air. “He got it! He got it!” 

“Yes!” cries a man. “He got the little bastard!”

“What is it?” says the woman in front. Discoman watches her eyes widen and hears her gulp slightly. He takes no satisfaction from her discomfort as he looks at the object, lifted high in the air. 

In the noonday sun, the pale flesh of William Porter’s severed forearm practically glows. 

Looking at the arm from afar, Discoman notes the cleanliness of the cut. Even if his Stand isn’t the strongest, it can manage a solid strike. But the wretched curl of the fingers and the anemic gray of the skin quell any pride he might feel in his work. 

“You’re one sick fuck, Discoman! You really put it to that rotten little bastard!” One of the men claps Discoman on the back. 

Discoman’s expression remains neutral. “Check the papers tomorrow if you need more proof. It’ll be sure to get an article.” 

“You…” The woman gulps as she looks at her reflection in Discoman’s circular black sunglasses. “You really got him?” 

“You must understand, this was not a simple smash-and-grab operation,” says Discoman, a slight edge entering his voice. “To plot out the target’s route, to catch him unaware, to ensure there was no physical evidence. It was only possible due to my — our — dedication to justice.” 

“Yes, yes.” The woman nods repeatedly. “Naturally. And we are, ah, very grateful.” 

“I believe you remember the terms.” 

“The terms?”

“The terms,” says Discoman firmly. “As I recall, in exchange for this favor, we negotiated that you and your peers would commit to providing intelligence for the Million. We know how quickly information is disseminated amongst your groups, and how tightly you form bonds. You’re a formidable family, and we respect that.” 

He clasps his hands together. “We merely wish to join our families together.” 

“But we’re not, you know…” The woman waves a hand. “We don’t have those strange talents.” 

“That doesn’t matter,” says Discoman. “Our opponents have made the mistaken assumption that only ability users are worth relying on, when that couldn’t be further from the truth. All citizens of this city have a stake in this fight, and all citizens can benefit from the Million’s help. As long as you tell us — and only us — what you hear, we will have a prosperous partnership.” 

The woman considers Discoman’s words for a moment. “...And you said you’d be willing to do this kinda thing again?”

“Well, this is a two-way street. Continue helping us and we will respond in kind.” 

The woman nods, more vigorously this time. “Sounds good to me, then.”

“Excellent. The liaison will be here to formalize our alliance soon.” Discoman extends a hand. “Let’s celebrate our new partnership, shall we?” 

“...Ah, sure.” 

The woman extends her hand, and he gives it a single shake. For the first time, he smiles. 

“Pleasure doing business, ma’am.”

Suddenly, the woman’s face contorts as she feels a pressure in her throat. She releases Discoman’s arm and tumbles to her knees, vomiting something onto the ground. 

Behind her, the crowd falls into sudden disarray. The sound of pained retching echoes throughout the abandoned lot. Wiping drool off her chin, the woman gropes around on the ground for the object. She unfolds it and holds it up: a hundred-dollar bill, with a double exclamation mark scribbled on the back. 

Awestruck, the woman looks back up towards Discoman, but he has already returned to darkness. 

— — — 

Discoman cracks the door of the darkened closet, emerging into a room lit by cold blue lights. The wall across from him is almost bare, with three large sink basins installed on it. Cabinets line the rest of the walls, and a door sits on the wall beside Discoman. In the center of the room are three slabs, two of which are occupied by large, wrinkled black bags. 

It’s a pleasant day to visit a morgue, he thinks.

The only other living person in the room is a woman with brilliantly dyed hair. She wears a stunningly constructed outfit, covered in various pieces of analog technology and stripes of neon. She stands next to the third slab, which holds a young man with an unruly mop of brown hair, his eyes closed in repose. 

The woman looks at Discoman and nods cordially. “Discoman. You beat the others here,” she says by way of a greeting. 

“Nice to see you too, Reggatta.” Discoman presses a hand to the wall behind him as darkness flows out from his sleeve. “And is that surprising?”

“No. Nevertheless.” Reggatta shakes her head. “They’ve been arguing more than usual recently.”

“That’s never a good sign.” 

“It really is awful.” The woman thocks away at the keyboard on her arm as she speaks. “You’d think with the importance of this mission, they’d take it a little more seriously.” 

“With strength and experience like theirs, you don’t need to be serious. Why did you invite both of them here, anyway?”

“Because we need both of their abilities for this operation. Standard procedure, of course.” She tilts her head slightly.  “Regardless. How has the work been, Discoman?”

“Same as usual,” says Discoman, removing his hand from the wall and stepping up to the table beside Reggatta. “Me and my band performed at the Cudi Club last night.” 

“Your band…” Reggatta presses a few keys. “The Scumbags?” 

“Yep. Good advertising, like you said. And I finished up your philanthropy mission while I was at it.”

“Tough job?”

“Not at all. I caught the kid walking home snot-drunk from the club. Waited for him in an alleyway, then…” Discoman mimes chopping his elbow.  

“Even so. That’s important work.” Reggatta licks a finger. “This gives us another inroad with the homeless population. The Host will be pleased with your performance.”

“I’m glad." Discoman gives a small grin. “Anyway. How about you, Reggatta?” 

“Ah, the usual," says Reggatta. “We’ve been carrying out the Host’s directives. Making sure our peers don’t tear each other apart.” 

Discoman taps his fingers on his arm. “Is that why I’m here?” 

“The Duke refuses to talk to Pedro anymore unless someone is there to hold her back. And you know how Pedro is.” Reggatta shrugs. “Your ability and seniority make you well-suited to mitigate the conflict and secure the area.” 

Discoman gives a noncommittal "Hm."

“And since this gathering is about Jovan Jorgensen…” Reggatta looks down at the body on the table in front of her. “Pedro personally oversaw and trained him, but the Duke absolutely despised his methods. Expect some sparks over that.” 

Discoman opens his mouth for a response, but the squeak of linoleum flooring from behind him cuts him off.

He and Reggatta turn as a woman steps through the door, stopping briefly to adjust the porkpie hat on her head. Dreadlocks spill like waterfalls from beneath the brim, cascading down to the shoulders of her impeccably pressed suit. A small cloth doll hangs from her neck in lieu of a tie, and her hand rests on a skull-topped cane. 

Discoman nods to the woman. “Pleasure to see you, Duke.” 

Trashman Duke Goodenough nods to the pair, a flash of silver glittering in her grin. “Discoman, Reggatta. Where y’at?” 

“We’re doing excellently, Duke,” says Reggatta. “How about you?” 

“Oh, the usual crap,” says the Duke, grimacing. “Y’all know how it goes. Secured us a new revenue stream, looked over my cell, Betterman got beat. And to top it all off —”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.” Discoman gulps. “Hold on. Someone took out Betterman?”  

“Oh, ya didn’t tell him, Reggatta?” says the Duke, looking back and forth between the two figures with bemusement. “I thought you would’ve.”

“...I had figured it wasn’t the right time.” Reggatta punches away feverishly at the keyboard on her arm as she speaks. “Yes, early this morning, Telegram and I stopped by the water treatment facility. We found evidence of a struggle, and surmised that Betterman was defeated in a prolonged Stand battle.” 

“And taken straight into Bureau custody, by the look of it.” The Duke spits onto the ground. “Someone found him atop his little ivory tower and took ‘im down. I told him again and again that he should’ve been workin’ out of HQ instead, but noooo, he just had to isolate himself like that.” 

She spits. “Sumbitch set himself up for it, if you’re askin’ me.” 

“But how did they find him?” asks Discoman. “I mean — as a Trashman, and with how reclusive he was…?” 

“Who knows? Probably picked the wrong Stand users for his cell. Seems only one of ‘em’s a viable Trashman candidate. Either way, means we've got a massive hole in the information network that we can't patch up in the short term.” The Duke shakes her head sadly. “Hell of a loss.” 

“Anything new on Lobsterback?” asks Discoman. 

“Same as usual,” says the Duke, shrugging. “It just looks like the limey little fuck’s dropped off the face of the earth. If he activated his Stand, we all’d know — from the papers and the five o’clock news.” 

“Huh,” says Discoman. “There are no leads at all?”

“Not a single one,” says Reggatta. 

“If you want my guess, Lobster’s either holed up with some chick or blitzed on skag right now,” says the Duke. “No way he’d be failin’ to report otherwise. And if he learns Jovan got killed, and whips out that Stand in the middle of the fuckin’ city — well, that’d just ruin my day. I bet Pedro’s creamin’ at the thought of it, wherever that little scumsuck is.” 

A laugh echoes from the ceiling. “Ahh. You know me so well, Duke.”  

“Sweet Christ.” The Duke sighs. “As if my day couldn’t get any worse.” 

Discoman looks up and spies a knife sticking through one of the air conditioning grates on the ceiling. The grate swings open, then plummets to the ground, clattering against the linoleum floor. A compact figure falls after it, landing on the ground with a dainty tap.  

The man rises fully to his feet. A nest of spiky black hair sits atop his head. He wears a sleeveless vest over a stained, ribbed wifebeater, along with torn camouflage pants and open leather sandals. The most striking trait of the man is his skin: the holes in his legs and the collar of his shirt reveal a lattice of countless small crisscrossing scars. His arms are covered in twisted, tangled tissue, the product of thousands of tiny cuts. Just the sight of it makes Discoman nauseous. 

Reggatta nods to the man. “Pedro.” 

“Buen día to you, Señora Reggatta, and to you as well, Señor Discoman.” Producer Pedro Verdugo nods, giving a thin-lipped smile. 

“Flamboyant dipshit,” mutters the Duke, rolling her eyes.

The diminutive man pointedly ignores the Duke, pushing past her to stand next to Jovan’s body. “Ah, mijo,” he laments, placing a hand on the corpse’s chest. “My most devoted student. He did not deserve this fate.” 

Discoman glances uneasily towards Pedro. This man is one of the Producers, a confidante of the Host and a leader in all of the Million's affairs. He has never been anything but cordial to Discoman, and his leadership is always an assurance that an operation will be executed seamlessly.

Yet no matter how often Discoman sees Pedro Verdugo, he can’t help but be unsettled by his presence. The man’s eyes are glassy like a bug’s: where irises and pupils would be on a normal human sit impassive twin pools, blacker than desire and solid as death. They betray a hollowness at the core of Pedro, a deep, gnawing hunger beneath his congenial appearance.

Discoman has only seen Pedro Verdugo in a real fight once. That's enough to make him fear the man.

“Then what did he deserve, Pedro? Huh? Y’think the little shit went to heaven?” The Duke steps towards Pedro, hostility in her gaze. Discoman grits his teeth - damn her, picking a fight already?

“He was a hard worker,” says Pedro, shrugging indifferently. “I am proud of him. He was excellent at making real change. Boosting our reputation.” 

“Trashing our reputation, you mean. That dumb li’l sumbitch left our mark at his murder scenes,” jeers the Duke, lifting her cane up and tapping it on his forehead. “Ya don’t have many brains, enlisting a kid who ain't even a Trashman into your killin’ sprees.” 

“Do not insult my friends, please.” Pedro raises up a hand, and a knife flashes into his grip in the space between seconds. A slight grin crosses his lips. “They have certainly accomplished more for our cause than you.”  

The Duke’s grin widens and a mad light enters her eyes. “You still ain’t learned any respect, Pedro. Am I finally gonna have to teach you some?” 

Intense pressure fills the room as the Stand users lock eyes. The shape of the Duke’s Stand appears insubstantially behind her body, and Pedro’s grip on his knife shifts. Discoman turns, darkness spilling behind him, and hisses, “Reggatta —”

“STOP! Quit this pointless bickering now!” shouts Reggatta furiously. 

The Duke straightens up, and her and Pedro both turn their steely gazes on the liaison. 

“We’re here to perform an autopsy!” continues Reggatta, indignance etched into her face. “I've told you again and again, when rapture comes, you can kill each other all you want. But until then, we have a mission to do! So control yourselves, okay?”

“Hmph.” The Duke takes a few steps away from Pedro, brushing off her suit as her Stand’s form dissipates. Pedro leans back slightly, idly touching his blade to the tip of his tongue. From experience, Discoman knows this is a good sign: the man’s in an unusually calm mood. 

Discoman is always surprised by the strength of Reggatta’s presence. In rank, the woman is an ordinary Trashman, not particularly high-ranking in her recruitment skill, notoriety, or combat capabilities — certainly not enough to command the respect of the Producers, especially the capricious Pedro. 

But Reggatta is in that elite circle of trusted Trashmen, those who the Host trusts to mediate between themself and their forces. She was there in the early days, when the shock of the disaster had not yet worn off. One of those elite few present from the very start, along with Betterman — and of course, Discoman himself. 

“All right. Shall we commence?” asks Reggatta, turning towards Jovan’s body. 

“I suppose I am up first, eh?” Pedro takes a step forwards, staring down at Jovan Jorgensen. He loosely grips the knife in his hand. The blade penetrates the young man’s skin with a squelch, but no blood emits from the wound. 

Reggatta presses her finger into the side of her jaw, and a network of wires and plastic casings springs from her shoulder, spiraling down her arm. She bends her arm in front of her chest and punches something into the typewriter keys on her forearm. A holographic page springs up from her wrist, and a lens snaps in front of her eye. 

“Time: ten fifteen AM. Date: June nineteenth, two thousand and ten. Current objective: ascertain the cause of Jovan Jorgensen’s death, performed by Pedro Verdugo and the Duke, with Trashman Discoman on security. Location: Twelfth District municipal morgue.” 

She nods to Pedro. “Producer Pedro Verdugo will now begin postmortem analysis.”

“...” Pedro cocks his head. “Time of death… approximately, eh, twenty-six hours ago. Age, twenty-two years old. Blood type, B. Stand user, we know this… Smoked cigarettes within the past month, and, eh, marijuana also. Middling cholesterol…”

“Get to the damn point,” snaps the Duke. 

Pedro smirks, casting a dark look. “Relax. La sangre muerta does not give up information, you see. First it must be awoken.” 

As he speaks, a few small trickles of blood begin to emit from the knife wound. Pedro squints his eyes, then widens them. “Ahhh. Very intriguing.” 

“What is it?” asks Discoman. 

“Cause of death, una aneurisma.” Pedro balls his hand up into a fist and taps it against the right side of his head. “Very, very powerful punch. Broke an artery. The bone there is terribly fractured; the brain is mush. This strike penetrated very deeply into his head. He would be dead in a minute, tops.” He shrugs. 

Reggatta nods, punching the data into her Stand. “Noted. Any additional wounds?” 

“A bone fracture.” Pedro taps his left forearm. “From the same attacker. Not as powerful a punch. Perhaps he took another one…?” 

“Do these wounds seem to be from a Stand source?” 

“Cierto!” Pedro nods sharply. “There can be no other source. No mere human could have this power. A Stand user with this capability…” He gazes down at Jovan again, reverence entering his dark eyes. “...I would very much like to meet them.” 

Reggatta gives her keyboard a few more thocks. “All right, that’s it for the preliminary analysis. Moving on to the next stage.” 

She looks up. “Trashman Goodenough, begin the interrogation.”

“Excellent!” The Duke cracks her knuckles. “Time to find some real answers, now. Let’s git on with this.” 

The Duke places one hand on Jovan’s head, right above his eyes. She closes her eyes, and a purple light illuminates her face from below as a jaunty swing tune fills the air. She opens her mouth slightly and begins to croon a mournful tune. 

“On Bourbon Street, the preachers tell

They got no music down in Hell,  

But now, the horns are blowin’ swing — 

The sinners pray to jump and jive,

To git back up and come alive — 

So sing, you sinner, sing…” 

Stand aura surrounds the Duke, setting the air thrumming with electric tension. From beneath Jovan’s eyelids, a faint purple light shines. 

The Duke turns to the rest of the people. “Three questions, now. Let’s hear some ideas.” 

“The obvious two are asking who killed him,” says Reggatta, “and if he can surmise the Stand ability that was used against him.” 

Discoman places a hand to her chin. “It might be smart to ask him what he was doing around his time of death.” 

Pedro shrugs. “Feh. See if he says anything interesting.” 

The Duke cracks her knuckles, then clears her throat and gravely says, “Come forth, sinner.”  

“Ahhhhh…” Jovan’s mouth opens and begins to exhale smoke into the air. His back arches and his eyelids fly open as a light sizzles from within his eyes. As Duke takes her hand off of his head, a crackling purple aura of energy surrounds him. 

Slowly, the corpse of Jovan Jorgensen sits up. 

It turns around, surveying the scene, glancing at Pedro, Discoman, Reggatta, and the Duke with its empty purple eyes. It clicks its tongue, then shakes its head. “Ah, shit,” it says in a raspy voice. “So I died?”  

The Duke nods. “Looks like it. You messed around too much, kiddo.”

“Fuck the Bureau, man. Fuck those scum-swilling authoritarian pigs.” The corpse’s hand shifts slightly at its side, then falls still. “Shit!”  

“Sorry, kid,” says Duke. “My Stand’s only activating a specific portion of your brain, so you won’t be able to fully control your body, and I can only ask you three questions. It’s a bit limited, but be grateful you’re back at all.” 

The corpse nods. “Three questions? Fuckin’ blows, but what can ya do, I guess. Fire away, lady, whenever ya —” The light disappears from its eyes, and it falls silent again.  

“So, Jovan Jorgensen.” The Duke leans against the table, staring into the corpse’s eyes. “First question: Who killed you?”  

“Oh, that’s easy,” says Jovan, cracked lips smiling as its eyes reignite. “Vandyke, the administrator from the Bureau of Containment.”  

“Ah, Vandyke. I have heard rumors, even before I joined the Million,” says Pedro, massaging his goatee. “He was a member of the Bureau’s black-ops team. A thoroughly dangerous man, like a walking tank.” 

He smiles. “He has cojones. I’d love to cut him.” 

“This is bad,” says Discoman. “We don’t see the administrators walking the streets often. And if the Bureau is killing our members now…” Then they might start open war, he thinks. 

“As a Bureau administrator,” says Reggatta. “And I have no concrete record of an ability for it.”

The Duke turns back to Jovan Jorgensen. “Next question,” she says. “What is Vandyke’s Stand ability?”

The corpse chuckles. “Your guess is as good as mine, lady. Its name is Nirvana, and it looks like a suit around his body. Shrugged off everything I could throw at ‘im — didn’t even flinch. Just one punch from that bastard put me down.”  

Jovan sighs. “Christ, I don’t know how that fucker managed to stop Vandyke.”  

“Stand name and capabilities, though vague, track with present knowledge,” affirms Reggatta. “So we can definitely confirm that Jovan Jorgensen was killed by Vandyke.” 

“Wait, stop Vandyke.’” Discoman’s brow furrows. “I don’t think Jovan’s encountered Vandyke before. So he’s talking about a witness.” 

“Bingo,” says the corpse, giving a jerky nod as its eyes go out once more. 

“Curious,” says Pedro. “From what I have heard of this Vandyke, not a single person could even touch him.” 

“Well, that settles it.” The Duke clears her throat. “Last question, Jovan. Who stopped Kurt Vandyke?”  

“Oooh… Now that’s a toughie.” The ghost scratches its chin. “So, this was right after Vandyke punched me in the head. Took me a minute or so to properly die, so I was able to see what happened next. Some random dude saw me get punched, and Vandyke went after him — eliminating the witness, I guess. But here’s the tricky part — the witness shot Vandyke with a Stand.” 

Discoman’s head shoots up. He looks at Pedro, whose eyes are wide with bafflement.

“It stopped him in his tracks, right? And the guy just ran off. Last thing I heard was Vandyke there, struggling. Oh, and the Stand name too.”  

The ghost does jazz hands for emphasis. “‘Electriclarryland.’”

“This is big,” says the Duke, turning to Discoman. “An ordinary Stand user out there, capable of cripplin’ a Bureau administrator… Reggatta, any record of this guy?” 

“None that we can see,” says Reggatta, clicking through her files with a frown. “Electriclarryland… No matches to any currently known Stands in our records. No ability, no user. This is a complete unknown. We'll create a new file."

The Duke clicks her tongue. “Dammit! And on the last question, too.” She turns to Jovan, delicately placing her hand on his forehead again. In a grave tone, she says “Return, sinner.”  

The ghost sighs. “Ah, damn. At least your music’s real pretty, Duke. That guitar solo? Gorgeous…” His voice trails off into static as the purple light dissipates, leaving only a cold corpse. 

“Nice young man, eh?” Pedro turns to the Duke. “You are always so cruel to my students.” 

“Eat shit, you knife gnome.” The Duke reaches a hand over to her shoulder and cracks her neck as punctuation. 

Reggatta surveys the group. “The autopsy is now adjourned. We’ve confirmed Kurt Vandyke’s culpability in Jovan Jorgensen’s death, and we have a record of a Stand user that could potentially counter his ability. The Host will be satisfied with this report, and we’ll be discussing our next steps soon. Sound good?”

“Peachy to me.” The Duke glances at a clock on the wall. “I got a meeting with some bigwigs to secure some more funding. I’ll see you back at HQ soon, good folks — and keep an eye out for that mystery Stand user, y’hear?” She tips her hat at Reggatta and Discoman, then strides back out the door. 

Sighing, Pedro scratches his head. “Ah, well. I will miss young Jovan. Perhaps it was my mistake to become so attached. People live and people die. That’s life, eh?”  

Reggatta taps her keypad one final time. “Looks like my data has been collected. Conclusion: Jovan Jorgensen’s cause of death determined to be homicide, perpetrator identified as BOC Administrator Kurt Vandyke. Further action: Update known capabilities of Vandyke’s Stand power. Investigate potential causes of increased field presence of administrators. And search for the user of this mysterious Stand — ‘Electriclarryland.’” 

“¿Que curioso, no?” Pedro idly tosses a knife between his fingers. His glassy eyes glance up at Discoman, and a real, genuine, deeply unsettling grin crosses his cheeks. “Ah. Impressive work recently, chochamu. That job with that rich boy?” His eyes close in bliss. “¡Que magnifico! The Host will surely be impressed.” 

Discoman nods awkwardly. “It was mostly luck that it went so smoothly. But thanks anyway.” 

“Ay, do not sell yourself short.” Pedro claps Discoman on the shoulder. “You are a truly strong Stand user. I trust that we will see even better work from you in the future, gomía.”

He trudges past Discoman, leaving the faint scent of blood in his wake. 

“Operation complete,” says Reggatta. She presses a finger into the side of her chin, and the complex machinery retracts up her arm. Reaching back over her shoulder, she cracks her neck, then locks eyes with Discoman. “One more thing for you. We’ve gotten good results from your cell, and you’ve continuously performed well in operations. Because of your performance, the boss has assigned you a new operation.”

“Interesting,” says Discoman. “Let’s hear it.”

“We’ve received intelligence that there is a particularly powerful artifact in an art gallery downtown. It’s said to be a cursed piece of art, with a dangerous perception-triggered ability. This is obviously of interest to us, but here’s the wrinkle: The Bureau is making arrangements to claim it themselves. We traced an email where a Bureau representative declares that they plan to requisition it tomorrow.”

“So you want my recruits to snag it before the Bureau does?” asks Discoman. 

“Not quite,” says Reggatta. “We have no idea of the artifact’s identity or location within the museum, and there are thousands of potential pieces inside. It’d be searching for a needle in a pile of other needles. Instead, your cell’s goal is to intercept the Bureau operatives and claim the artifact from them after they acquire it.” 

“Understood,” says Discoman, putting a hand to his chin. “And I’m allowed to use everyone in my cell?” 

“All Stand users and artifacts in your purview are designated to this case,” says Reggatta. “Additionally, we’ve placed Trashman B-52 under your command. She’s newly promoted as of last week, so this should serve as an adequate trial run.” 

Discoman nods. “Tomorrow, huh? It will be simple, then. Everything for rapture.” 

“Everything for rapture.” Reggatta nods towards Discoman one final time, then walks out of the room, the clinking of her metallic outfit echoing off the walls. 

Discoman finds himself alone in the morgue, save for Jovan Jorgensen’s body. He walks over and stands next to the corpse, looking down at it. He notes the pallor of the skin, the slant of the lips, the Stand-carved divot in his skull. His hands lay limp by his sides, and his eyes and mouth are closed. The placid face looks out of place on the volatile man. 

Yes, Jovan Jorgensen is unmistakably dead. Discoman finds it odd how easy that is to accept. 

The sight of death has become normal to Discoman, even expected on some level. But Jovan’s corpse is a jarring reminder of an inconvenient truth, one that Discoman has learned over and over and over again. No matter where he goes, everything points back to the same conclusion.

In the world of Stands, no one meets a clean end. 

— — — 

When the darkness lifts, Nick Vanian is surprised to find that he isn’t dead. 

He stands up from his crouching position on shaky legs and looks up. The cityscape around him is familiar: he’s standing in front of a subway station, a few blocks away from the river. There’s a sandwich shop near here, he remembers hazily, and they make an amazing meatball sub. His stomach growls, but the mere thought of eating sickens him. 

Hearing a clattering next to him. Nick turns to see a man and a woman sprawled side-by-side on the sidewalk. The man lies on his back, his body seizing as if some mad spirit has possessed his muscles. His hands and legs tap out an uneven rhythm on the concrete, and he gibbers and grunts as foam pours from his mouth. Beside him, the woman lies crumpled on her stomach, black ringlets sprawled around her head and unseeing eyes staring into the sidewalk. 

Nick wants to scream, to cry, to curse the whole situation, but he can’t. Instead, he walks. 

He walks past a middle-aged woman slumped over a trash can, a melted car wreck, a hand reaching from a sewer grate. He walks past a child’s cartoon backpack, half-embedded in a wall, and stares at it for a moment. And then he walks on, numbness overtaking him.

“Hey. Hey! Sir! Are you okay?”

A figure in a hazmat suit grabs Nick by the shoulders, snapping him out of his reverie. “What? Who are you?” 

“I’m an emergency responder, sir,” says the figure, their voice muffled by the plastic. “Follow me. We need to get you to a shelter.” 

The responder guides a dazed Nick by the shoulder. He still feels as if he’s dreaming, as if the world isn’t quite real. “What happened?” he asks. 

“There was a gas attack,” the responder says. “We’re still trying to find the cause. For now, we need to evacuate the area.” 

Nick follows the man. Slowly, he feels tears begin to roll down his cheeks as he realizes he isn’t dreaming. This is a disaster, and Nick is in the center of it. 

Things will never be the same again. 

Eventually, the pair reaches an emergency shelter. The rest of the day is a blur: army rations, medical screenings, and people. Masses of people, great writhing, wailing crowds of people, hordes of displaced survivors crying and screaming and standing shell-shocked in place. Nick hates them. He wishes he was back home, or on his bench, watching the painters from his vantage point in the warm morning shade. 

Some way or another, Nick ends up in a cot, his rough blanket providing cold comfort on a sleepless night. 

Only then does he hear the voice. 

It slices through his dreams of blood pools and empty eyes and profound blackness. “Come to me,” it whispers, and he rises to his feet, feeling an urge bubble up within his gut. 

He tiptoes between rows of fitfully sleeping people, stepping out into the city streets, and he walks. “Come,” it says again, and he runs, dress-shoed feet pounding the city pavement, sprinting into the cool, dark night. Some way or another, he finds himself standing in front of a darkened storefront, staring directly into a staticky TV. 

There is a moment of silence in the empty city street. 

“...Hello?” says Nick, his voice crackly with disuse and desperation. 

The TV suddenly turns on, showing a screen covered in static. The white noise begins to coalesce before Nick’s eyes: a pair of eyes form, then a nose, and then a mouth. All of a sudden, Nick sees a face staring back at him in the static. 

“Connection established.”

Its lips part, and the voice speaks. 

“Hello, Nick,” says the Host. “How would you like to take back control?”  

— — — 

The Host’s words echo in Discoman’s ears as he stares down at Jovan Jorgensen’s body. What luck, he thinks. He could be lying dead on a slab, or covered in blood on a bench, or scrounging for money in an alley somewhere. 

But he was chosen by the Host. He is still alive. He still has something to live for. 

He has a job to do. 

“The Damned!” 

A dark shroud manifests around the man once known as Nick Vanian, and he returns once more into the familiar black. 

Chapter Text

Against all odds, Jalil Houdin is having a thoroughly normal day. 

Immediately after getting loose from that weird couple, he ran straight home, put his muddy clothes in the wash, then sat awake shivering in his bed, clad only in his tighty-whities. Eventually, he passed out from utter exhaustion, sinking into a dream-tortured sleep. The rest of Saturday was agony; he spent three hours listening to a visiting lecturer, unable to focus, and the rest of the time sitting around and patiently waiting for the shoe to drop. 

Betterman, the Bureau, the police — God, somebody has to be after him… 

Right?

But then Ivan shows up at his dorm completely at random that afternoon, poking his head around the corner. “Yo, Jalil. Max is putting on a movie.” 

Jalil looks back at Ivan and sees worry crossing his friend’s face. “Whoa, dude. You look like shit.” 

“Yeah…” Jalil shrugs, resting his chin on his hand. “Rough day.” 

Ivan lets out a sympathetic tch, shaking his head. “I feel that. Something happen last night? We all saw that girl chase you out of there, and then you didn’t come back. Yuvraj saw you skulking down the quad looking paranoid. Is something up?” 

Jalil grits his teeth, his intestines roiling with concern. This is the worst-case scenario, isn’t it? Of all the terrible possibilities he’s imagined, explaining his Stand life to his friends is the hardest. What could he even say? How could they even hope to understand?

“...Hm.” Ivan smirks slightly. “It’s like that?” 

Jalil looks up. “What do you mean?” he asks suspiciously.

“Hey, man, I completely understand. I won’t press you on it.” Ivan raises his hands. “Yuvie and Max are also pretty interested to hear what’s going on, but if it’s like that, I’m sure they’ll understand…” 

“Like what, Ivan?... Ohhh.” Jalil groans, smiling. “You asshole.” 

“Hey, it’s happened to all of us at some point, yeah? Trouble with the ladies is nasty business. Now c’mon.” Ivan smacks the doorframe. “You ever seen Memento? The Thing? You gotta help us decide what to watch, man, cause Max has way too many DVDs. Plus, Yuvie ordered pizza from Giuseppe’s. One pie with pineapple on it, just for you – and no one else is gonna eat that garbage.” 

Jalil shakes his head, briefly overcome with emotion. “...Thanks, Ivan,” he says. “I really appreciate it, man.”

Ivan winks. “Hey, don’t mention it. Now c’mon — up and at ‘em, buddy. We’ve got a movie to watch!” 

“Yeah, yeah, gimme a sec!” Jalil rises to his feet, still smiling. He looks in the mirror on the wall, pulling his fold-out comb from his pocket and carefully straightening a few frizzy strands back into place. When he’s satisfied, he stands up and follows Ivan down the hall and through the campus tunnels, all the way out to Max’s dorm. 

And they have a legitimately good time. Max puts on some shitty horror movie, Yuvraj cracks terrible puns the entire time, and Ivan bickers with everyone about the best dessert. For a while, Jalil Houdin forgets all about Stand users, Betterman, and the Million. He has fun. He’s allowed, somehow, to be normal. 

He returns to his dorm at a quarter past 2. Yuvraj shouts “Catch you tomorrow, Jaliiil!” in a booming voice. Max stands blasting a speaker outside some girl’s window, Ivan beside him for moral support. He waves one last time at his buddies, takes the elevator up to the fifth floor, and collapses into a deep, restful slumber in his warm bed. 

When Jalil awakens, it’s noon. He quickly grabs a cap, bathrobe, and bar of soap, then ducks down the hall to the bathroom. After a hot shower, he towels himself off, then pulls a toothbrush from his pocket. He stares at himself in the mirror through his glasses, feeling a sense of serenity. 

Maybe Betterman laid off his ass. Maybe that dude and lady did him a solid. Maybe — he spits in the sink — he’s finally out of this whole Stand business. 

Jalil walks back into his dorm, clad only in his bathrobe and a pair of boxers. He feels fresh and clean, like he’s wearing brand new skin. He pulls on a white T-shirt and a pair of jeans, then looks through his hangers for a fancy jacket. He tops it off with a pair of green socks and a puff of cologne, then pushes his tinted glasses up his nose. 

Yes, Jalil Houdin is ready to seize the day. 

“Tell me, brother. Where, precisely, is the funk?” 

Jalil turns around in a flash, fear jolting through him. Sitting on his bed with legs crossed is a man in a highly flamboyant outfit. He wears a broad-brimmed top hat over an open vest covered in sparkling sequins, and his pants are covered in bright red-and-yellow patterns. It looks like the man is backlit by a kaleidoscope of colored lights — the wall and desk behind him are painted in purples, pinks, reds, and greens. Most notably, though, he wears a white visor over a pair of piercing blue eyes that stare into Houdin’s soul.

Jalil looks around frantically. His door is shut, and his windows are locked. How did he not notice this guy sneaking into his room? And how the hell did he get in?  

He points at the stranger. “Why — How — What are you doing in my room?!”

“Answer the question first, brother.” The man sticks out his two pointer fingers, swivels them around, then points them squarely at Jalil. “Where is the funk in today’s society?” 

“...I don’t know! What funk?” 

“Bingo!” The man’s eyes sparkle. “‘What funk?’ That is ultimately the problem, my brother!” 

The man sits up with newfound vigor, raising his splayed hands in the air. The curious pattern of light shifts entrancingly behind him as his words take on the tone of a sermon. “We the people have had our very concept of funk stripped away from us. The Power wants to take it away, to choke it, beat it, and starve it, then to sell us little disco balls filled with sparkly placebo mush, to truly make us…” 

He waggles his fingers dramatically. “D’voidoffunk.” 

“Look, man, I don’t know who the hell you are, or how you got in here, but could you please just leave?” A note of desperate frustration creeps into Jalil’s voice.  

“Hey, hey!” The man smiles. “I come in peace, yeah? Allow me to introduce myself.” He rises to his feet, then bows. “I’m Starchild, the dopest motherfunker in the whole damn Million — at your suh-service, good suh-suh-sir.”

“Hold on, hold on.” Jalil raises a hand, fear churning in his gut. “Did Betterman send you after me? Cause if so, I told him —”

“Betterman got beat, brother,” says Starchild in a serious tone. The lights behind him dim. 

Jalil’s head jerks up hard enough to knock his tinted glasses from his face. “What?!”  

Starchild snaps his fingers. “Yep, just last night. Seems that the Bureau got him. Now, that has a whole host of un-funky consequences, but the most pressing one is that he was assigned as the supervisor of three more fellow funky freaks. One of them’s in the slammer, while another one just scored a promotion. That leaves one motherfunker left: you.” 

He extends his hands and wiggles his fingers in the air mystically. “As of today, you, Jalil J. Houdin, are officially under my juri-ris-be-nuh-din-day-diction. The Eye of the Grand Funkmeister has trained itself upon thee, and you have entered the influence of its staggering benevolence.”

The Million doesn’t know that Jalil sold Betterman out! A warm feeling of relief washes through Jalil’s chest, and he exhales gratefully. “Okay. “That means you’re my, uh, supervisor now?” 

“That I am, good sir.” Starchild bows. “The Million believes in community co-ordination above all else.” 

“So is that the same thing as Betterman? You give me orders when we need to do an operation and all of that?” 

“More or less, my brother. But, you must understand —” Starchild leans in conspiratorially. “I think you’ve been grossly undervalued, good sir. If what I hear about your ability is correct, why, you’ve got quite a bit of potential.” 

Jalil’s face flushes. He protests, “Mister, uh…” 

“Starchild, brother.” 

“Starchild. I — My ability isn’t good,” he says. “It’s small and weak, and all it’s done so far is hurt innocent people. I just... I don’t know what I can do with it.” 

Starchild steeples his fingers in front of his face contemplatively. “Bring out your Stand,” he says.

“I…” Biting back internal resistance, Jalil raises one of his hands in front of his face and concentrates. After a second, three Freaks manifest on the back of his hand; he turns it around and shows it to Starchild. 

Starchild leans in, nodding. “A colony type, huh? Funky. Now describe its ability, if you would be so inclined.” 

“I can, uh, manifest them on other people within my sight range. When I activate them on someone, they appear on that person’s carotid artery, and they make that person’s heart beat faster and faster, until they have a heart attack.” 

Starchild looks into Jalil’s eyes for a moment, just long enough to make Jalil feel uncomfortable. “You know, brother,” he says at last, “I think you might just be wrong.” 

Surprise and indignation churn through Jalil’s mind. “What? Why?” 

“Now, I can believe it works within sight range, and that it manipulates peoples’ heart rates. But those conditions are way too specific.” Starchild motions to the three Stands on Jalil’s hand. “For instance... is your Stand on someone else’s carotid artery right now?” 

“...” Jalil looks down at his Stand, then back up at Starchild. “...What are you getting at?” 

“I’m saying you’re one crazy motherfunker!” Starchild leans back, gesturing for effect. “You’ve put limits on your Stand that don’t exist, brother! You unconsciously used your Stand to protect yourself, so it automatically targeted the neck — but you don’t have to do that.” Starchild taps Jalil’s chest for punctuation. 

Jalil feels his own heart pounding in his ears. “You’re saying there’s more to my Freaks?” 

“You bet your funky ass I am!” Starchild spreads his arms wide. “You have no idea just how far your ability can go. Different veins, different body functions, even targeting yourself? The world is your veritable oyster, my brother!” 

To use his ability more… The thought makes Jalil’s head spin. Has he been underselling himself all this time? Is his ability better for more than hurting people?

Starchild steeples his fingers. “Betterman was a bit of a reclusive fella. Now, that’s not a judgment, exactly. But it sure can be hard to learn your full potential working under a boss like that, right? Now me, brother…”

A curious gleam enters Starchild’s eyes. 

“I plan to be far more involved.” 

Jalil gulps, feeling that dread return once more.

“Regardless, my funky man!” Starchild bows once more. “It has been a true-blue pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’ll be in contact soon with the details of our first assignment. Until then —” 

Starchild extends both hands in the air. Jalil glances at them, then glances again in shock. 

At the end of each of Starchild’s fingers is an eyeball, each iris shining with a neon glow. 

“Remember to stay funky!” 

The eyeballs flash. A blinding, prismatic light fills the room, and Jalil reflexively shields his eyes. 

He lowers his hands to find Starchild gone. His dorm window hangs open, the distant sounds of the city wafting through. 

Jalil stands for a moment, waiting to see if the man is truly gone. After a second, he collapses down into his bed, tension leaving his body. God, this is probably the best outcome, he thinks. The Million aren’t punishing him for betraying Betterman’s location, and those Stand users’ employer isn’t coming to arrest him. Stuff is staying the same as before. 

So why, then, doesn’t it feel good?

One Freak looks up from Jalil’s hand with beady eyes and makes a small chirrup. He regards it cautiously. If what Starchild said was right, he might be able to control them. Make them help rather than harm. With his Stand, he could do good.

But try as he might, he can’t shake that pit in his gut. He can’t fight that nagging feeling that he’s too far into this Million crap to back out.

Jalil Houdin just wants to be normal. 

But in the world of Stands, even normalcy may be too much to ask. 

— — — 

From fifteen floors up, the city looks like a toy set to Kurt Vandyke. Cars buzz rhythmically through the roads, underneath matchbox buildings and tall, shiny spires. People resemble mites, or specks of dust: barely visible, if perceptible at all. 

Vandyke stares out the hotel window from the edge of the bed, placing a hand to his chin in contemplation. In a way, he thinks, this sight highlights the irrelevance of all of his actions. Killing Jovan Jorgensen means nothing in the grand scheme of things, just one speck ending another. 

And yet the guilt of breaking a promise causes a pain in Vandyke’s chest. 

The bed creaks as Vandyke shifts his weight. He looks over his shoulder at the sleeping woman beside him, her hair flowing over the pillow like a waterfall. The soft buzz of her snoring echoes throughout the room. The sight makes Vandyke queasy, and he turns away, quietly sighing. 

His desires, or what ashes remain of them, have now congealed into a thick, black stain on his heart. He feels a disgust at the woman, at himself, at all the shit that drove him to be here. He rises to his feet, stretches, then walks over to the folded clothes he left on the chair and begins to quietly get dressed. 

After pulling on his jacket, Vandyke looks in the mirror. He sees himself: heavyset, dressed in a well-ironed suit, his slicked-back hair graying and his hairline receding. He sees his smile, still steadfast even through all of this chaos. He turns away, slightly more satisfied. 

A snort from the bed grabs Vandyke’s attention, and he turns to see the woman twitching in her sleep. A lock of her hair has fallen in front of her nose. After a second’s hesitation, Vandyke bends over the bed, reaching out two fingers. With a steady hand, he gently lifts the fallen strand from the sheets and tosses it back over the woman’s face. She exhales and babbles something incomprehensible, her breath steadying once more. 

Vandyke rises to his feet, looking at the woman one last time. He feels nothing.

After a moment, he grabs his wallet from his pocket and pulls out a twenty-dollar bill, then folds it and places it on the nightstand. He bends down and grabs his briefcase from the foot of the bed. Without looking back, he walks through the door, leaving the dim hotel room behind him. 

After a brief elevator ride, Vandyke arrives at the ground floor of the hotel. Gentle piano music floats through the expansive lobby as he walks, feeling the cool air on his skin. Suddenly, Vandyke’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and flips it open; the screen reads S. Miller.  

He sighs through his grin. Damn. The last person he wants to talk to right now, but he can't turn down a call from a containment site director.

Stepping through the door and outside, Vandyke places the phone to his ear. “Hello?” he says. 

“Good morning, Vandyke,” says the raspy, grating voice of Site Director Miller. “We haven’t talked in a minute, eh?”

Vandyke purses his lips as he ducks into one of the alleyways next to the hotel. “No, we certainly haven’t!” he says in a cheery voice. “How have you been, Miller?” 

“Ah, can’t complain. Got one of the Million’s Trashmen in custody just last night,” says Miller, before breaking out into a coughing fit. 

“Really!” Vandyke’s eyebrows shoot up. 

“Yeah, lucky day. He’s been a real pain in the ass to contain, though. Bastard can control any water he touches.”

“Ahhh.” Vandyke nods. “That sounds fun to work out.”

“It’s been a real puzzle for me and Amadeus. We’ve got him hooked up to an intravenous drip providing nutrients, and we’re working on sourcing a way for him to be cleaned with UV lights. Hopefully, he can be contained without going into maximum security. But this isn’t why I called you, y’know.”  

“...Okay. Then why did you?” 

Miller is silent for a moment. Finally, he says, “The chief told me that you’ve been moping around, and he wanted someone else to talk with you.” 

He gives a hacking cough, then continues. “So. What the fuck is going on, Vandyke?”  

Vandyke feels a churning in his stomach. He licks his lips. “Look,” he says. “The chief told you what happened yesterday, I assume.”

“Yes, he did.”

“Then you gotta understand why I’m feeling down.” Vandyke chuckles. “This would really —”

“No,” says Miller abruptly. “To be frank, I don’t understand at all. Let me be blunt: this is completely unlike you, Kurt.”  

Vandyke’s mouth falls open. All he can manage is a weak “...Huh?” 

“Back with the Lincoln Squadron, you did this sort of thing all the time,” says Miller, his voice taking on a venomous tone. “The administration had a nickname for you — ‘Excessive Force.’ You never intended to go out of line, of course, and we always, always have tolerated it. Do you know why?”

Vandyke feels bile rise in his throat as his smile transforms into a grimace. He grabs onto a stone wall beside him for support. “Look, I…”

“Because you were consistent. Because you would always complete the op. Because you were committed to the Bureau of Containment, and you were the best at what you did, goddammit.”  

Vandyke remains silent for a moment. His fingers grip the wall hard enough to shred through the stone. Not here, he thinks. Now is not the fucking time. 

“So why flake now, Vandyke?” says Miller in a sneering tone. “Huh? What changed? Why decide that, ‘hey, this is a bridge too far?’ Why do you suddenly care?”

“Because I’ve grown up, you shit-brained geezer!” roars Vandyke.

His Stand surrounds his arm as he punches the wall with full force, sending shards of stone bouncing off his head and crashing to the ground around him. Blood pounds in his head as the held-back feelings gush violently from his mouth. 

“I’m not some twenty-something Knight flapping his fucking dick around anymorel! I’m not working missions with fucking bush leaguers who needed me to cover their asses in combat! I’m not operating under the assumption that I could be thrown in the penitentiary at any moment! I’m a regional administrator of the Bureau of Fucking Containment, and I have responsibility, dammit!” 

He pushes himself off the wall, shaking his head. “Do you know what the Chief said when he selected me for this job? He said, ‘The duty of an administrator is to neutralize threats without spilling a single drop of blood.’”

Vandyke pauses for a moment. “And I — I failed him, dammit,” he hisses, his smile widening into a rictus. “I failed my best friend. I let Robert Sawyer down.” 

He spits on the ground, then continues. “So yes, I’ve fucking changed. I have something to care about now. And if you can’t understand that, then I have nothing more to say to you.”

Miller is silent, but Vandyke hears his rasping breath through the phone. After a beat, he gives a raspy cough, then says in an even tone, “Do you remember the last day that I was training you, before you got promoted?”  

Vandyke nods, feeling his rage subside as the memory comes up. “...Yeah.” 

“Do you remember what I said? About how interrogating prisoners was like training recruits?”  

“‘Sometimes, a little shittiness is all you need to make people reveal themselves.’” Vandyke sighs, feeling like a fool at being so easily provoked. “Goddamn it, Miller.”

“Look, I’m sorry for being an asshat, Vandyke, but you know that’s my specialty. The chief told me to do my usual spiel with you, to see if I could get anything of substance out, and I think I succeeded. You’re an asset to the organization, Kurt,” Miller says. “I think Rob made the right choice, promoting you to be one of the administrators. I’m proud of how far you’ve come, and I want to help you get back in action.”  

“...Thank you.” The affirmation boosts Vandyke’s mood, and he feels his smile widening again. “That means a lot right now.” 

“Ah, don’t mention it. Stay safe, y’hear? And check on your old boss sometime, you damn bum!”

Vandyke chuckles. “Fuck you too, Miller. Talk to ya later. Stay safe for me.” 

“Will do. See ya, Vandyke.” The call disconnects.

Vandyke sighs as he puts his phone into his pocket. He steps out of the alley into the street, feeling the sun on his face. He might not be back to full performance already, but that’s fine. He’ll call the chief, and then — 

A nearby sound of weeping sets Vandyke’s hairs on end. 

He looks for the source of the crying and sees a man, sitting on a bench in front of the hotel. The man sits with his elbows to his knees and his hands clutched behind his head, body shaking with hitching sobs. After a second, he puts his hands back on his knees and leans back on the bench, closing his eyes and exhaling. “Oh, God…”

Vandyke steps over to the crying man, standing over him. “Sir?” 

The man looks up, startled. “Oh! I’m — I’m sorry.” He gives a strained half-smile, cheeks slick with tears. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” 

“Are you okay?” says Vandyke, carefully sitting down on the bench. “Would you like to talk?” 

“I —” The man grimaces, pulling a disposable tissue from his pocket and loudly blowing his nose. “I shouldn’t. It’d — it’s a bad idea.”

“Sir, with all due respect, you seem like you really need someone to talk to.” Vandyke puts an extra bit of sincerity into his smile. “And you can be honest with me. You don’t have to hold anything back, okay?”

“...damn it.” The man shakes his head, looking down at the ground. “It’s about my son, Paul. He was born prematurely, and he’s had health problems all throughout his life. His lungs were stunted, which meant he couldn’t fully breathe, and that caused a bunch of other comorbid conditions. Cognitive development, motor skills…” 

He looks across the street dejectedly. “Lot of medical bills. Lot of time in the hospital. I had to turn down a promotion so I could keep my hours flexible, and my wife picked up a second and third job. It was hard, damn it. But it was worth it, because they told us there was a chance…” 

The father’s voice trails off. He swallows, then falls silent. 

“A chance for what?” Vandyke prompts. 

“A chance he could be normal someday.” The words spill out all in a rush. “A chance he wouldn’t have to live with a tube in his throat, bouncing in and out of the hospital his whole life. A chance he could play with other kids, go to school, get a job, fall in love. A chance he could — he could live, damn it, because what he had wasn’t a damn life at all.”

Oh shit, thinks Vandyke. He remains silent, letting the man continue. 

“He was so sweet,” says the father, his voice cracking. “He didn’t deserve any of it. And now he — he’s — he’s dead. Dead — and — so why do I feel — relieved?” He spits the last word like a slur before breaking down in tears again, burying his face in his lap.

Vandyke lets the man cry for a second. The sight of tears stirs some surface-level sympathy in his heart, but a deeper feeling slowly begins to rise within him. He remembers the same feeling a time ago, before he decided to smile. He remembers wondering why he did not grieve. 

Here is someone who, in some small way, understands Kurt Vandyke. 

Slowly, Vandyke places a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder. “Can you think of a time when your son was happy?” he asks in a soft voice. 

The father looks at Vandyke apprehensively. Slowly, he nods. “We… we went to the zoo,” he says in a small voice. “It was tough getting him out there, but it was nice. A nice break from the hospital.” He clears his throat. “He loved the rhinos and the zebras and the lions, all of the usual animals, but he loved to see the giraffes. When he saw them, his eyes would get all bright, and he’d get the biggest smile on his face…” The man begins to tear up again. 

“Sir…” Vandyke says deliberately. 

“God, he was just so young,” says the man desperately. “He — he was just a kid! And he spent all of his life wasting away in the hospital… God!” He pushes his palms into his eyes, grimacing in anguish. 

Vandyke licks his lips, waiting in silence for a moment. The father’s heavy breaths make an uneasy rhythm, and the industrial thrum of the city rumbles quietly through his bones. 

“To be honest,” says Vandyke hesitantly, “I’ve been in a similar position myself, in the past. You feel guilty, don’t you? Like… you could have prevented it, somehow?” 

The father nods, first hesitantly, then vigorously. “Yes. Yes, that’s exactly it. Like there was something I had to have done to help him.” 

“But you also feel like you’re not feeling bad enough,” says Vandyke. “Or you’re not feeling bad in the right way.”

“Yes!” wails the father hysterically. “Yes, that’s it! I’ve been having these terrible, selfish, awful thoughts. Like, I’ve been dreaming of moving us out of the city for years, but the medical bills made it impossible. And my wife — she’s been so stressed! I can’t remember the last time we had a night alone together! And now — God, I’m scum!” Tears begin to pour from his eyes once more. 

“Sir. Relax.” Vandyke squeezes the man’s shoulder. “Listen to me. What you’re feeling is normal. You understand?” 

The father turns his head to Vandyke and sniffles. 

“Look, think of it this way,” says Vandyke encouragingly. “You were given a tough scenario, but provided your son a good life, okay? You sacrificed so much for him to have a chance at being happy. You minimized sorrow and maximized happiness.” 

He looks into the man’s eyes. “You were able to make him smile, and that's what counts."

“...” The father looks up. “You think so?” he says in a raspy voice. 

“I know so,” says Vandyke steadily. “And think of it this way. Now, he’s in a place without pain. Somewhere… bright and sunny. With lots of giraffes for him to look at.” 

The father looks up at Vandyke, eyes puffy. He cracks a smile. “That kid. I bet he is…” He wipes his eyes. “God. I can’t thank you enough, mister. Just being able to talk about this, and get some reassurance…” 

He exhales. “It means more than I can say.” 

Vandyke’s smile widens a bit. “Don’t mention it,” he says. “I’m just glad I was able to help.”

The man stands up from the bench. Without another word, he staggers off into the lobby of the hotel, back to a grieving wife and doctors and a world thoroughly hostile to him. 

Now, though, he’ll have armor against the grief. He’ll have his very own smile. 

With some effort, Vandyke rises to his feet. A feeling of bliss fills his body as he selects one of his contacts and holds his phone up to his ear. After two rings, someone picks up.

“Vandyke,” says a warm voice. “How has your break been treating you?”

“Well,” says Vandyke. “I’ve been doing some reflection, and…” He swallows. “Thanks again, Rob. For… forgiving me.” 

“Please. After all we’ve been through?” says the chief administrator. Vandyke hears the smile in his voice. “I look forward to seeing you in the Watchtower soon, Kurt.”

Vandyke nods. “Yes. See you then.” He hangs up and places his phone back in his pocket. The grin across his cheeks widens further. 

Everything is okay. His world has righted itself on his axis. He feels a newfound wind lifting the sails of his soul. 

Kurt Vandyke stepped off the path of normalcy long ago. 

Now, all he needs is his duty — and, of course, a smile. 

— — —

Looking up at the sky, Paradizo scowls. Not a single cloud besmirches the blue, dashing his hopes of a stormy day. If it’d been ball-meltingly hot, that would’ve been even better, but last night’s rainstorm broke the heat. Today has been thoroughly temperate, the sun’s rays pleasant and inoffensive. 

Yes, Paradizo thinks, it’s a miserable fucking day for good weather. 

He looks down at the brick in his hand, a message carved roughly into the back:

MEET W HOST ASAP

NOON @ DOCKS

WAREHOUSE #34

In the back of his mind, Paradizo laments the Host’s choice of medium. Sure, the dude’s got connections, but chucking a fucking brick through Paradizo’s window ain’t exactly good etiquette. And how’d the Million even find where he was squatting?

What-fucking-ever. Paradizo trudges down the pavement path, looking at the numbers welded onto the front of each warehouse. This huge strip of rentable warehouses isn’t entirely unfamiliar to him. He’d met Betterman here a few months ago, when the bastard ordered him to meet his little teammates. The Million have gotta be renting some of ‘em out for themselves at this rate, right?

Shit, he’s been here before then, too. He was small then, rooting around these imposing concrete buildings years ago, during a bitterly cold winter. Searching for a heater to tuck himself under, hiding from security, clutching his — 

“Fuck!” shouts Paradizo, burning the thoughts from his mind. He grits his teeth. Can’t think about that shit now. He has a mission, dammit, from the Host himself. Utmost priority. He’s gotta fulfill it. 

A short distance more, and he finds himself at a warehouse with a large metal "34" welded onto the front. The loading doors are left wide open. How fuckin’ fancy. Taking his time, Paradizo strolls inside — then stops. 

Betterman had summoned his cell to a packed warehouse, with giant shelves packed with shipping containers lining the room. The nerd, the geezer, and Paradizo had all hidden between two crates as Betterman gave them dry orders through a phone. It wasn’t a pleasant experience for Paradizo in the slightest; he’d spent half the time worrying about one of the crates squashing him into red fucking paste. 

But the warehouse that the Host has called him to is almost completely empty. Paradizo looks around, awed by the enormity of the space. The ceiling feels like it must be a mile above his head; the length of the building is twice that. It looks like it’d take an hour to run from one end to the other. 

In the center of the room, lit dully by the fluorescent lighting, is a purple tent. 

The sight confuses Paradizo. He’s familiar with tents, but he’s never seen one quite this big. And being set up in the middle of this empty warehouse…

Whatever. The Host must get off on being dramatic. That’s why he’s called the fuckin’ Host, yeah?

As Paradizo walks forwards, he feels a sense of tension. It might be the gargantuan emptiness of the warehouse, the bizarreness of the tent, or the sound of his sandals clicking off the concrete floor, but his heart begins to race. Despite himself, he feels unsettled. 

Focus, dipshit, he thinks, digging his nails into his palm. A little fucking focus would go a long way here. 

Paradizo lopes up to the front of the tent. He takes a breath, mutters an expletive for reassurance, and steps inside. 

Inside, Paradizo’s eyes take a second to adjust to the darkness. After a moment, the first thing he sees is a leather chair. The second is an old-school TV, static covering its surface. And the third is the two people, standing to either side of it. 

Paradizo cautiously takes a step inside, looking at the darkened people as he does. To the left of the TV stands a middle-aged man who holds a box in both hands. To the right stands a young woman, who carries a case by her side. Both of them wear chunky headphones, reflective goggles, and wide smiles. Their heads turn to face him in unison as he walks around the chair, creating an unsettling effect. 

The woman makes a motion with her free hand. “Please have a seat,” she says in a strangely cheery voice, smiling warmly. “The Host will be with you shortly.” 

Paradizo obeys, watching as the woman’s smile disappears and her hand falls back to her side. He turns to the TV and stares into it. This might be freaky shit, but he’s seen freakier in the world of Stands.

Slowly, a droning sound cuts through the static, making Paradizo wince. 

“Connection established,” says a voice, fuzzy with distortion. 

A face forms in the churning static. The Host smiles. 

“Tell us, Paradizo,” he says in a monotone. “What do you know about delusions?”

Paradizo raises his eyebrows. “Huh?” 

The seat suddenly shifts beneath Paradizo — the leather transforms into something cheaper, and a buckle latches itself around his chest. He looks around to find himself in an unfamiliar space, a packed collection of chairs with a curved ceiling. A sleeping old man sits to his right, and a window is to his left. He glances out the window, and his eyes widen. 

Holy shit. 

He’s never seen the city from so high up before. 

“Take airplane mode, for example,” says the Host over the intercom. “The Federal Communications commission banned wireless transmissions aboard planes twenty years ago, despite no evidence that they had any impact on the functions of aircraft.”  

Suddenly, Paradizo feels the plane lurch under him, once, twice, three times. Confused shouts begin to surround him. He grips his armrests, feeling a terror in his gut as the plane begins to plummet. 

“Even with the dearth of evidence,” says the Host, voice booming over the screams and the whistling of air, “including an ‘airplane mode’ is now an emerging practice among phone manufacturers. Despite the fact that these communications have no causally proven effect, they continue to be feared.” 

“Hey!” shouts Paradizo, fury and panic filling his voice. “What the actual —”

“Why?” 

In the space between seconds, the airplane interior disappears. Paradizo finds himself right back in the dark tent, heart pounding in his chest. He swallows. What the fuck is the Host on about? 

The TV screen flicks on once more — then another, and another. Paradizo suddenly finds himself with TV screens surrounding him, all of them showing grainy footage of powerlines, lab-coated doctors and news anchors. 

“Or, for another example, the power line cancer scandal. In 1979, a study purported to show a link between living near power lines and leukemia. Massive public outcry followed over the next decade, and billions of dollars in infrastructure were overhauled. Even after subsequent studies showed no link between the two, the public continued to fear them.”  

The glow of the TV goes out for a moment, leaving Paradizo in complete blackness.

“Why?” 

 After a second, the scene changes once more. Paradizo finds himself sitting on a street corner in the middle of the day, watching people furtively cross at rush hour. Everyone’s heads are down. Paradizo recognizes the look on their faces from years of experience: get me the fuck away from here.  

“A final example, one more pertinent to you. Despite what it may seem, life in our city has not changed all that much over the past year. The murder rate has barely risen, crime in general is slightly down, and in the wake of the bridge collapse, investment in infrastructure has never been higher. And yet people continue to fear for their lives.”

The blackness returns.

“Why?”  

Paradizo sits in the silent darkness for a second. Suddenly, he realizes the Host must want a response. 

“Um,” he says lamely. “Uh. Because… the stuff that they’re worrying about isn’t actually true?”

The TV turns on once more, illuminating a white tile backdrop. As Paradizo watches, a black-gloved hand descends from the top of the frame and reaches through the screen somehow. It waves to Paradizo, then ducks down below the screen and roots around for something. 

“You are certainly close. These events all happened…”

When the hand comes back up, it clutches a gun pointed directly at Paradizo’s head.

“...because of the perception of danger.”

BANG!

Paradizo involuntarily jumps in his seat, his Stand leaping out to defend him. When he opens them after a second, the gun is still there, its barrel smoking — but he’s uninjured. 

“Humans are extremely sensitive to perceived peril, even more than real danger,” continues the Host. “If you wave a gun in someone’s face, even if it’s a mere toy, they will invariably treat you as a pressing threat.”

The hand’s fingers open, and the gun disappears. Slowly, it begins to glow a silvery color, and another hand separates itself. 

“But some forms of danger are less easily perceived.”

In a flash, the room shifts once more. Paradizo still sits in his chair, but the chair has been transported into the middle of a vast forest. Thick tree trunks stand far apart, bent and warped like ragged towers. Through their leaves, the sun casts dappled shadows onto the undergrowth. Birdsong and rustling leaves fill the air. 

Across from Paradizo, a figure wreathed in unnatural shadow leans against a tree trunk. Try as he might, Paradizo can’t quite see the fucker’s face, but he knows who he’s gotta be. 

Here, at last, is the Host. 

Paradizo eyes the Million’s leader. “Where are we?” he asks.

“Our Stand ability is currently showing you a place you perceive as safe,” says the Host. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? You’ve lived in hostile urban environments all your life, so the wilderness is a sanctuary to you. But other people may perceive nature as hostile or dangerous.”  

A huge grizzly bear lumbers between Paradizo and the Host, a severed limb clutched in its jaws. It eyes Paradizo as it passes by, and Paradizo looks back warily. 

“What we are trying to say to you, Paradizo, is that the domain of Stands is one dominated by perception.” The Host pushes himself to his feet as he begins to speak. “How you perceive yourself, how you perceive others, how you perceive life itself. All of these are reflected in one’s ability.”  

“So you’re saying my Stand is like power lines?” says Paradizo, furrowing his brow. He looks up at In Bloom, still floating above him. 

“In a way, yes, it is,” says the Host, pacing around Paradizo. “Because of this difference in perception, different Stand users have radically different tendencies, as their powers sustain and reinforce their own distorted perspectives. We are a fiercely independent breed, after all, and that leads to quarrels.”

He tilts his head. “There’s a reason Stand users tend to attract each other.”  

“I see. I think I kinda get it.” Paradizo bites his lip, attempting to process all the big words. 

The Host waves a hand. “All of this is prelude to our broader point. Since Stand users have fundamentally incompatible perceptions of reality, cooperation becomes difficult. Mass-scale mobilization becomes nearly impossible.”

He looks at Paradizo, who sees a blue eye staring impassively from beneath the cover of shadow. 

“But then, that begs the question: How can the Million exist?”  

“...Huh.” Paradizo looks down at his lap, seeing In Bloom’s hand separate from his own. From what he knows, the Million has a shit-ton of Stand users on his payroll. But every other Stand user he’s met is pretty fuckin’ weird. 

The Host has a point. How do you organize a bunch of people who all see the world in fundamentally different ways?

“Low-level cell members are all recruited for similar reasons,” continues the Host, lifting a hand.

“Money.” A stack of cash appears in the Host’s hand. 

“Power.” The cash morphs into a gold-plated pistol. 

“Protection.” The pistol morphs into a shield. 

“But all of these motivations are ephemeral,” says the Host, as the shield rusts into oblivion. “Ultimately, they are self-serving. Any organization founded around these will ultimately fall victim to infighting, and then dissolution. It takes a stronger force to truly unite people.”

The Host suddenly appears by Paradizo’s side, and he flinches. 

“For an organization made of Stand users to function, what they need is ‘shared conviction.’”

In a flash, the forest transforms into a grimy homeless encampment. Paradizo looks around, seeing ratty tarpaulin tents, sleeping bags, and shattered needles surrounding him. The scent of waste is in the air. Something about the sight seems familiar to him, but he can’t quite put his finger on it — until a figure emerges from one of the tents. 

The kid has ratty blond hair down to his shoulders and a scowl on his face. He wears a puffy sweater vest covered in dirt stains. The hollowness of his cheeks, the skinniness of his wrists, and the gleam of his eyes all communicate the feeling of hunger. Paradizo feels a smoldering anger in his gut as he realizes the kid’s true identity. 

From his chair, Paradizo stares into the eyes of his ten-year-old self. 

“You’ve experienced it yourself,” says the Host, watching as the scruffy child walks around the encampment. “The suffering this city inflicts upon its own citizens. While the Financial District was being given millions of dollars in investment funding, you were starving on the streets.” 

The younger Paradizo walks over to his neighbor’s tent, pulling it open and poking his head inside. 

“While they were manufacturing the dot-com bubble and the housing crisis, you were exposed to the elements.”

He recoils, eyes wide, jaw agape. He stumbles to the soiled ground and vomits onto the ground. 

“And while they were living it up in their fancy apartments…”

Sitting in the chair, Paradizo closes his eyes, feeling the horror wash over him again. Rage curdles in his blood. “Stop this,” he says, in a clear voice. “Please. Just —”

“...you were watching people die in front of you.”  

“STOP!” shouts Paradizo suddenly. “I get it! Believe me, I know this shit already! I know about Stands, and why I joined the Million, and I sure know how fucked up this city is! So why? Why are you digging up my past bullshit? Why did you fucking ask me to come here?!” 

His voice trails off in a quavering shout. The scene freezes, and the Host is silent for a long, tense moment. Paradizo wonders if he fucked up. 

He’s seriously considering an apology by the time the Host speaks. 

“Admirable.” The Host nods. “You certainly display excellent qualities for a Trashman.”

Paradizo’s brow furrows. “...A what?” 

“The Trashmen are the inner rank of the Million. If a cell member shows promising results, they are promoted. Once you reach this position, you take orders from the Producers, and our liaison. You will advance our agenda.” 

The Host’s shadow briefly drops, revealing Betterman’s weathered face and military garb. “You know one of our Trashmen already,” he says in his fuzzy monotone. “Unfortunately, there’s recently been an opening in his position.”  

Paradizo’s eyes bug out. “What?” he shouts. 

Shadow cloaks the Host once more. “Early this morning, our liaison discovered that Betterman was defeated at his headquarters. By all appearances, he was taken down by two operatives from the Bureau of Containment, and taken into custody.”  

Betterman got beat? Paradizo’s forehead sinks into his hand as he feels a black pang of despair. First that fucking idiot invades his garden, and then his boss gets taken down. Just what the fuck has been going on lately? 

“Because of this, there is an opening in the Trashmen. And we believe you can fill it,” says the Host. “You have a Stand that can be developed into a powerhouse, strong survival skills, and most importantly…”

The Host gestures towards the young Paradizo, hunched over on the ground, eyes glassy from shock. 

“A legitimate grievance.”

The Host steps back in front of Paradizo. “We spoke to you before about shared conviction. You have strength, passion, and desire. All you need is something to believe in. Something for your energy to be directed towards.” 

The Host looks towards Paradizo, and the scene shifts around him once more, to something new.

“Paradizo, let us introduce you to rapture.”

Paradizo sits back for a second, slowly taking in his surroundings. What the fuck? The setting is familiar, but something about the scene is abnormal. He squints his eyes, and realizes — 

Oh. 

He feels something stirring in his chest at the sight, an emotion far more powerful than he’s ever known. 

This looks absolutely fucking insane, he thinks. If this happened, it would be the greatest thing to ever happen in this shithole city. Scratch that, it would be the greatest thing to ever happen to him.

And the Host is saying the Million will make it happen. 

He licks his lips. “This is…” 

Completely fucking crazy. 

Absolutely perfect. 

Something worth dying for. 

He swallows, feeling his hands shaking. “This is… rapture?” 

“This is rapture, Paradizo. This is the future promised to every Trashman. This is the Million’s end, the ‘conviction’ backing all of our actions.”  

The Host bends down, blue eyes staring deeply into Paradizo’s own. He speaks with a new emotion in his voice now — pride. 

“This is the world we want to create.”

Paradizo swallows, looking around one final time. “Yes,” he says. “I — I get it now. I understand, Host.” 

“So.”

Paradizo lands on the black chair again, his breath seized from his lungs. The TV is on in front of him, displaying static. A large black box with a hole in the side now sits next to Paradizo. 

The hole looks just large enough to fit his wrist.

“We leave it up to you, Paradizo. Once you place your hand into this box, you will be a Trashman. You can walk off now, and return to tending your garden… or you can work with us and see rapture.”  

Paradizo hesitates for an instant. This is a point of no return. From here on out, he can’t hope to lead a normal life anymore. 

Deep down, though, he knows the prospect of normalcy is a self-delusion. A normal life was never available for a fucking bastard like him. He was fucked the day his mom bore him into this crapsack city, this shitheap world. 

And to attain rapture… 

Well, anything seems worth it. 

Without another second of hesitation, Paradizo plunges his hand into the hole. 

He feels a brief pinch around his wrist, and then numbness. Pins and needles quickly spread throughout his entire body. He winces, withdrawing his hand as sensation slowly returns. 

“Congratulations,” says the Host. “You have renounced your previous identity and committed yourself to the cause of rapture. You have proven yourself as a worthy successor to Betterman, and a Stand user capable of changing the future.” 

The headphone-wearing man and woman standing next to the TV move in silent unison. Bending down, the man picks the box up, and the woman places the case in his lap. They step back, the flickering light from the TV illuminating smiles on their faces.

The man, the woman, and the Host all speak in unison. 

“Welcome to the Million, Trashman Paradizo.”

Paradizo clicks open the latches on the case, then inhales sharply. Inside is a pair of strange, gold-plated handguns, with snub barrels and rings on their grips. Paradizo takes one out and places his fingers through the hole in the grip, watching how the gold’s texture ripples in the light. Embossed cursive text on the top of the barrel reads BIG ☆ BANG ☆ BABY.  

“These tools are from the personal collection of one of our Producers,” says the Host. “Consider them a welcome gift. They have been selected for maximum compatibility with your own Stand. We trust you will make good use of them in your future endeavors.”  

Paradizo nods. “Yes. Uh, thank you, Host.”

“My liaison, Reggatta, will contact you shortly with the details of your first assignment. We look forward to seeing the results you produce. And always remember…”  

The light from the TV focuses in, only illuminating Paradizo. 

“Everything for rapture.”

For the first time in years, a real, genuine smile crosses Paradizo’s face. He feels a desire growing within him like kudzu, more passion than he’s ever felt before. Something about this situation just feels right.

“Yes, Host.” He swallows, nodding. 

Paradizo has always dreamed of being normal. 

But now, nothing will ever be normal again. 

“Everything for rapture.”

Chapter Text

With a click of a lock and a twist of a knob, Ed Henderson finds himself back home. 

After the events of last night, Ed finds himself with a newly gained appreciation for the comforts of his humble apartment. He slips off his worn-out sneakers, feeling the shag carpet through his socks. He grabs Electriclarryland and the toy phone in his pocket, plunks them down on the coffee table, and sits down on the couch, exhaling and closing his eyes. 

Home is nice and placid at this time of day. Faint rays of sunshine pour through the blinds, warming his face. The AC faintly hums overhead, making the room nice and cool. And the couch is nice and soft. Something about the scene fills Ed with a deep sense of triumph. 

Ed has managed to survive this long in the city through a combination of skill, good judgment, and just plain luck. Even after the disaster last year made everything fucky, he’s scraped by with some ingenuity, along with Electriclarryland. All throughout his life, though, he’s mostly been scraping together odd jobs, playing games, and joyriding. 

He’s never really been living.  

But in the past day, he’s become embroiled in the bizarre world of Stands, and he’s excelled. It’s more action than he’s seen in the past few years combined, and it was definitely scary in the moment. Looking back on it now, though, he’s won three Stand fights, snagged himself a real job, and made a cool new friend. He won.  

For the first time in a while, Ed feels like he’s genuinely good at something. 

The toy phone on the table suddenly buzzes, snapping Ed out of his reverie. He reaches down and raises it to his ear. “Hello?” 

“Morning, Ed,” says Cecilia. “How’s your day going?”  

“Oh!” Ed’s eyebrows shoot up. “Hey, lady! Uh, not too bad so far. Spent the night at the Watchtower, but now I’m back home. How about you?” 

“Huh? The Watchtower?” says Cecilia incredulously. “What’d they bring you there for?”  

“Apparently the chief administrator wanted to talk to me?” says Ed, scratching his head. “I, uh, talked to him this morning. Pretty chill guy.”

“Ohhh. He gave you the recruitment spiel, huh?” asks Cecilia. “That’s good. I guess that means you’re hired. Anyway, are you free today?”  

“Uh, yeah, pretty much,” says Ed. “I don’t usually have much happening on weekends. Why do you ask?” 

“I was wondering if you’d want to check out this antiques store with me in Center City,” says Cecilia. “It’s called Paul’s Boutique. I buy a lot of my clothes there, and they’ve got a lot of weird, cool stuff. And no pressure if you don’t want to go, of course,” she adds quickly. “Last night was rough, and —”

“Yeah, I’ll go!” says Ed, nodding rapidly. “That’d be super fun. You got a time?” 

“Really?” A note of happiness enters Cecilia’s voice. “Cool! Wanna meet at noon?”

“Works for me,” says Ed. “Got an address?”

Cecilia rattles off the address of the antiques store as Ed scribbles it down on the back of an old receipt. “It’s right by a subway stop. Should be pretty easy to recognize — it’s got a distinctive look.”

“Awesome,” says Ed. “See you there, lady!”

“Yeah! See you soon!”  

The call disconnects, and Ed puts the phone back in his pocket. 

He exhales. This will be fun, he thinks. An antiques store definitely sounds like it’ll have cooler stuff than the average boring-ass shop. And going there with Cecilia will be pretty sweet; thinking about it, Ed doesn’t know all that much about her. This will be a nice way to get to know her better, especially if they’re working together from now on. 

There’s still some time to kill, though. Ed surveys the stained plastic dishes in his sink, the dust on his floor, the random cards and trash on his coffee table. This isn’t the sort of the apartment someone working for the feds would have, is it?

Ah, well. He cracks his knuckles. Time to get cleaning. 

— — — 

The idea behind Paul’s Boutique started in 1997, after the elderly Mildred Yauch abruptly died of a heart attack. 

Mildred was something of a local legend in the lower Twelfth for her vast collections of dresses, books, tea cozies, quilts, kettles, stickers, cookware, baseball cards, wheat pennies, painted eggs, hand mirrors, throw pillows, moccasins, microwaves, hand fans, wooden nickels, festival pins, porcelain dolls, postcards, bobbleheads, and other assorted memorabilia. The death of her husband triggered a further increase in her collecting proclivities, and she threw herself entirely into the acquisition of various things. After her apartment door went unopened for two weeks, a concerned neighbor made a welfare check. Mildred’s body was found face-down in a six-inch-deep carpet of marbles covering the floor of her guest room. 

Put bluntly, Mildred Yauch was a hoarder. And when her entrepreneurial son Paul was faced with the question of how to deal with her collections, he hit upon an ingenious solution: why not sell them? After a down payment on a storefront and some light renovation, Paul’s Boutique first opened for business. 

Remnants of Mildred’s hoard still remain in Paul Yauch’s present collection almost fifteen years later, but by now, most of her legacy has been bought, bartered, and sold. Because of Paul’s business acumen, the store has been able to turn a tidy profit by buying and reselling used goods. Its location in the Center City district means that it receives substantial amounts of foot traffic, and the hand-painted sign above the awning gives it an iconic, homey touch. 

It’s the sign that first catches Ed Henderson’s eye as he walks down the block in Center City. 

The sign reads Paul’s Boutique in cursive, black paint on white wood. Compared to the polished corporate logos on the stores surrounding it, the sign immediately stands out. The storefront is even more distinctive: with brick walls, a bulky metal door, clothes-laden racks on the sidewalk and knickknack-filled shelves in the windows, the Boutique has the vibe of a mom-and-pop shop. Ed likes it immediately. 

Leaning against the front facade of the store is Cecilia, clad in a knee-length black skirt and a polka-dotted blouse with her purse slung around her waist. She stares out at the passing cars, nursing a lollipop contemplatively.

Ed waves to Cecilia. “Yo, lady!”

Cecilia’s face lights up when she sees him approach. She bites down on her lollipop and pockets the stick. “Hey, Ed! I hope it wasn’t too bad getting here.” 

“Not too bad at all,” says Ed. “That outfit is pretty sick.” 

Cecilia grins. “Thanks! I bought all this stuff from here a while ago.” She jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “We should get going. There’s a lot of stuff I gotta show you.” 

Ed pulls the front door open, then sweeps a hand down theatrically. “You take the lead. I’ll follow.” 

Cecilia smirks. “You really are a gentleman.” 

Ed follows Cecilia into the store. Inside, the store’s walls are paneled with dark wood. The effect is only heightened by the tables heaped with assorted items and the bursting clothing racks that fill the room. It’s cramped, but the smell of weathered paper and old clothes in the air gives the room the feel of a library, or some ancient vault. 

In the back, a balding man with earphones in works through a stack of papers. He looks up at Ed and Cecilia, nods, and puts his head back down, scribbling away. 

“What the hell is this thing?” says Ed, picking up a mysterious, rusted appliance that resembles a cross between a melon baller and a pencil sharpener. 

“I dunno,” says Cecilia. “Looks like some kind of torture implement. But check that out.” She points to an old-school diving helmet resting on a table. 

“Shit, look at that!” says Ed, pointing to a weathered typewriter with keys plated in gold leaf. “I could bang out some novels on that thing!” 

Cecilia and Ed fan out through the thrift shop, pointing out various curiosities on their way: a box set of the 1965 Oxford English Dictionary, a two-foot-long pencil, and a box full of dubiously human teeth. Eventually, they make their way to the clothes in the back, where they converge on a rack of gaudy outfits. 

“This place has some crazy stuff,” says Cecilia. “Find anything nice?” 

“Hmm…” Ed pulls a dark blue shirt off the rack. He looks at the text on the front: Nixon/Agnew ‘72. “I’ll consider it,” he says, returning the shirt to the rack.

“Oh, damn…” Cecilia pulls a teal bathrobe off the rack and regards it with awe. “This is so hideous. I need to get it.” 

“That looks cozy.” Ed feels the material. “What’s it made of?” 

“Silk, probably. Some rich guy had bad taste. Good for me, I guess.” She slings the bathrobe over her arm alongside the boa. 

Ed pulls out a pair of sunglasses shaped like 2001. He closes his eyes and takes his sunglasses off, swaps the new ones on, then looks up at Cecilia. “How do I look?” 

“Terrible,” says Cecilia approvingly. “I’ll totally buy them for you.” She reaches out a hand and plucks them off Ed’s face. 

“Ah!” Ed recoils involuntarily, screwing his eyes shut.

“Oh, jeez! Sorry,” says Cecilia sheepishly. “Are you okay?” 

“...It’s fine,” says Ed, placing his sunglasses back on. “My eyes are just a little sensitive.” 

They browse the shelves in awkward silence for a moment before Ed spots a supremely ugly shirt covered in orange and black zigzags. 

“Hey, look at this!” He grabs a shirt off the rack and holds it over his chest. 

Cecilia looks at the shirt and laughs out loud. “Oh, that’s terrible! You’ve gotta wear that sometime.” She takes the shirt and adds it to the growing pile on her arm. 

“Do you shop here a lot, lady?” asks Ed. 

“Oh, all the time,” says Cecilia. “Especially since last year. I’ve been going to thrift shops even before I got my Stand, but because of its ability, I can’t live without these clothes.” 

“Oh. So are you, like, talking to your clothes all the time?” Ed rubs his chin. 

Cecilia sighs. “I’m able to control my Stand to the point where I only hear the voices if I want to. But touching an object still gives me a general vibe, if that makes sense. And the vibes I get from regular clothes…” She gestures vaguely. 

“Not good?” asks Ed. 

“Not good at all. Mostly a lot of underpaid Bangladeshi workers and boring storefronts. They just feel gross on me. But these clothes…” Cecilia picks up a purple feather boa, placing it around her neck. “These clothes have history. Even the ugly-looking ones have interesting personalities and complex thoughts. And that makes them feel really nice to wear.” 

Ed whistles. “So you’ve got, like, magically good taste. Makes sense.” 

“You could say that.” Cecilia smirks. “Wanna get some more stuff? I’m sure we could find something that suits you.” 

“I’m down,” says Ed, smiling as he dives back into the rack. 

After a whirlwind half hour of exploring, Cecilia plunks down an armful of clothes and assorted knickknacks on the counter in the back. 

The man in the back takes one of his earbuds out. “Brought a friend today, Cecilia?” he asks. 

“Sure did, Paul,” says Cecilia, putting a hand on Ed’s shoulder. “This is my coworker Ed. I wanted to show him around.” 

Ed waves. “Yo.” 

“Ed, this is Paul,” says Cecilia. “I’ve been buying from his store since he still had hair.”

“Cecilia’s one of our biggest patrons,” says Paul, smiling as he punches in a few numbers on his cash register. “Whenever she comes here, she cleans this place out. She’s got a real appreciation for history.”

“Yeah, I could really tell,” says Ed, casting a side-eye at Cecilia. She smirks back at him. 

“Your total will come out to… eighty-nine dollars and seventy-six cents,” says Paul, placing the clothes into a pair of crinkled plastic bags. 

Cecilia swipes her credit card, then pulls her bags off the counter. “See ya later, Paul.”

Paul snaps off a mock salute, popping his earbud back in as he returns to his paperwork. 

Cecilia turns to Ed, clothes-laden bags dangling from their arms. “There’s this really cute little cafe a couple blocks over that makes amazing sandwiches,” she says. “Wanna grab a bite? I’ll pay.”

“Sure thing,” says Ed. No sense in turning down a free meal. 

After a short walk, Ed and Cecilia arrive at the cafe, situated on an innocuous street corner with sleek metal paneling covering the walls. They punch in their orders at a terminal: Ed orders a grilled cheese, while Cecilia gets a BLT. In a few minutes, their orders are ready, and Ed and Cecilia chow down. 

“So,” asks Ed between bites, “how long have you lived in the city?” 

Cecilia swallows. “Why do you ask?”

Ed shrugs. “I’m curious,” he says. “You sure know your way around Center City, lady. Better than I do.” 

“Well, my dad sent me here for school two years ago. He cracked down on high school to make sure I got into a good college, and Gillespie ended up fitting his criteria. He’s really big on academic excellence,” she says, her voice taking on an acerbic bent. 

“Where’d you live before?” 

“With my nana in Florida. My dad’s a big executive. Moves around a lot. Doesn’t have time to deal with his own daughter.” She rolls her eyes. “So my nana basically raised me. I haven’t seen her in a while, but I always think of her when I look at her parting gift.” 

“Parting gift?”

Cecilia pulls the handle of her pistol out of her purse, and Ed nods in recognition. “Oooh. That guy.” 

“Yep. She said Vicious was for self-defense. ‘You gotta be prepared for anything in the big city,’” she says in a faux-papery voice, wagging her finger. “Thankfully, I never had to use him — well, until all the Stand stuff started, but…” She waves her hand. “Whatever. What about you, Ed? How long have you been here?” 

“I’m born and raised, lady,” says Ed, wiggling his eyebrows. “Lived here all my life and never left.”

“Really?” Cecilia swallows a bite of her sandwich. “What’d your parents do?” 

“I dunno,” says Ed. “I never really knew them.” 

He takes a bite of his sandwich, chews, and swallows. The bread is toasted, the cheese is melted just the right amount, and there’s a hint of something else — bacon, maybe? Cecilia really has some amazing taste, he thinks. He’s definitely gotta come back here sometime. 

Midway through another bite, he looks up and realizes Cecilia’s eyes are locked on him. 

Ed swallows. “What’s up?” he asks. 

Cecilia looks at Ed for a second longer, her brow furrowed in confusion. She taps her fingers on the table, then finally asks, “What do you mean… you didn’t know your parents? Did they get divorced or something?”

Ed shrugs. “No, like, I have vague memories of them from when I was a little kid. I’m sure they were there when I was small. But I don’t remember their faces, or their voices, or anything about them, really.” 

“Did something happen to them?” asks Cecilia, concern creeping into her voice. 

“No idea.” Ed shrugs again. “They just were outta the picture by the time I was six or seven. My uncle helped get me to school some days and left me food and money for stuff, but I’ve mostly been on my own.” 

Cecilia shakes her head, momentarily speechless. “Jeez, Ed. That’s… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Ed finishes his sandwich and sits back in his chair. “I think I turned out fine.”

There’s a long moment of silence. A taxicab turns the street corner beside the restaurant. A few stores down, construction workers shout orders to each other and jackhammer the street. Vast crowds of people pass by, their shoes beating out a fluctuating rhythm on the sidewalk. 

“It just… kinda sucks to feel alone,” says Ed suddenly, the words forming themselves in his mind. “Especially in a city this big. I guess you must feel the same way, being away from your folks and all. But when I feel small, I like to think of all the cool shit I’ve experienced. Even if your parents aren’t around, I still am, y’know? And I can see and do so much.” 

He shakes his head. “Just since yesterday, I’ve done and seen a lot of crazy shit. Some of it’s been awesome, and some of it’s been scary, but what matters is that I was there. I did it. As long as I live, no one can take that away from me.”

He picks the zigzag shirt up out of Cecilia’s bag. “Like buying this shitty shirt. That’s an experience I’ll never be able to lose.” 

“…” Cecilia tilts her head. “You know, you kinda make a good point. I’m glad I could help you get some good experiences, then.”

“Heh.” Ed grins. “Glad I could share some with you. Also…” He taps his empty plate, raising his eyebrows. “This restaurant is fucking amazing, lady. I had no idea this shit was here. How do you find this stuff?”

“In my freshman year, I ate out at a different restaurant every weekend,” says Cecilia. 

“Really?” says Ed incredulously. “Why?” 

Cecilia shrugs. “Because I wanted to find the best one.”

“You’re nuts.” Ed shakes his head. “How’d this place rank?”

“It’s definitely not the best, but it’s up there. Top ten, maybe.” 

“Where was the best, then?” 

Cecilia folds her arms. “That’s confidential.” 

Ed groans. “Come on! The least you can do is tell me!”

Cecilia raises an eyebrow. “Maybe I should take you there sometime?” 

“Sounds good to me, lady,” says Ed, feeling a smile cross his face. “That’d be really nice.” 

“Let’s do it, then,” says Cecilia, smiling back. “Wanna get out of here?” 

Ed motions towards the door. “After you, lady.” 

As Cecilia rolls her eyes and gets to her feet, Ed looks out the window next to their table. His surroundings look less hostile than usual — the sun shines pleasantly on the street, and the people walking down the sidewalk look jubilant. It’s as if the city itself is spurring him on. 

Ed feels his smile broaden. For once, everything seems to be going his way. 

— — — 

The next morning, Ed wakes up to the sound of buzzing. 

Groping at his nightstand, he first grabs Electriclarryland, then fumbles his way over to the toy phone. He picks it up and gives a groggy “Yo?”

“Mister Ed!” says a jovial, accented voice. “Finally awake, I suppose. I hope your morning is going well so far.”

Ed racks his sleep-addled brain. Come on, he knows who this person is. This is… “Edna, right?” 

The voice laughs mirthfully. “Oh! You’re simply a riot, Mister Ed. Remember me? Your supervisor at the Bureau, Misti Mountainhop?”

“Riiight, yeah. The monocle lady.” Ed yawns, excavates himself from his gruesomely tangled sheets, and begins to get dressed. “So, uh, what’re you calling about?” 

“We have a new operation for you and Miss Cecilia,” says Misti. “It’ll be carried out this afternoon. Your briefing will be at the Soul Kitchen at eleven.”

Ed pulls his arm through his jacket sleeve and looks at the alarm clock on his bedside: ten thirty-four. Damn, he needs to get his ass in gear!

“Sure thing,” he says, grabbing the toy phone and hauling it onto the sink. “Anything you can tell me about the gig now?” 

“Your team has been assigned a complementary partner from a different unit,” says Misti. “The job is to requisition a dangerous, Stand-possessed painting from an art gallery. You’ll be paid extra, as this is a time-sensitive mission.”

Ed spits toothpaste into the sink and rinses it away. “Got it,” he says. “Soul Kitchen at eleven? I’ll be there.”

“Excellent,” says Misti. “Be seeing you, Mister Ed.”  

Ed pockets the phone. He steps back into his room, grabs Electriclarryland off his nightstand, and heads out the door in a rush. There’s no time to waste. 

After a short subway ride and a walk, Ed arrives at the Soul Kitchen, panting with exertion. A flock of pigeons scatters from the sidewalk as he steps off the street, walking past the outdoor tables. He sees Misti and Cecilia sitting at a table, along with a young, curly-haired dude. 

Wasting no time, Ed pulls out a chair and sits down. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “I hope I’m not too late?” 

“Of course not, Mister Ed,” says Misti, patting him on the shoulder. “We’re in no rush. But now that everyone’s here, let’s begin the briefing!”

Cecilia smirks at Ed. You’re fine, she mouths, giving him a wink.

Ed gives her a covert thumbs up, then sizes up the dude. The man has long blond hair down to his shoulders, and he wears a bomber jacket covered in wing patterns. The man’s eyes are a piercing green. As he looks at Ed, a faint grin crosses his face, and he nods, putting both his hands on the table. 

“So!” Misti claps her hands. “First things first. We were very impressed by your performance against Betterman yesterday. You two make a quite formidable combination. Miss Cecilia, I’m glad to see our training paid off. Mister Ed, your defensive work as most impressive. I’m proud to say we can skip the trial phase and put you to work as a full-fledged contractor.” 

“Hell yeah,” says Ed, pumping his fist. “Does that mean I get paid more?” 

“Indeed,” says Misti. “You’ll receive a pay bump, and you’ll be assigned to more high-priority jobs. In fact, this is what I’ve gathered us all here to discuss today. Mister Henri, would you mind explaining the mission that we’ve assigned these two?” 

“It would be my pleasure, Misti!” Henri clears his throat. “Well — as I’m sure you both know, the organization of renegade Stand users known as the Million is the current top priority of the Bureau of Containment,” he says in a bright voice. “Judging by their choice of targets, one of the Million’s goals is gathering as much power as possible. They usually get this done by recruiting Stand users, but occasionally they look for other methods. Recently, they’ve shown off a high level of interest in urban legends, suspected supernatural stuff, yadda yadda — probably out of curiosity that there are Stands involved.” 

He looks around the table. “All good so far?” he says. 

“Yep,” says Ed. Cecilia nods. 

“Awesome!” says Henri, beaming. “So, most of these leads look like dead ends, but sometimes, it looks like the Million really did get something.” He grimaces. “Never a good sign. But recently, we’ve been trying to lock down these targets before the Million attacks. A few weeks ago, we became aware of a potential target at the Numan Institute, a private gallery in Financial Row.” He spreads his hands. “And we’ve arranged a pickup this afternoon!”

“So we’re going there to figure out if they’ve got a Stand on their hands?” says Ed. 

“Not quite, Mister Ed,” says Misti, wagging her finger. “It’s beyond ‘if’ at this stage. We’ve definitively confirmed that the Numan Institute is in possession of ‘Rhapsody in Blue,’ a painting with a very hazardous, perception-based Stand attached to it. Luckily, we’ve also been confirmed that it’s been placed in a case that should make it safe to transport.” 

“From what I’ve seen, it’s real nasty,” says Henri, nodding in agreement. 

“So!” Misti claps her hands. “You both have been assigned to visit the Numan Institute. Your mission is to establish contact with the curators and secure Rhapsody in Blue. It’s entirely possible that you will be attacked by Million operatives during the process; if so, incapacitate them if possible, flee if not, and make your way back to the Watchtower. Protect the painting at all costs. Do you understand?” 

“Yep. Grab the painting and get out.” Cecilia nods, her eyes flicking over to Ed. “Seems pretty straightforward, right?” 

Ed shrugs. “Could be a lot worse.” 

“And one more thing.” Misti’s eyes sparkle as she leans over the table. “For this mission, you will be under the supervision of Mister Henri Lavigne, the Bureau’s newest White Satin Knight.” 

Henri ducks his head modestly. “It’s my trial mission, so I’m hoping this goes well,” he says. “But to work with the pair who took down Betterman? I mean, I couldn’t ask for anything better!” He flashes a pearly white smile. 

“Mister Henri’s ability is usually better suited to surveillance, but we’re putting him on a frontline mission to provide him with some experience,” says Misti. “Ideally, he won’t be engaging in direct combat, but his ability is well-suited to support. Mister Henri, would you care to give a demonstration?” 

“Sure thing,” says Henri, closing his eyes. “Just gimme a second…” 

As Ed watches, a boxy headset glowing with Stand aura materializes over Henri’s eyes and nose. He raises his fingers to his temple and taps it several times, his lips screwing up in consternation. 

“No… no… no… Ah! Here we go.” 

After a moment’s hesitation, Henri points upwards. “Is this good?” 

Ed looks up, and his jaw drops. 

Holy fucking shit.

Dozens of birds fill the air above the Soul Kitchen, flying in concentric circles. Most of them are pigeons, but there are other types among them; Ed sees a few doves, some robins, and even a falcon towards the middle. Their pattern is unnaturally perfect, and their motions display a pinpoint precision. 

Goddamn, Ed thinks. Now this is one sweet Stand. 

Misti claps her hands jubilantly. “Brilliant! As you can see, Mister Henri is quite proficient.” 

“You’re too kind, Misti!” Henri lifts a hand, and a pigeon descends from the pattern, landing precisely on his finger. “Basically, my Little Wing lets me control birds and see through their eyes,” he says. “It’s pretty useful, but as you can probably guess, I’m basically blind to my direct surroundings while it’s active.” He waves his spare hand over the table to demonstrate. “So you won’t see me facing off directly against enemy Stand users — but my birds can help you in a pinch!”

“Additionally, I believe I’ve given all of you access to my Parallel Lines by now,” says Misti. “Should you need to split up, you should be able to seamlessly communicate amongst yourselves. Mister Henri will warn you of threats that he sees through his Stand, and you can discuss strategies and request backup. There’s no resource more valuable than communication, after all.”

She looks at Ed, then Cecilia, her monocle glinting in the sunshine. “Now. Your mission, once more: Report to the Numan Institute, retrieve Rhapsody in Blue from the curators, defend it from any Million members you face, and return it to the Watchtower for safekeeping. Mister Henri, are you ready?”

Henri gives a thumbs up as his Stand dissolves from his face. “Ready as I’ll ever be!” he says, beaming. 

“You have had time to rest up from the Betterman fight, and I trust you are prepared and capable enough to handle this mission. Miss Cecilia, Mister Ed, are you ready?” 

Cecilia nods. “Absolutely.”

“Hell yeah I am,” says Ed. 

Misti claps her hands. “Good. Then let the mission begin!”

— — — 

Jim Palmer, a security guard working the day shift at the Numan Institute, has never had much of an interest in art. Yet ironically, he’s employed at the most prestigious art gallery in the city. 

Jim’s inability to comprehend art has been a constant source of vexation for him in the past: he’s only capable of perceiving a subject, not its significance. When he looks at a painting, all he sees is a man on a horse, or a pond, or a bunch of fruits. Because of his curious disability, he actively avoids seeking out art if he can, preferring photographs or news clips instead. But when he was fired from a meatpacking plant two years ago, he’d gotten a recommendation from a friend, who mentioned that the billionaire donors behind the Institute paid handsomely. So he’d applied for the security guard post, figuring that his imposing frame would give him a boost. 

After some paid training and a few weeks of acclimation, Jim finds himself sitting in the break room, sipping a mug of coffee and working on today’s crossword. All things considered, it’s not a bad job, he thinks. The gallery is relatively quiet, the rest of the team is competent, and the benefits are good. Sure, some of the curators can be pinheads. But compared to gutting cows every day — well, almost anything’s better. 

The door creaks open. One of the other guards, probably. Jim stays focused on his crossword. 37-across: “compulsory wedding equipment,” seven letters. First letter S, second letter H, last letter N…

K-chak.  

Looking up, Jim sees the twin barrels of a shotgun pointed directly at his face. 

Jim freezes up for a moment before the panic sinks in. He raises his hands, leaning back reflexively in his chair. “I – I – I –” 

He swallows, suddenly wishing that the training had prepared him for this.  

“Don’t… don’t shoot!” he whimpers. “Please! I-I’ll do anything!”

The shotgun lowers, revealing a darkly tanned man with white hair. He wears an open Hawaiian shirt over a bare chest, revealing leathery skin that resembles jerky. “You wanna die, you meathead?!” he says in a crackly wheeze. 

“Don’t, Grampa,” says a young woman, who steps into the room behind the man. She wears a pair of denim overalls over a floral-patterned top. Her face is pierced with studs in several places, and twin red flowers are woven into her blonde hair. She sizes Jim up, putting a hand to her chin. “He might have information on the handoff.”

“What’m I supposed to do, then!?” croaks the old man, tapping his palm against the barrel of his gun. “She’s gettin’ restless!” 

“Round up any more guards around here. I’ll interrogate him. Discoman isn’t paying us to wait,” says the girl. 

“Gotcha, kiddo.” The old man leaves the room, clutching his shotgun in one hand as he scratches his beard. 

Jim looks up at the girl, who folds her arms and looks back at him impassively. Something about the look in the girl’s eyes scares Jim even worse than the shotgun. 

“You know, this institute is so immoral,” the girl says out of nowhere. “Charging a hundred bucks for a ticket to see all of these works. There’s something wrong about that, don’t you think?”

“...What do you mean?” asks Jim. 

“I mean, art is a public good. Every person in the city deserves to see these works! It’s a crime that Numan codger could hoard all this beauty for all his life, and now his estate is price-gouging it even harder.” She shakes her head in disgust. “I guess this job must pay well, huh? Being a dog for these damn corporate leeches.”

Jim balls up his fists indignantly. “Hey! I’m not a —”

The girl suddenly snaps her wrist forwards. Something whizzes in front of Jim’s face, and he flinches violently. What the hell!?  

“Look, don’t play around.” says the girl, looking irritated. “I don’t want to hurt you if I don’t have to, okay?” She lowers her arm and sighs. “Now. What do you know about the handoff?”

“The what?” asks Jim, his mind racing furiously. Is this girl hiding a gun or something? Are they part of the mafia? But what would the damn mafia want with this museum?

“Don’t play dumb with me,” The girl leans forwards, staring directly into Jim’s eyes from close range. “My boss’s boss intercepted an email received by the head of the institute. They didn’t say what exactly was being handed off, but we know it’s going down today. Tell us what you know, or else.”

“I — I have no clue,” says Jim. “The curators probably know, but I just…”

“They haven’t told you anything about a handoff?” The girl cocks her head to the side. “Giving an art piece over to the feds? Nothing at all about that?” 

Jim shakes his head, feeling a wave of relief wash through him. He doesn’t know anything! He’s in the clear. “No! No. Nothing at all. I’m just a security guard.”

“These leeches sure are incompetent. Ah, well. It was worth a shot.” The girl shrugs as something begins to ripple under the skin of her face. “At least you’ll make a good canvas.”

“No. Please don’t,” pleads Jim. “Wait! WAIT—”

“Scarlet Begonias.” 

Something sharp pierces Jim Palmer’s face, and he freezes. 

Slowly, his arm twitches, then his leg. One foot jerks outward, his toe tapping the ground exploratorily. 

He rises to his feet jerkily, facial muscles hanging slack and unmoving, and shuffles over to the girl’s side. 

The girl nods, patting Jim on the shoulder. “Sturdy guy, huh? You’ll make a good start.” 

The shotgun-toting man steps back into the break room. “Saw two more bastards on the way here.” He hocks up a loogie, then spits it on the ground. “Got ‘em tied up in the damn broom closet. You’d think they’d give these guys tasers or somethin’!”

“Nice work, Grampa!” The girl cracks her knuckles as an intangible presence manifests beside her. “This is too easy. At this rate, we’ll have this whole place locked down before the feds get here.” 

“So?” The man picks his teeth with his thumbnail. “What’s the plan, Jan?” 

“Stick to what we discussed, Gramps,” says the girl. “You sweep the upper floors and try to herd people downwards. I’ll assimilate everyone below. The feds are coming for some art, after all.”

A malicious gleam shines in the girl’s eye as something shifts beneath her skin. 

“So let’s get painting.”

Chapter Text

Ed Henderson feels the familiar rattle of the 7 line as it clatters along unsteady rails warped by the passage of time. 

The subway’s 7 train has a bizarre but reliable pattern. Precisely two minutes past the hour, it leaves the Hatch Avenue junction in the southwest, then snakes its way eastwards along the waterfront past all the old, hollowed-out fisheries. Right before crossing under the parkway, it turns north as if rebuked, slicing parallel to the road through the heart of Center City. After hitting all the central stations, it slowly curves northeast, dipping briefly into the Twelfth before jerking west towards Finance Row. From there it continues past glitzy financial offices in pursuit of the setting sun, but it inevitably stops just shy of the city limits at the ever-faithful Monroe Station, before heading dutifully back the way it came. 

Throughout his lifelong immersion in the city’s processes, Ed has become intimately familiar with the workings of its railways. From the austere comforts of the 1 to the avant-garde rebellion of the 10, he’s experienced everything that the subway lines have to offer. And with its easy access to every part of the city from the Twelfth, the variety of its urban views, and the hominess of its cars, the 7 has been Ed’s favorite since his childhood. 

Now, Ed finds himself on the 7 line once again, feeling its familiar bumps and jostles as it snakes towards Finance Row. Unusually, though, Ed finds himself sitting in a four-seater. To his right is Cecilia, thumbing through the yellowed pages of a dog-eared paperback. Across from them is Henri, his face turned towards the window and his Stand’s headset over his eyes. 

Their presence is a reminder that for once, Ed Henderson isn’t just dicking around the city. Today, he’s on a mission. 

“All right!” says Henri, tilting his head to the side. He blinks for a moment as his Stand melts away, then turns towards Ed and Cecilia with a bright look in his eyes. “So! Misti kind of introduced us back at the restaurant, and I’ve been briefed on your abilities. But I figure we should probably get to know each other better before we start working, right?” 

Cecilia casts a side-eyed glance at Ed as she flips another page. The intent is unmistakable: You deal with him.  

Ed scratches the side of his face. “Makes sense, I guess,” he says. “Is there anything, like, specific you wanna know?” 

“Oh, I was thinking basic introductions,” says Henri, waving a hand. “Where you’re from, what you like to do for fun. That sort of thing!”

“Sounds fine to me, bird guy,” says Ed, adjusting his sunglasses. “Uh, do you wanna go first, or…”

“Sure!” says Henri, beaming. “Well, I’m from Montreal. I’ve been in the city for about, eh, three or four years at this point? I came here for school, but I fell in love with the local wildlife, and I’ve remained here ever since!” 

“Uh-huh,” says Ed. He glances over at Cecilia, still reading her book. 

“I’m a pretty big hockey fan, and in my free time, I love going to the public library downtown and feeding the birds!” Henri waves his hands. “But that’s just me. Eh, who wants to go next?”

“I’m Ed,” says Ed. “Uh, I’ve lived in the city pretty much all my life. Went to high school here, and since then I’ve been doing a bunch of odd jobs and stuff. I like watching TV and playing card games.” He shrugs. “Pretty boring.” 

“Sounds cool to me!” says Henri. He looks at Cecilia. “And you?” 

Cecilia looks up from her book for a second. “I’m from Florida,” she says. “I’ve been going to college here for the past two years or so. In my free time, I like… shopping.” 

“Ooh,” says Henri, looking intrigued. “Where d’ya go to school?”

“Gillespie, in Center City,” says Cecilia. 

“Sweet!” says Henri. “Well, I’m glad I can get to know you two better. And I hope I can help you out during the operation today!” 

Ed blinks. “Uh, sure,” he says. “I bet you will.”

“I hope so too!” says Henri chipperly. 

There’s a moment of awkward silence. Cecilia takes it as an excuse to continue reading her book. 

Suddenly, Henri snaps his fingers. “Ah, I almost forgot!” He reaches into a shopping bag on the seat next to him and pulls out two small spray bottles of vibrant orange liquid, handing one to Ed and one to Cecilia. “For you! Chief’s orders.” 

Ed recognizes the familiar liquid inside. “It’s sun in a bottle, right?” 

“Yeah!” says Henri enthusiastically. “They told me each of you were being allotted a bottle of your own, so I grabbed two from the Watchtower before I headed over to the meeting. This stuff is quite precious, though. Only use it on actual injuries, and never drink it. Do you understand?” 

Cecilia inspects the bottle, a curious look crossing her face. She glances at Henri. “I’ve always wondered. How do they make this stuff?” 

Henri shrugs. “I have no clue!” he says, grinning. “It’s one of the chief’s old projects, apparently, but I’ve never learned exactly how they make it. All I know is that it’s truly excellent stuff. Hopefully it’ll help you two out!” 

“Thanks.” Cecilia puts the bottle in her purse. 

“Appreciate it, dude.” Ed shoves the bottle in a pocket on his jacket, then looks up. “So, uh, what’s the plan when we get to the museum?” 

“Ehhh…” Henri rubs his chin. “Misti said she’d contacted the curators ahead of time. They should be there to welcome us with VIP passes, so we won’t have to pay an admission fee. Once we do, we just take the painting from them and go.”

“Grab the painting and go, huh?” muses Ed. Sounds like a pretty easy job. But that’s assuming, of course… 

“What if the Million attacks us?” asks Cecilia. 

Henri shrugs. “The Gallery’s security should be strong enough to fend them off. I’ll bring a few of my birds into the gallery to scout around, but if someone really does try to attack us —” 

A soft ding resonates throughout the train. “Now stopping at Numan Square,” says a male voice, garbled by distortion. “Next stop: DeVine Avenue.” 

“Here’s our stop!” says Henri. “Look, even if the Million comes after us, we are all capable Stand users. And with our Stands combined, we should be able to take them down, no sweat. So there’s no need to worry, okay?” 

He beams at Ed and Cecilia, leaping to his feet. 

“Now let’s go get that painting, team!” 

— — — 

At first glance, the Numan Institute looks grossly ostentatious even for Finance Row. The swooping, angular steel walls and bizarrely shaped windows give it the appearance of a spaceship that somehow happened to land in the middle of a city block. Upon further inspection, though, the gold inlays and arrays of multicolored lights become visible, and the depths of the institute’s decadence become apparent. 

Through a lucrative career in investment banking, Richard Numan became grotesquely rich, and used his fortune to fund international expeditions and purchases of various items of beauty. When he died, his will ordained that his vast private collection of art and cultural relics would be placed in appropriately grotesque storage: four upper levels and two basements’ worth of raw, undiluted luxury. So after five years of construction, the Numan Institute was erected to display Numan’s hoard in accordance with his wishes. Its high ticket prices and frequent rentals to other museums ensure that even after its owner’s death, Numan’s collection still generates shareholder value. 

During his travels, Richard Numan came across a few pieces of esoteric value, as all avid collectors inevitably do. Rumors abound in certain circles about mysterious artifacts in his collection: a diamond-studded ring that draws bad luck towards its wearer, a fresco that contains the face of everyone who will ever touch it, a baton forged of a material resembling genuine Damascus steel…

And a painting rumored to be so beautiful that it kills all who view it. 

Ed Henderson walks alongside Cecilia, looking up at the depraved architecture of the museum. He knows he’s never set foot on this street before, because if he did, he’d absolutely remember this bullshit. The shiny metal roofs and curved architecture look like a giant, melting ice cream cone. He wonders just how much acid the architects must have been on to plan this out.

Henri swings open the door to the Institute as his Stand sweeps over his eyes. “You two can go in,” he says. “I’ll send an advance party to accompany you.”

As Ed and Cecilia step inside, a flock of birds flies over their heads, soaring into the expansive lobby of the Numan Institute. 

The first thing to grab Ed’s attention is the giant set of stairs in the center of the room. The shine on the gold railings and the pattern on the gaudy red carpet ooze excess. The stairs are flanked by a pair of green-covered copper statues that depict stylized male forms. The statue on the left is an angular figure created from various polygons, while the statue on the right is composed of various oval rings, in the manner of a topographical map. 

“This Numan guy might’ve been a little freaky,” says Ed. 

“Oh, for sure,” says Cecilia. “But at least he had neat taste in art.”

Beyond the stairs and the statues, the room is ringed by various sculptures and paintings, with doors to other exhibits along each wall. The polished tile floor reflects the soft lights above, giving the entire room a severe appearance. To the immediate right of the entrance is a ticket booth with prices listed on the wall, and to the left is a gift shop. 

Ed looks around. “Uh. Henri said there should be curators around, right?” 

“Maybe they’re taking their time.” Cecilia looks at Ed, then tilts her head towards the gift shop. “Wanna see if there’s anything good?” 

“Sure thing!” says Ed, grinning. 

The gift shop itself is a microcosm of the museum’s general atmosphere. Gaudy shirts with I visited the Numan Institute! stenciled on them in cursive, large-size prints of the most iconic paintings, small toy sets for any kids that might be visiting — and to top it all off, truly ungodly markups. Not really Ed’s thing, but whatever. 

Ed’s midway through looking at miniature versions of the Institute inside snow globes when Cecilia comes over, nudging him on the shoulder. “Hey, look at this.” 

Ed turns his head and comes face-to-face with a bizarre stuffed animal. He involuntarily recoils. “What the fuck?”

“It’s called the ‘Almighty Squonk,’” says Cecilia, reading off the tags. “Rumored to be a mythical creature that inhabited the woods around here, before the city sprung up. Apparently there was a bogus corpse of it from the 1800s that’s in Numan’s collection somewhere, and this is a replica of that.” 

Ed gives the stuffed animal a closer look. The best description of its appearance would be a hybrid of a dog, a pig, and an elephant seal. The name makes sense, honestly; this is the most squonk-like thing he’s ever seen. 

“Honestly, it’s kinda cute,” says Cecilia. “Plus, it feels like it’s locally made, and thirty bucks isn’t too bad for a place like this.” 

“Go for it.” Ed scratches the squonk’s head, then looks over at the checkout counter. “Huh. Is the cashier on break or something?” 

“Probably.” Cecilia walks over to the register and grabs her wallet from her purse. She pulls out two twenty-dollar bills and puts them down, then grabs a plastic bag from the end of the counter and places the squonk inside. 

“There,” she says. “I even left them a tip.”

“I’m sure that’ll make their day.” Ed looks around the shop, feeling a vague sense of dread. “...Uh, lady, doesn’t it seem weird that there’s no one else in here?”

Cecilia looks around, her brow furrowing. “Yeah,” she says. “You’d think that the workers would be here, at least.”

A bird flies into the shop and lands on the counter, followed by a panting Henri, eyes covered by his Stand. “Hey!” he says chipperly. “Got a souvenir, huh?” 

“Sure did,” says Cecilia. “Hey, have you seen the curators yet?” 

Henri shakes his head. “No. That’s actually what I was coming to discuss. Did you manage to make contact with them?”

“Nope,” says Ed. “Haven’t seen another person yet, actually.” 

“Indeed. That seems to be the issue.” Henri strokes his chin. “I’ve been surveying the first floor with my Little Wing, and I haven’t seen anyone either. It’s quite strange, really. I was sure Misti arranged something for us, too…” 

“Have you seen anything weird through your Stand?” says Cecilia. 

Henri taps the side of his headset a few times. “Hmm. There’s some debris on the ground in some places. I’ve picked up a cell phone, a backpack, a few baseball hats…”

“So there were people here,” says Ed. “Then what the fuck happened?” 

Cecilia looks at him, and Ed instantly understands the look in her eyes. 

Stand attack. 

“Oh, huh.” says Henri. “It seems there’s somebody on the stairs down. I missed them on my first pass.” 

“What do they look like?” says Cecilia. 

“A large man in a security guard uniform,” says Henri. “He’s facing away, so I can’t get a good look.” 

“We’ll deal with him,” says Cecilia, grabbing Vicious from her purse. 

Ed plucks Electriclarryland from his belt and gestures towards the door with it. “After you, lady,” he says. 

Cecilia and Ed file out towards the stairwell, weapons held in front of them. They walk around the sculptures of the men towards the back of the staircase. A near-identical staircase sits below it, leading down to a lower floor. 

Halfway down the stairs stands a broad-shouldered figure, facing towards the bottom. The back of his navy blue jacket reads SECURITY. As Ed watches, the man barely moves a muscle. His shoulders move up and down slightly with his breath, but other than that, he stands stock-still. 

“How should we deal with this guy?” says Ed. 

“I don’t know,” says Cecilia. “Something looks weird here.”

“I mean, he’s the only dude we’ve seen in this entire goddamn building,” says Ed. “I think it’s at least worth a try, right?” 

“...Yeah. He’s probably not the Stand user, anyway.” Cecilia grimaces. “Still. Be careful, okay?” 

Ed grins. “It’s like I said, lady. Careful’s my middle name.” 

With Electriclarryland held in front of him, Ed carefully walks down the stairs. As he gets closer to the man, he hears a strange noise coming from the man’s location. Every few seconds, the man makes a strange grunt. Ed strains his ears to try and understand what the man’s saying, but he can’t make anything out. 

“Watch out, Ed.” Henri’s voice comes over Ed’s communicator. “I’ll send some of my birds down there to scout ahead. The Stand affecting him might be targeting him on visual contact, forcing him to look downstairs.”

“Makes sense,” says Ed aloud. Henri can probably hear him through the birds, he figures. He continues stepping down until he’s a few steps above the man. “Dude, are you good?” he asks. 

The man grunts again, too low for Ed to understand. 

Ed shakes his head. “Can you speak up or something, man? I don’t get what you’re trying to —”

With a painful crack, the man’s head turns just enough to make eye contact with Ed. The look in his eyes is one of pure terror. 

He grunts one final time, and this time, Ed understands his warning. 

“Run.” 

“Ed, come back!” shouts Cecilia. “Something’s weird about this guy!”

Ed steps back up cautiously as two of Henri’s pigeons spiral through the air behind him. One of them soars above Ed’s head, while the other soars through the air beside him. It dips down towards the man’s shoulder, and —

SNICK.

As a child, Ed Henderson was terrified of the ocean. 

Looking back on it, he realizes there was no real rational basis for his fear. He’s never been to the ocean in all his life, and even after seeing Jaws, sharks never really spooked him. He’s gotten over it by now, but rarely, he still feels that childish twinge of fear. 

The thing that stirred this terror in Ed wasn’t sharks, leviathans, or creatures dwelling in the depths, but a picture book about tidepools. With bright colors and cheery words, the book described unimaginable horrors living right on the shore. Huge-clawed crabs that pinch toes clean off, snails and mussels that paralyze a full-grown man with a sting…

And worst of all, the sea urchin. A horrifying creature, a living ball of spikes. Young Ed swore he would never go to a beach in his life for fear of stepping on one. Even now, the thought of seeing a sea urchin still makes Ed shiver. 

As dozens of bone spikes explode out from under the security guard’s skin, Ed feels his entire body seize up at his long-held fear unfolding before his eyes. 

The guard’s eyes roll into the back of his head as spikes sprout from his head, torso, and arms. Before Ed’s eyes, his silhouette transforms into a mass of bone-white, wickedly sharp points. 

One of the spikes stabs straight through the pigeon. It coos in surprise and pain, flapping its wings in a vain attempt to free itself. In an instant, its cries abruptly cease as a smaller ball of spikes shoots out from under its feathers. 

As quickly as they appeared, the spikes swiftly retract. Man and bird fall onto the stairs in crumpled heaps, miraculously unharmed. The man rolls down the staircase, head knocking against each step, before slowing to a stop. 

“Holy shit!” shouts Cecilia, running down the stairs. “Ed? Ed, are you all right?” 

Ed is dimly conscious of his heart pounding in his chest. The spikes were just a few inches from his chest. 

If he had been any closer to the man…

As Cecilia catches up to the shell-shocked Ed, the communicator crackles. “Crisse!” says Henri, terror in his voice. “Goddamn! What on earth was that?!”

“I’ve got no idea,” says Cecilia, grabbing her makeup mirror from her purse. “It looked to me like — like that guy’s bones just went out of his body. I don’t know why they’d —”

“It’s a landmine,” says Ed suddenly. 

“Huh?” says Cecilia, turning. 

“The Stand user put that guy there as a fucking landmine,” says Ed, his voice shaky. He swallows heavily. “When he stabbed the bird, the fucking spikes came out of its skin too. If we’d gone down there together, it would’ve taken both of us out at once.” 

“I’ve confirmed the bird’s vital signs through my Stand,” says Henri. “It’s unconscious, so I can’t swap my point of view to it, but we can assume that attack is, by default, nonlethal.”  

Cecilia takes a few steps down and reaches down towards the man, tentatively placing a hand on his neck. “He’s not dead either,” she says. “So if no one’s dead, that would explain why it’s abandoned. No blood and no corpses anywhere.”

“The Stand user already took out everybody else in the museum?” says Ed. “But that doesn’t make sense. This is a big-ass building, and you’d think somebody would have escaped, right? Especially since the doors are unlocked.” 

“Yeah. And the curators, too.” Cecilia grimaces. “If we want to find the painting, we have to find where all the people went. And that means finding the Stand user.” 

“I’ll remain in the gift shop, while my birds can survey upstairs,” chimes Henri. “You’ll definitely need to stay out of the user’s range, and I should be able to aid in that.”  

Ed clicks his tongue. “Fuck it, I’ll go upstairs. My Stand’s better at covering large areas, and it matches up well against this bone bullshit. See what they got on the lower levels.” 

Cecilia looks down the stairs for a moment, then nods. “All right,” she says, looking up at Ed. “Find the Stand user and the curators, then get that painting back. Are we good?” 

“One hundred percent, lady.” Ed smiles at Cecilia. “Call me if you get into any trouble.”  

Cecilia smirks, raising a fist. “I can handle myself. Go ‘get em, Ed.” 

Ed taps his knuckles against Cecilia’s. “See you soon, lady.”

They look at each other for a second longer. Then Ed turns around and tears up the stairs, making his way up to the second floor. Cecilia turns around and walks down to the basement, carefully stepping around the unconscious man on her way. 

Somewhere in the gallery, an enemy Stand user is lurking. 

Who will find them first?

— — — 

The upper basement level of the Numan Institute is a little too austere for Cecilia Valdez’s liking. 

(But at least the art is pretty cool.) 

Cecilia’s boots click against the linoleum floor as she looks around the expansive, white-walled room. Several sculptures are placed at equal distances apart from each other, giving space for museumgoers to walk between them. The one directly before Cecilia is a complex glass construction composed of various interlocking cubes. To its left is the front half of a vintage car, angled as if it’s emerging from the ground, and to its right is a marble depiction of a man stabbed by a sword. Cecilia marvels at the detail of the man’s pained expression. 

In the various places she’s lived, Cecilia has been to plenty of art museums, but this one has to rank as one of the best. The pieces on display are all individually impressive, but seeing them placed together like this is extremely impressive. She’s almost tempted to touch the sculptures, to sense all the effort that went into creating them. The curators of this museum clearly know their stuff. 

(this collection must have taken years to accrue, says Vicious. 

And millions of dollars too, thinks Cecilia.)

Cecilia walks beneath an arch made of mirrors and past a large stone tablet featuring a bunch of small, elaborately carved faces. She turns a corner into another exhibit — and suddenly stops. 

Another person is standing in the middle of the gallery. 

Cecilia takes a step back and focuses, swallowing her instinctive surprise. She focuses on the figure, a girl about her age. The girl has unnaturally pale skin and curly blond hair, with two red flowers woven into her locks. She wears denim overalls over a shirt patterned with calaveras. She looks to be contemplating a giant brutalist sculpture, a square metal obelisk about five feet tall and five feet wide with a pyramid-shaped capstone on the top. 

(she doesn’t look as rigid as that man on the stairs, does she? asks Vicious. 

Not at all, thinks Cecilia. 

She might just have found the enemy Stand user.)

After a long moment, the girl points to the sculpture. “This piece’s name is ‘Crash,’” she says by way of a greeting. “Sculpted in the late seventies. The sculptor made the mold and melted the metal himself. He intended it as a statement on fascism, on how bluntness and austerity can be used as tools of oppression. Ways for the upper class to quash dissent and disseminate hatred.”

The girl turns towards Cecilia. Her empty eyes don’t betray any alarm at seeing Cecilia holding a gun. “Pretty ironic it ended up here, huh?” 

“...I’d say so,” says Cecilia tersely, her hand clenched around Vicious’s barrel. 

(vicious is ready to fire, ma’am, he says resolutely. let’s “beat the shit out of her,” as they say.)  

“Back when it was first displayed in local galleries, this piece got a ton of hate,” says the girl, waving her hand to illustrate her point. “People said a piece as simple as this didn’t have any skill. It was too simple, too dull. Meaningless, even. The sculptor received death threats in the mail and had to move, which completely upended his professional career. Eventually, that Numan vampire snatched it up, and here it is.” 

Cecilia adjusts her grip on Vicious covertly. If she whips out Velvet Underground now, the girl will definitely attack. 

(keep her talking, ma’am, suggests Vicious. it’d give you time to prepare and keep her off balance.

Brilliant idea, she thinks.) “It’s just a metal shape,” she says aloud. “Why’d people get so mad?” 

“Oh, that’s easy,” says the girl, smiling. “Fascists hate modern art.”

“Really,” says Cecilia. 

“That’s not to say disliking modern art makes someone a fascist, of course,” she continues, “but fascists have a special hatred for it. They need everything to have obvious and evident meaning, to serve a greater purpose. The Nazis had ‘degenerate art’ exhibitions, where they presented modern art as an abomination, something to be mocked and reviled. Hatred of modern art isn’t an inherently fascist quality, but it’s a tool of fascists.” 

She gestures at Crash. “Ironically, exactly what this sculpture was protesting.” 

“Huh.” Cecilia adjusts her stance. “So when people bash modern art on TV…”

“Yep. They’re not fascists, but they’re serving fascist ends,” affirms the girl. “Bashing abstraction as unskilled or hacky is always a tell. And especially with works like this, you can’t get the meaning until you see it for yourself.”

“I hear you,” says Cecilia, nodding. “Photographs never can do an object justice. The physical presence is always the most important aspect.”

“You know, you seem pretty cool.” The girl tilts her head slightly. “I wish we could’ve met another time. Maybe we could’ve been friends.”

Something shifts under the skin of her face, and Cecilia’s grip tightens on her gun. 

“Ah, well. What a shame.” 

SNICK.  

Cecilia immediately dodges to the side just before something ruptures from the girl’s forehead. As a long, thin spike of bone skewers the space where Cecilia’s head was a second prior, she fires a rubber bullet from Vicious with a resounding BANG. Just before it makes impact, another bone spear sprouts from the girl’s midsection, skewering the bullet in midair. 

Cecilia exhales, pushing off against the ground and rising to her feet. (“damn it,” as they say, ma’am! curses her gun. vicious couldn’t quite strike her!)  

“Tch. Saw right through me.” The girl clicks her tongue, plucking the bullet out as the spikes of bone retract back into her forehead and torso. “You’re pretty quick, huh?” 

“You have no idea,” says Cecilia, smiling with gritted teeth. This Stand is more dangerous than she thought. If she hadn’t been prepared to dodge, it would’ve taken her out on the spot. 

The girl grins, her Stand hanging over her shoulder. Its head is a smooth, faceless surface with a thin mouth on the bottom, surrounded by a collar of white-and-red-splotched flowers. “I guess you’re one of the feds,” she says. 

Cecilia realizes that Velvet Underground has unconsciously slipped out as well, its purple fist hanging protectively over her. “So what if I am?” she retorts.

“I gotta admit, I was kind of feeling bad about using my Scarlet Begonias on you,” says the girl. “You seem like you actually understand something about art. But if you’re here to take that painting, you’re a member of the Bureau. You’re stealing beauty to serve their ends.”  

The girl raises both arms. Two wicked bone claws protrude from each of her fists as she settles into a fighting stance.

“So I’m not going to hold back.” 

— — — 

After quickly clearing the second floor, Ed Henderson takes the steps upstairs in twos and threes. 

“Careful, Ed!” says Henri over the communicator. “Don’t trip!”

“Shut up and get me some fucking birds!” snaps Ed. “I want to know where this enemy Stand user is, so I can kick their ass!”

“All right, all right. Copy that,” says Henri amicably. A half-dozen birds fly past Ed, soaring upwards through the stairwell. 

“And you’re sure nobody was on the second floor?” asks Ed. 

“Hey, you saw most of the galleries yourself.” Henri chuckles. “I think a Stand user or victim would’ve been pretty obvious among all those paintings.”  

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” grumbles Ed. “If I have to walk all the way up to the fourth floor…” 

Ed reaches the top of the stairs, emerging on a level with exhibits quite different from the ones he’s seen so far. While the first and second floors look like they mostly had paintings, this floor is populated by historical artifacts. Ed spots a tattered American flag, a display case full of bayonets, and a carved wooden mask on a hook. 

“All right. Sending in my flock on the right,” says Henri. “You clear the left side, and say if you need anything.”

“Sounds groovy,” says Ed. He veers left, running into a gallery full of ancient artifacts. One wall is taken up almost entirely by a humongous stone tablet covered in scrawlings, while the other walls are covered in old-looking frescoes and black arrowheads. Jeez. This guy must’ve had contacts from the Stone Age. 

Among all the strange artifacts, something jumps out to Ed immediately. Beneath a framed skin bearing an ambiguous animal painted in pigments, a large, roughly circular hole is punched in the wall. 

Ed walks across the room. “Got a weird hole in a room over on my side.” He picks up a fistful of plaster, lets it sift through his fingers for a moment, then pockets it. “Think it could be Stand shit?” 

“Copy. I’m seeing similar phenomena over here,” says Henri. “I doubt the bone user could do something like that. Keep your eyes open.”

“Gotcha.” After looking around the room one final time, Ed walks towards the exit, then freezes. 

Two rooms down, a man with a shotgun in his hand is picking his teeth. 

Ed takes a sudden step back, loudly banging into a bench in the process. 

The man visibly perks up at the noise. “Eh?”

As the man turns to face him, Ed quickly ducks behind a wall. The sound of plodding, flip-flopped footsteps strikes fear into Ed’s very soul. He clutches Electriclarryland’s grip tightly. If this guy comes any closer…

“Feh.” The man suddenly hocks, then spits on the ground. “Must be hearing things. This fuckin’ job is turning me into a loony…”

As the man turns around and walks away, Ed breathes a sigh of relief. Either his enemy is an idiot, or Ed’s really good at hiding. Both, if he’s lucky. 

Ed pokes his head out from behind the corner and sees the man walking off. He surveys the man’s back: Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, flip-flops… gray hair, orange-brown skin… and a double-barreled shotgun hanging in his right hand. 

“Looks like I’ve got someone over here,” murmurs Ed. “Some old geezer with a shotgun. You think he could be the bone user?”

“Hmm…” Henri clicks his tongue. “You know, I think it could be worth investigating. I’ll send in a few birds.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then a loud BLAM suddenly startles Ed. He pokes his head out again and sees the man standing in a shower of plaster, shotgun pointed at the ceiling. 

“Dadgum birds,” mutters the man, scratching the back of his head. “Ah, hell. Why d’ya make me do all this bullshit, Janis…?”

“Henri, be more fucking careful!” hisses Ed. “Do you want your birds to get murked?” 

The sound of panicked breathing comes through the communicator. “That codger’s perceptive,” says Henri. “I just flew one pigeon close to the ceiling, and he nearly took it out…” He swallows. “I doubt the bone user would attack with a gun, so I don’t know if he’s our guy. How about we check out the fourth floor and see if there’s anything up there?”

“All right,” affirms Ed. “But tell me if you see any other crazy old bastards or bone dudes up there, okay?” 

“Copy that,” says Henri. 

Ed walks back into the lobby of the third floor, towards the stairwell. He looks around cautiously, newly vigilant for potential threats. There seems to be no imminent danger, only sunlight shining through the glass windows and artifacts placed against the walls. He walks towards the stairs, deep in thought. 

Henri says the bone dude probably wouldn’t be using a shotgun. But then what the hell is this guy doing here? He could be a Stand user wielding a weapon, like Cecilia, but then why would he be in —

“Ed!” says Henri urgently. “Behind you!”  

Ed turns on a dime to see a strange contraption hovering in midair behind him. It looks almost like a drone, with a large propeller humming to keep it in the air. The body of the drone is made up of a tangle of pipes that emit a constant, rattling hum. A long, angled pipe with a white headlight attached extends from the bottom of the apparatus. 

Ed remains still. Is this some experimental art project? Are the museum heads trying out some new technology? Or maybe…

All of a sudden, the pipe swivels towards Ed, and the light turns a vibrant red. 

“Oh, shit.”

Three soft pops come from the Stand before Ed can react. He recoils, raising Electriclarryland and firing out a sheet of Stand mesh — just a second too late, he curses.  

But he feels no pain. 

In fact, he barely feels anything touch him at all. 

Looking down, he sees a smiley face eraser, a stamp, and a ticket stub stuck to his shirt. He reaches down to pull off the stamp, then the ticket stub, but all the junk is firmly affixed to the fabric. 

“What the hell?” mutters Ed. He yanks at the stamp again fruitlessly. 

“All good?” asks Henri. 

“Yeah, it didn’t hurt me or anything,” says Ed. He looks up at the drone as it putters away, its light white once more. “Looks like it just shot me with some —” 

Ed’s shoes suddenly squeak against the floor as he slides sideways along the ground. 

“Huh!?” Ed looks down at his feet in confusion. Did his shoes get possessed or something? What the fuck is going on?

He looks in the direction that he slid, towards the other side of the gallery. He racks his brain, thinking of possibilities. Is he falling towards a particular painting? Maybe it’s a cardinal direction? Or maybe…”

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” he says, swaying on his feet as he feels a powerful force begin to tug at his body. “That old dude! There’s no way…”

“Hang tight for a second,” says Henri. “I’ll send some birds your way!”  

“Goddamn it!” growls Ed. “Two fucking Stand users?!” 

He feels his perception tilting, first forty-five degrees, then ninety. His eyes dart from side to side as he desperately searches for something to grab onto. A nearby glass display case with a couple old swords inside…. It’ll do. He crouches, then jumps with all the force he can muster. 

As Ed Henderson leaps into the air, the ground abruptly releases its hold on him — and he plummets sideways towards the shotgun-wielding man. 

Chapter Text

With a dull thump, Ed Henderson slams face-first into a wall. 

He groans, feeling the plaster against his face as an ache begins to spread through his entire body. “Ugh…”

A few birds flit past him as the plastic communicator at his waist crackles. “Ed, are you all right?!” says Henri’s voice. “It looks to me like you’re —”

“Trust me,” says Ed, wincing as he pushes off the wall. “I know.” 

As Ed rises, he looks up, glancing around the room. His frame of reference has shifted; the ceiling and the floor are beside him, while the exhibit-covered wall is now beneath his feet. 

There’s no mistaking it. Ed Henderson is standing perpendicular to the ground. 

“Looks like this is that scrappy-ass Stand’s ability,” he says. “It got me with these pieces of junk, so now it’s pulling my feet towards that asshat with the shotgun. Making me walk on the damn walls.” 

“...Ahhh. Damn it.” Henri clicks his tongue. “That certainly makes it more difficult to get to the fourth floor.”

“No shit,” mutters Ed. 

“Well, it doesn’t look like there’s any change in the Stand user’s behavior. It might be safe to assume that he can’t see through his Stand. Automatic, perhaps?”  

“Yeah, yeah, but what’s that mean?” asks Ed impatiently. 

“It means that for now, all you can really do is try to find a way off of there.”

“Motherfucker.” 

Feeling a deepening sense of frustration, Ed walks down to the end of the small stretch of wall that he finds himself isolated on. As he walks, he feels the wall become slightly more inclined as the Stand’s gravity curves ever-so-slightly beneath him. 

By Ed’s reckoning, the whole point of the dude’s ability is to bring its victims into close range. His shotgun only works on nearby targets? Bam — this Stand makes every target nearby. It’s braindead simple, mind-bogglingly stupid, and a massive pain in the ass. 

And worst of all, it’s effective.  

The immediate issue facing Ed is positioning. While he’s standing on the wall, he’s a sitting duck for the dude to paint Ed’s brains all over the exhibits. Ed needs to find a way to move out of here, but if he jumps off, he’s only getting closer to the Stand user. 

Ed chews his lip. No matter which way he looks at this situation, he’s stuck. 

A bird brushes Ed’s shoulder, jolting him with the contact. The sight of the bird flying at a ninety-degree angle makes him slightly nauseous, and he turns away. 

“You look a little worried,” says Henri. “Is there any way I can help?”  

Ed shakes his head. “What the fuck do I do here?” he mutters quietly. “I mean, the guy’s got me fuckin’ pinned.”

“What do you mean?”  

“Like, if I try to jump off here, I’m probably gonna fall right onto the guy. And then he’s gonna, y’know, chk-chk, blam.” Ed mimes firing a shotgun. “But if I stay up here, then I’m a sitting duck until he finds me. What the hell am I supposed to do?” 

There’s a moment of silence, just long enough for Ed to pace from the wall’s edge all the way back to the corner. 

“...Can’t you use your Stand?” asks Henri finally. 

“Huh?”

“I mean, can’t you use your Stand to get out of here? From what I… uh, from what I read in the, ah, briefings, your Stand gives you plenty of mobility. It should be elastic enough to support you, right?”

“Huh.” Ed places a hand to his head, feeling something click in his brain. “You mean, like… swinging out of here? Tarzan-style?” 

“Eh… pretty much, yeah,” says Henri. “I mean, I may have assumed wrongly, but —”

“No! No, that’s awesome, actually,” says Ed, his mind beginning to whirl as he whirls around and walks back towards the edge. “I just hadn’t thought of that yet.” Mentally, he kicks himself. How does this fucking guy know his Stand better than he does?

Henri chuckles. “My ability lets me see through birds, but it doesn’t let me fly myself, so I guess I focus on that sort of thing.” 

Ed looks down over the edge, his heartbeat slightly quickening. This is risky, no doubt. If his Stand falls out of his hands, or if he slams into an exhibit, he’s effectively boned. 

But if this actually works… 

Well, he just might have a chance. 

“Okay, bird guy,” says Ed, keeping his voice down. “I’m gonna do it. Keep a few birds around just in case, okay?” 

“Copy that,” says Henri. “Good luck, pal.”

“Appreciate it.” Ed clips the communicator to his belt, then grabs Electriclarryland tightly. Hesitantly, he peers over the edge. 

He exhales, steeling himself. This isn’t great, but it’s the best chance he’s gonna get. 

All he has to do is not fall. 

“Three, two, one —”

In an instant, Ed Henderson takes two swift steps forwards, then hurls himself over the edge of the wall. 

As he jumps, he fires a tendril of plaster mesh into the air. It lances out across the hallway, quickly hooking up into the plaster and digging in. Ed clings desperately onto Electriclarryland as he swings forwards. The rush of air washes muffled expletives off his lips. 

When he reaches the peak of his arc, he cancels the mesh and fires another strand, jerking forwards once more. Adrenaline pounds through his blood — his Stand can let him fucking fly!

Ed swings once more across the hallway, then decides to take a brief break. As he dangles from the handle of his Stand, he finds himself hanging at an angle slightly askew to where he was before. If that old dude is the center, then either he’s moved, or Ed has moved enough relative to him that the axis of gravity is different. Or maybe both…

The concept makes Ed’s head throb. Dammit, this ability is too complicated. Why couldn’t they just send the tree fucker after him again?

As his arms begin to cramp, Ed realizes that hanging in midair may not be sustainable. He reaches up towards an oaken display case and clambers onto its side, his legs dangling over the edge. “All right,” he says to Henri. “So now we know the Tarzan shit works.”

“That was — damn! Impressive!” gushes Henri. “Excellent work! I’ve got to be honest with you, I’m kind of jealous…”

Ed smirks. “Thanks for suggesting it, man. I would’ve never thought of that shit. Got a bead on the old dude?”

“Looks like he’s on the opposite side of the gallery from you,” says Henri. “Stay vigilant, though. And be sure not to alert him.”  

“Aye-aye,” says Ed. He looks up at the inverted gallery above him. The perspective is still fucking with his head, but he’s starting to adjust to it. It’s kind of neat seeing how stuff looks from the side. Something about the way the paintings are turned, and even the way trash bins look… shit, it’s not something you see everyday. 

Suddenly, a strange whirring prickles Ed’s ears. 

He looks down just in time to see the contraption Stand floating aimlessly around him, this time at an angle. 

“Oh, shit!” Ed’s eyes widen. “Bird guy, the Stand’s on me again!”

The communicator crackles. “Damn! I’ll send some birds. See if you can grab it with your Stand!”

Ed clicks the trigger of his taser to send out a sweeping net of mesh, but the Stand dodges out of the way with surprising speed, puttering its way above him. It hovers there for a second, seemingly unsure of how to proceed. 

“What?” says Ed. “You gonna shoot me or something?” 

The Stand shines its light on Ed, the hanging pipe wagging back and forth incredulously. He almost feels bad for the damn thing. What’s the worst it can do at this point — fuck up his gravity again? 

After a second of hesitation, Ed clicks Electriclarryland’s trigger, dispelling the mesh, and raises his taser in the air. 

The Stand’s eye turns red. Quick as a whip, its barrel pivots, and three more soft pops echo through the air. Ed barely even has to dodge; the junk projectiles land squarely on the display case. 

Ed smirks at the Stand. “Fucking idiot.” 

The Stand merely looks back at him, its red light glowing impassively. 

A second later, the case jerks out from under Ed. 

“Holy — ?!” 

Ed fires his taser just in time to latch onto the wall beside him. The display case slides from beneath him, slowly picking up speed. It crashes dead-on into a wall and shatters noisily, spilling glass and assorted ceramic objects onto the floor. The case slides against the wall, then plummets over the edge, tumbling against the floor into the rest of the gallery. 

A distant “What in the hell?” echoes through the halls of the museum. 

“What was that, Ed!?” asks Henri over the microphone. 

“Shit!” says Ed. “The Stand — it targeted the thing I was sitting on! That fucking thing’s smart!” 

Ed looks up at the Stand once more. Its light flips back to white, and it turns, puttering off once more. Slowly, Ed feels himself swinging in place, his legs pointing downwards towards the end of the hall. 

“Tabarnak! He’s coming after you!” curses Henri. “Do something! Hide, or —”

“Well, well, well.” 

The sound of flip-flopped feet slapping against the floor strikes dread into Ed’s heart. 

“Looks like we got ourselves a persistent one!” 

Around a corner steps the diminutive old man, a grin plastered across his face. Beneath the man’s unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt is heavily tanned, sandpapery skin and emaciated ribs. At this range, Ed notices that his cargo shorts are laden with junk, its pockets hanging down past his knees. By some miracle, his tattered flip-flops manage to cling to his feet. 

And most pressingly, the man cradles his shotgun tenderly in his hands. 

Fuck.  

“It’s funny,” says the man in a scratchy, twangy voice. “My Truckin’ is a damn smart little feller. Never targets regular objects ‘less someone manages to duck the pull. Seems you’ve been givin’ it quite the runaround!”

Ed looks around, considering how to escape from the man. The gravitational pull means that it’ll be harder to slingshot himself away. But if he gets any closer to the guy…

“What, cat got your tongue?” The man takes a step closer, smacking the gun against his palm threateningly. “Ain’t you a fed? Shouldn’t you be reading me my rights or somethin’?” 

“Fuck off, grandpa,” says Ed. “Shouldn’t you be in a nursing home?” 

“Hah!” The man chortles. “Ain’t you a spunky one! Sure, I’m a little long in the tooth, but listen here, kiddo.” He raises his shotgun up towards Ed. “So long’s I can hold a gun, I still got some use, don’t I? And so long’s I got some use…” 

He racks his shotgun, and it gives a feeble click.

The man licks his teeth sheepishly.  “Ah, shit. Hold on a sec.” 

He scrounges around in his pockets for a moment. “Now where did I put my goddamn ammunition…?” 

Ed raises his communicator. “Bird guy!” he hisses. “I want all the birds you got! On my signal, sic every single one of ‘em on this fucker, okay?” 

“Copy!” says Henri. “What for?”

“I need a distraction,” mutters Ed, “This might be crazy, but if it works, I can take out this geezer right now.” 

“Aha!” The geezer procures a quarter from his pocket. He slides it into the back of his shotgun, then raises it towards Ed. 

“Now, kid. I need to know where that painting is. My employer is mighty keen on getting it — for what purpose, I ain’t too clear. But when he says somethin’, I listen. So if you tell me, I can make sure you walk out of here with all yer limbs still attached.”

“And what if I don’t?” says Ed. 

“Kablammo.” The man racks his shotgun, eyes fixed on Ed. 

“Fair enough.” Ed shrugs, raising the communicator to his lips. “Get him, Henri!” he barks. 

From everywhere and nowhere, a cloud of various birds descends onto the old man, swallowing him up in a vortex of feathers, beaks, and talons. He flinches, losing his grip on his shotgun as he goes to cover his eyes. “What in the shit?!” 

Ed quells the worry bubbling in his chest. Being a pussy won’t solve anything here. Going upwards might separate him from the guy for a moment, but the guy will be able to catch up. 

No. If he wants to make the most of this opening, he’ll have to go through.  

Ed clicks the trigger of Electriclarryland and instantly plummets downwards towards the man. As the air begins to whistle in his ears, he instantly points his Stand towards the man and presses his finger into the trigger as hard as he can. 

Give me everything you’ve fucking got. 

“YAAAAAAH!” Ed shouts incoherently as he falls through the air. He feels the tendril of mesh reaching out at lightning speed, searching for its target. 

He’ll have to have perfect timing here. 

Anything less, and…

Well, he’ll just have to hope the shotgun doesn’t hit anything too valuable.  

“Shit!” The man’s eyes narrow as he draws a bead on Ed through the storm of birds. He raises his shotgun, bracing it in both hands. “You’re dead, motherfucker!” 

Ed prays fervently as he falls towards the man, concentrating all his sensation towards the very end of the mesh. One more second, he thinks. Just one more second, and then — 

The man’s finger tenses on the trigger. 

At the other end of the hall, the tip of the mesh hooks into the wall. 

Now!  

BANG. 

— — — 

Cecilia Valdez is quickly realizing that a museum is very bad terrain for her ability. 

Since Velvet Underground manipulates the items surrounding her, it occasionally causes some collateral damage, displacing its hosts or leaving them in a diminished state. This usually doesn’t bother Cecilia, as most of the items she encounters are interchangeable, insentient trash. However, inhabiting one of these works of art and potentially putting it in harm’s way would fill her with guilt. She wouldn’t want to warp something so interesting and so painstakingly crafted, with so much personality brimming within it. 

But as Cecilia twists and turns to avoid the girl’s swipes, she realizes she may not have the luxury of abstaining much longer. 

The enemy Stand user’s attacks are rough, no doubt. Even with the limited combat training she’s received under Misti, Cecilia finds the swipes easy to dodge. The girl’s form is decent, but her slashes are reckless and leave her wide-open; Cecilia sees opportunities to counterpunch with her Stand, to fire Vicious, even to land a kick with her own leg. 

But as far as Cecilia knows, even a single scratch will turn her into a human pincushion. So she takes it as slow as she can, sidestepping or deflecting blows, taking care not to crash into a sculpture or get backed up against the wall. Until she knows exactly how this ability works, she can’t afford to take any risks. 

For her part, the girl shows no signs of letting up. She swipes at a frantic pace, each blow chaining into the next at rapid speeds. Gradually, Cecilia learns the timing of the dodges, avoiding each blow with the minimum possible effort. She reasons that the girl’s energy must eventually run out, leaving her vulnerable to a Stand attack. All she has to do is keep avoiding these simple strikes. 

So it comes as a surprise when one of the girl’s claws suddenly curves outwards in midair towards Cecilia’s head. 

With a speed beyond consciousness, Velvet Underground’s arm extends from Cecilia’s shoulder, catching the bone spike in midair. The tip pierces through the Stand’s black-gloved hand, and Cecilia winces in pain as a cut opens up in her own palm. 

She grits her teeth. (Her Stand clenches its fist — and pulls.)  

With a sickening snap, the end of the spike breaks and clatters to the ground. The girl winces, her claws retracting as a gash opens up on the back of her hand. “Yikes. That stings.” 

Cecilia stays silent, one hand clasped around Vicious as her Stand’s arms extend out from her shoulders. (by vicious’s reckoning, you should have the advantage here, chirps her gun. but ensure you remain cautious, ma’am!)

“Guess I’d better mix it up.” Shorter spikes eject from the girl’s arms down to her elbows, and she crouches low, then takes a few running steps towards Cecilia. 

The girl’s attacks are swifter and more compact now. With each swing, the spikes temporarily extend, then retract as she draws her arms back. The unpredictable pattern makes them tricky to dodge; Cecilia grimaces as she avoids one spike by a hair’s breadth. 

(be cautious here, ma’am! says Vicious. if this keeps up…

I know, she thinks. Eventually, she’ll get too close, and I’ll take a hit.)

A violet haze surrounds Cecilia’s arm as her Stand partially manifests once more. 

(So I’m stopping it now.) 

The girl steps in towards Cecilia and cocks her arm back for a haymaker. Cecilia takes the opportunity to step in, reaching her Stand’s hand out to catch it in midair. Velvet Underground reaches for the girl’s arm — 

— but comes up short as a bone-white hand ringed in roses grabs it by the wrist. 

Cecilia has only a moment to feel shock before the girl’s spiked fist collides with her left shoulder. 

“Damn it!” 

The feeling of bone scraping against bone causes Cecilia to instinctually leap backwards, separating the girl’s hand from her shoulder. The sensation isn’t a stabbing pain as she’d expect. Instead, a dull ache spreads through her shoulder, and she feels pins and needles spread down to her hand. 

She extends her arm out to the side a second before spikes protrude from it. 

“Guess you forgot I had a manifested Stand too.” Beside her fully formed Stand, the girl stares impassively at Cecilia. 

Cecilia grits her teeth, Velvet Underground standing before her. “Is this all your Stand does? It doesn’t even hurt.”

“Yep. I assume you’re wondering why you’re not bleeding,” says the girl, tapping her own shoulder. “That’s ‘cause I believe in ‘beauty.’ Because my Stand is a thing of beauty, it doesn’t cut or harm. Its only ability is to sculpt your bones as I will it.”

Cecilia clenches her gun in her good hand. She struggles to move Velvet Underground’s hand from the enemy Stand user’s grip, but she gets no response from her Stand. So if her arm’s out of the question…

“What a shame,” continues the girl. “Your Stand’s got an elegant look to it. Not as appealing as mine, naturally, but still.” She shrugs. “Ah, well. At least I’ll be able to make some art from —”

CRACK.   

The sound of Velvet Underground slamming its head into the enemy Stand’s face cuts the girl off mid-sentence. 

As hairline fractures sprawl across Scarlet Begonias’ face, the girl recoils, blood spurting from her nose and mouth. “Hmpf.”

With its free hand, Velvet Underground follows up with a chop to the enemy Stand’s wrist. With a cry of “NICORA!”, it cocks its hand back, then punches the retreating Stand in the stomach. As the bony figure folds over, Velvet Underground lands a vicious blow on its chin, snapping its head backwards painfully. 

The girl reels back alongside her Stand, then steadies herself on her feet. She wipes blood from her nose nonchalantly, then cracks her jaw back into place. “Damn. Nice,” she says, licking her lips. “Didn’t expect that.” 

If the girl can manipulate her bones, then breaking her bones probably won’t be effective, thinks Cecilia. She crooks her left arm, ensuring her protruding bones are at a safe distance from the rest of her body, then flicks Vicious’s safety off with her thumb. In front of her, Velvet Underground crouches slightly, raising both its hands in front of itself in a defensive stance. 

(Ready, Vicious?

at your behest, ma’am.)  

“You’re awful quiet,” says the girl. “Cat got your tongue?” 

Cecilia shrugs. “This is a job for me: get the painting and get out.” 

She raises Vicious, pointing him directly at the girl’s face. 

“But if this Stand is your idea of beauty, then there’s no way I’m letting you get your hands on it.” 

“Ouch.” The girl smirks. “No accounting for taste, I guess.” 

She raises her fists, spikes protruding out from them once more. Her Stand’s fists shift to mirror the distortion. 

“Ah, well. Maybe I can teach you some art appreciation.” 

Cecilia shifts her stance. They’ve both said their piece. 

There’s only one way to resolve this now. 

Scarlet Begonias is the first to strike, bringing one of its fists down in an overhand slam. Velvet Underground raises its arms in a cross block, catching the enemy Stand’s fist between its forearms, then twists to the side, narrowly avoiding another strike. Cecilia winces as a gash opens up on her side. 

The enemy Stand changes its strategy, hammering Velvet Underground’s guard with blows. Blood begins to trickle out of Cecilia’s sleeves. She shifts her stance as Velvet Underground lands a low kick, briefly interrupting the opponent’s attacks and creating an opening to step back. 

With a cry of “NICORA!”, Velvet Underground unleashes a short barrage of blows on Scarlet Begonias. The opposing Stand sidesteps the blows, then retaliates by raking its spikes across the side of Velvet Underground’s face. Cecilia blinks away a sudden trickle of blood in her eye as she feels newly opened cuts on her forehead and cheek. Her Stand lands a haymaker on the side of Scarlet Begonias’ head, and the enemy Stand staggers sideways. 

As the Stands shift positions, Cecilia gets a better glimpse at the flower-wearing girl. Her eyes are glued to the fight, her mind completely enraptured by the close-quarters exchange. Now that she has the edge, she pays even closer attention, eking out inches of advantage in the scuffle. She’s focused on defeating Cecilia’s Stand, on creating the opening that will allow her to activate her ability. 

Because of this, she makes one crucial mistake. 

(let’s do this, ma’am!)  

She fails to realize that Cecilia Valdez never intended to win the Stand fight. 

BANG

The unexpected shot catches the girl between the eyes, and she reels backwards, genuine panic entering her eyes for a moment. “What —”

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

A dozen shots echo off the walls of the gallery as Vicious fires again and again. As the girl raises her arms in an attempt to protect herself, rubber bullets pepper her from all angles, covering her in bruises and glancing wounds.

Cecilia knows they won’t kill her, of course. Even though they caught her by surprise, all they are is rubber polymers surrounding a metal core. They’ll barely break the skin. 

(but as they say, crows Vicious smugly, they’ll sure “hurt like a bitch.”)

“Scarlet Begonias!” cries the enemy Stand user, reeling on her feet. The Stand backs off, releasing its grip on Velvet Underground. It leaps in front of its user, attempting to block the shots coming her way. As it raises its hand defensively, Cecilia presses the trigger one more time. 

BLAM!

Vicious’s final shot is a masterwork of precision. 

The rubber bullet curves slightly through the air, soaring past the enemy Stand’s hand, close enough to graze its shoulder. It strikes the enemy Stand user an inch above her left eye, gouging out a patch of skin and leaving a wicked bruise. 

The flower-haired girl stands for a second, swaying in place slightly with a dazed look on her face. 

At last, she crumples to the ground.

Warily, Cecilia looks at her intact left hand. She wiggles her fingers and clenches her fist. With a sigh of relief, she takes a few steps back, reloading Vicious with another magazine of rubber bullets. (Excellent performance, good sir, she thinks. 

vicious’s pleasure, ma’am. his aim is true and his strikes are brutal.)  

As her Stand returns to her, Cecilia reaches into her purse and pulls out her container of sun in a bottle. The orange liquid seems to sizzle for a second on the abrasions covering her arms, then evaporates, leaving behind intact, undamaged skin. 

She slides the bottle back into her purse and raises Vicious once more, exhaling. The Stand fight was tenuous for a second, but her plan worked perfectly. With any luck, Ed will have found the curators by now. If not, the effect of the girl’s Stand should be gone. Cecilia doesn’t know where she’s stored the rest of the people in the museum. It might be worth checking around the rest of this floor to be sure. 

As Cecilia steps towards the next exhibit, she hears a concerned voice. (ma’am…

Hm? What is it, Vicious? thinks Cecilia. 

that ability may not be deactivated just yet.)  

Cecilia turns back to see the enemy Stand crouched over its user’s body. It fixes an eyeless stare of contempt on her, then places its hand down on the girl, whose body shudders slightly at the contact. 

“...dead.” 

The girl mutters something that Cecilia can barely make out. With shuddering motions, she places one hand on the ground, then another. Slowly, she rises to her knees, supporting herself with shaky arms. Her steady voice rings out through the gallery. 

“If those had been real bullets… I would be dead.” 

She braces a hand against the ground and rises to her feet unsteadily. Her blond hair hangs limply in front of her bowed head, red flowers hanging askew. 

“My Stand took some heavy damage, too. My head is spinning, and my whole body aches. I feel like I might throw up.” 

She spits onto the ground, her posture straightening. 

“But even with all that…”

The girl brushes her hair to the side, staring directly at Cecilia. The apathy in her eyes has melted into wild determination, and a toothy grin crosses her face. 

“I’ve never felt so inspired.”  

“Yeah, that’s real good for you,” says Cecilia coldly. She clutches Vicious, Velvet Underground by her side. “But you’re running on fumes. How many more of those bones can you create?” 

“Fair point,” says the girl, nodding. “I don’t have that much energy left in me.” 

“After what you did to that security guard, you’re gonna end up in the containment center for a while.” Cecilia cocks Vicious for punctuation. 

The girl shrugs, still smiling. “Yep, that’s entirely possible,” she says. “That’s definitely the likeliest outcome here. You grab me with that crazy Stand of yours, and I get taken to your bosses and put in a cell somewhere. But in order to do that…”

She wags a finger at Cecilia. 

“You’ll have to catch me first.” 

The girl leaps, and a spike of bone emerges from the bottom of her shoe, vaulting her backwards through the gallery. Cecilia immediately gives chase as the girl takes long strides across the floor. She grabs a sign from a nearby exhibit; its surface begins to glow purple as Velvet Underground melds with it. 

“Vicious, lock on!” she shouts. 

(on it, ma’am! he responds dutifully.)

Cecilia chases the girl through another exhibit, weaving past geometric assortments of triangles and carefully carved likenesses of pondering women. No time to appreciate them. The girl ducks into the next exhibit, and Cecilia follows, her entire body ablaze with Stand aura. 

She walks through the doorway — and stops, trailing off to a stop as her jaw falls open. 

The walls of the exhibit are covered in huge, abstract paintings. A few Rothkos, de Koonings, and Pollocks are immediately apparent, but most of the walls are covered in paintings by artists Cecilia doesn’t recognize. The lights show off their colors well, making the texture of the paint clear. 

Their striking colors and abstract shapes throw the amalgamation of humans at the center of the room into sharp relief. 

Cecilia takes a few tentative steps towards the mass. At first, it just looks like a loose jumble of shapes and textures with no throughline between them. When she steps closer, she’s able to pick out people from within the conglomerate: a security guard, an older man in a suit, someone wearing a rain jacket. A rough latticework of bone weaves them all together. Sharp white edges and ivory spikes pierce them, fusing their bodies into a misshapen, heterogenous whole, all hair and flesh and cloth. 

As Cecilia takes another step, she sees their terrified eyes, all moving to focus on her. 

“You like it? It took me a lot of effort to put this together, you know.” 

Cecilia turns her head to see the flower girl, stepping around the mass of people as she gently traces her hand over the outside. 

“It’s a temporary installation, of course, until we get that painting back. They’re alive, but they’re sealed in place.” She pats a victim’s back with pride. “It’s a shame. Isn’t it impressive?” 

Cecilia points her gun at the girl, raising her makeshift weapon with the other. “Don’t get any closer,” she says in a warning tone. 

“I’ve been considering what to name it. Something broad like ‘Humanity’ would be too pretentious. I’d prefer something like ‘Culture-Strangling Scumfucks,’ but that’s just too spiteful.” She chuckles, dragging her hand along the mass as she takes a step closer. “Honestly, I might go with a simpler title. ‘Parasites,’ maybe, or ‘Pigs?’ Those were —”

BLAM.  

“— the two main ones I was considering.” 

As Cecilia holds Vicious aloft, she looks at the girl, stunned. The arm of one of the victims hangs in front of the girl, a bruise from a rubber bullet on their elbow. As Cecilia watches, it retracts back into the mass. 

“Now you get something exclusive,” says the girl. “A glimpse into my process.” 

She extends her hands. “At this point, you probably think Scarlet Begonias just manipulates bones, right? And I wouldn’t blame you; that’s the simplest way to describe its ability. After all. But its power is far more intricate than that.” 

The mass shifts, and a middle-aged man clambers out. With jerky motions, he moves to stand beside the girl, his posture unnaturally perfect. 

“Bones are the core of a living being. When my Stand gives someone’s bones ‘instructions,’ their entire body will move to fulfill the goal.” 

The girl taps the man on the head, and he falls to the ground, curling up into the fetal position. 

“Your muscles can be defied. But bones?” The girl shakes her head. “No chance. Stand still, walk, run, explode outwards — whatever I command your bones to do, it will be done.” 

Cecilia shakes her head. “Is there a point to all this, or are you just gloating?” 

“It’s only fair that you should get some insight into my process, because I’ve figured something out about you.” The girl taps the wound above her eye. “You wield a gun, but it’s loaded with rubber bullets. Whether it’s fed policy or your own code of ethics, I can assume that you don’t kill.” 

“...” Cecilia cocks Vicious. “I don’t need to kill you to defeat you.” 

“I don’t doubt that,” says the girl, nodding. “But when Scarlet Begonias gives orders, the people that receive them don’t just quit after a few seconds. No, they keep on going, until they complete their goals…” 

The male victim rises to his feet beside the girl, bones shifting under his skin. 

“Or they’re broken so badly they can’t get back up.” 

(ahhh. this looks… concerning.

Cecilia grimaces internally. Vicious has a point.)

The girl looks at Cecilia once more. “I don’t expect to win with this, of course. But all great art proposes a question to the observer, and mine is simple.” 

The man’s head turns, and his fearful eyes lock on Cecilia. 

“Just how far are you willing to go to defeat me?” 

“You’re bluffing,” says Cecilia. “You’re overstating your Stand’s power.” (You’re not expecting me to kill these people, she protests internally.)

“Ah, well. Maybe.” The girl shrugs. “Maybe I’m not. Art, like everything in the world, is subjective. I guess you’ll have to find your own interpretation.” 

She places a hand on the victim’s head. “Fetch.”  

The man’s entire body spasms. Before Cecilia’s eyes, he bends down, then crouches into a running stance. 

His feet come off the ground, and he rockets towards Cecilia at top speed. 

WHAM. Cecilia bats the man to the side with her sign, sending him sprawling across the wall of the gallery. 

She turns to see the mass of people disintegrating as spikes retract and disappear. With snapping bones and popping joints, victims clamber off of each other, moving in disorganized harmony. Once freed, they stand next to each other, forming a wall of humanity. 

Before she knows it, Cecilia is almost entirely surrounded. 

Cautiously, she takes two steps back towards the exit. She looks for the girl, but the victims form a near-perfect wall — the Stand user must be behind them somewhere. “Henri, patch me through to Misti,” she murmurs into her mirror. “I might need some backup…” 

For a brief moment, there is silence in the gallery. Cecilia stares at the affected people, and they stare back, their bodies locked supernaturally into place. 

She briefly wonders if nothing will happen. Maybe the Stand user was just bluffing to make an escape. Maybe this is just a show of force. 

Then the first victim starts sprinting at her, and all hell breaks loose. 

Chapter Text

To properly understand what happens as Ed Henderson plummets towards Mickey Garcia, it’s necessary to take a step back for a moment and explore the context of their abilities. 

First, it’s necessary to consider the function of Truckin’. In the year since Mickey has obtained his Stand, he’s rarely stopped to question the nuance of its abilities. It follows his instructions, it brings his opponents to him, and it complements his God-given skill with a shotgun. Hell, sometimes it even slings him a cold one from the fridge. 

But there is one aspect of his ability he’s questioned before: when does it stop?

At its core, Truckin’s ability is to draw objects towards its user. This ability is useful for fighting long-range abilities, trapping targets, and gathering items outside the user’s reach. But the ability comes with a glaringly obvious downside: making objects fall at high speeds towards the user puts them directly in harm’s way. 

After some initial trial and error, Mickey has concluded that his ability’s deactivation is manual. If he doesn’t deactivate it in time, the object will collide with him, and it’ll probably hurt. If he stops it just short, though, its momentum will be canceled, and it’ll fall to the ground in front of him. That makes his targets sitting ducks, more or less. And from there, Janis can take ‘em away. 

But as he stands amidst a cloud of birds, his enemy plummeting unstoppably towards him, Mickey decides against deactivating his ability. Clearly, his opponent can do some acrobatic bullpucky, and there’s a chance stopping him in place might give him just enough leeway to mess up the shot. As long as he’s within Truckin’s domain, he can’t move freely — and he can’t dodge. 

Mickey Garcia plans to hit the perfect shot. And he intends to make it hurt. 

Yet Ed’s Electriclarryland has curious properties of its own. Most notably, the mesh that Ed fires is truly and perfectly elastic. This factor means that it’s practically immune to damage; any attack done to the mesh will be negated as it snaps back into place effortlessly. Even against the strongest forces in the universe, Electriclarryland’s mesh will hold fast. 

And this property has a corollary: like the world’s strongest rubber band, no matter how much the mesh is stretched, it will always snap back into place. 

Accordingly, the mesh Ed fires as he plummets through the air is full of extreme tension from the instant it leaves the barrel. The tension continues to build as Ed falls towards his opponent and the tip of the mesh speeds towards the opposing wall. Even as his opponent levels his shotgun, Ed remains steadfast, holding out for that moment of release. 

As the very tip of the mesh hooks into the plaster, the tension releases in an instant. 

The result of this interaction is as follows. 

BLAM!

CRACK.  

With the momentum of his fall combined with the sudden jolt from his Stand snapping back, Ed Henderson lands a thunderous kick squarely on his opponent’s jaw. 

Ed careens through the cloud of birds at dizzying speeds as the old geezer bounces off the ground behind him. He feels a brief oh shit as he rockets towards the opposing wall, but the Stand’s gravity tugs him downwards. He finds himself hanging loosely in midair in the center of the hallway, legs still pointed towards. 

“Ed! I didn’t see what happened!” says Henri worriedly. “Did you defeat him?!”  

“Slingshotted myself past him.” Ed rocks himself back and forth briefly, then slingshots himself over a corner, landing squarely on his feet. “Nailed the fucker in the jaw while I was at it. I don’t think he’s getting back up from that.”

“But the Stand’s gravity is still holding you, no?”

Ed peers over the corner, casting a glance down at the crumpled man. The Stand doesn’t seem to be anywhere around. He shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe it just hasn’t worn off yet.”

“We can only hope, I suppose. None of my birds got hit, thankfully. But —” Suddenly, Henri inhales sharply. 

“What is it?” says Ed, looking around. “Is the fucking Stand back?”

“C-Calisse!” Henri gulps. “Ed, your leg!” 

“...Uh-oh.”

A pang of dread rises in Ed’s chest as he notices that his right leg feels numb. 

He looks down, feeling a little dizzy, as it slowly begins to throb. 

The back of Ed’s calf looks like it’s been mauled by an animal. A chunk of flesh has been forcibly blasted away, leaving a gaping, aching wound that reveals pinkish muscle tissue beneath. Blood trickles from the wound, smearing his skin and matting the hairs on his leg. As it soaks into his sock, some perverse instinct in Ed’s brain bemoans the effort it’ll take to wash out the stain. 

Ed swallows the bile rising in his throat. “S-Shit.”

“Do you still have your sun in a bottle?” says Henri frantically. “It’ll take some time to kick in!”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s the plan!” Ed bends down, trying to ignore the growing pain, and pulls the bottle out from his pocket. As he sits down and raises his wounded leg towards him, something among the red catches his eye. 

He shifts his leg slightly, and gets a better look. Something is definitely glistening inside the wound. 

Against his better judgment, Ed reaches out with two fingers and grabs a tiny metal pellet. 

“SHIT!” Ed immediately pulls his hand back with a hiss. The wound throbs like a newly inflamed nerve, sending pulses of pain throughout his body at regular intervals. “Mothercunter! Bitchmelon! Fucking — argh!”  

“Why did you do that, Ed?!” says Henri incredulously. “You could have contaminated the wound!”

“Yeah, but… I got the ‘ammo’ now.” Ed holds the pellet out in front of the bird’s face and grins, his breathing slightly labored. “So his shots won’t get through my mesh. With this — dammit, I can win.”

A groan comes from down the hallway. Ed cautiously leans over the edge. 

The old man pushes himself off the ground, then stands tall, rocking slightly on his feet. “You little…” He doubles over and lets out a violent, hacking cough, then straightens up again. “C’mere, you fucking sumbitch!” he roars, flecks of dark blood flying willy-nilly from his mouth as he racks his shotgun. 

“Fuck!” Ed quickly pulls the sun in a bottle from his pocket and sprays it on his wound. The injury quickly begins to scab over and the pain subsides as the lost muscle tissue begins to grow back. Ed immediately pockets the bottle and sprints up the wall, feeling the ground tilt rapidly under him at the old man’s approach. He shoots out a line of mesh that reaches the end of the hall, dragging him upwards and towards the corner. 

“Ed! Stand incoming!”  

As Ed surges through the air, a familiar whirring fills his ears. 

He looks up to see Truckin’s light shining directly onto his face. 

Before Ed can react, the Stand turns on a dime and fires rapid-fire salvos at the exhibits above Ed. A tattered banner, a rusted trumpet, and a case of antique firearms all rattle for a moment, then tumble off the wall, falling directly towards Ed.

"Gah!” The banner flaps harmlessly against Ed as he twists himself out of the way of the trumpet. The case slams into him in the middle of his motion, its glass front shattering. Small shards embed themselves in Ed’s skin as he’s wrenched to the side from the impact, slamming into the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of him. 

Ed wipes blood off of his face, muttering a curse. He looks to see the old man stopped in place, all of the objects falling to the ground well before reaching him. As the old man continues down the hallway, he stoops down by each object to pick something up from the ground beside it, then walks to the next one. 

The guy’s putting Ed between the objects and himself so they hit Ed on the way down. He grimaces, feeling the sting of small cuts across his upper body. When he gets another hit in on this guy…

Ed scrabbles at the corner of the wall, racing to pull himself over. Looking up, he sees the Stand hovering against the opposite wall. 

As Ed watches, the Stand turns and fires shot after shot, hitting every single exhibit along the wall. 

One after another, the objects all hurl themselves downwards at Ed. 

Ed instantly breaks into a sprint, dodging a rack full of cast-iron pans and barely sidestepping an old washboard. A charred slab of steel flies past him with a whistling sound as he ducks to avoid an old-timey camera. A harpoon embeds itself into the wall mere inches from his foot, its handle with the impact. 

Ed’s mind races, reduced to only the processing of stimuli — things flying at him — and the most basic of responses — duck, dodge, jump, run. All he has to do is reach the end of the wall and not get hit. 

Right now, nothing else matters. 

As the old man rounds the corner, Ed vaults over the edge once more, finding himself in a room at the center of the floor. His mind races, looking at the various halls around him. Which room should he head into? 

His eyes lock on a familiar sight, and he makes his choice. 

With a running start, Ed throws himself off the wall, firing a slingshot of mesh through the doorway beneath him. 

As the old man moves, Ed’s gravity shifts, and he finds himself turned almost ninety degrees as he soars through the air. Though the feeling is disorienting, Ed has a destination in mind. He pulls himself through the doorway and into the room covered in Stone Age artifacts. 

Ed looks around the room, surveying his surroundings. A few animal skins daubed in paint, a couple makeshift arrowheads, some spears…

And across the room, just as Ed remembers it, a massive, extremely wide stone tablet covered in arcane scribblings sits against the wall. 

Ed fires a strand of mesh across the room, feeling determination well up in his gut. 

If he plays his cards right, this strategy will be a surefire win. 

The sound of flip-flops plodding across the ground heralds the old man’s entrance into the Stone Age exhibit. He wheezes with exertion, the corners of his mouth slick with blood. His eyes light up with glee as he sees Ed, mesh bracing him against the stone tablet and feet planted on the ground. “You fuck’n… shitbag!” he says. “I gotchu now. I’ll turn yer ass into mincemeat, kiddo.” 

Ed notes that the man’s voice is slightly slurred. Either he did damage to the man’s jaw, the man received a concussion — or, best of all, both. 

“That was pretty smart, what you were doing,” says Ed. “Putting me between the objects and yourself, so I’d get hit when your Stand pulled them down? Real clever for a fucking codger. But you’re not gonna be able to pull that anymore.” 

“Shoot yer mouth off while you can.” The man wobbles slightly on his feet, raising his shotgun. “Now yer really done for, you piece of shit… Any last words?” 

“Nope.” Ed shakes his head, sighing dramatically. “I never wanted to die in battle. Just make it quick.” 

The plan is simple, but practically guaranteed. Placing himself back against the tablet nullifies his opponent’s Stand, making it near-impossible to get a good hit in on him with falling items. The moment this idiot goes to shoot, Ed will cancel the mesh that phases through the tablet and holds him against the wall. He’ll fire out a new mesh made of the shotgun pellet, absorbing the incoming shot, then disarm the man before he knows what the hell hit him. Another punch to the jaw, and the dude will be out cold. 

The more Ed thinks about it, the better it looks. There’s no way it can possibly fail. 

So when the man straightens up, eyes glinting with suspicion, Ed is immediately nervous. 

“Hm.” The man strokes his chin, taking a step forwards. “That easy, huh?” 

“Looks like you got me.” Ed shrugs, mentally searching for explanations. Was the guy playing up his injury? And why isn’t he going in for the kill?

“Ya know, I’ve been around the block a few times,” says the man, voice suddenly clear. “Been in this business since before you were born, kiddo. And the only fellers I’ve seen be this nonchalant in front of a loaded gun were either batshit crazy, or plannin’ something.” 

The man reaches into his overstuffed pockets for another quarter and loads it into his weapon as he continues to talk. “Now, what you did earlier could just be pure craziness. You might well be an adrenaline junkie.” He snorts. “Far’s I can tell, most of us Stand users are. But that hit weren’t half bad, you know. And the way you used my Stand’s ability against me? The way those birds hit me at just the right time to give you an opening?” 

He shakes his head, tapping his temple. “Nuh-uh. I know your type. You’re a conniver, a little schemer. You think you got my ability all figured out, you got some way to block my shots, and you’re fixin’ to pull that same trick on me twice. But listen, kiddo: ol’ Grandpa Mickey ain’t as loony as he looks. And I can call a bluff as flimsy as this'un from a mile out.” 

Ed swallows. “Yeah?” he says, taking on a cocky tone. “Assuming you’re even right, then what’s your plan? As long as your Stand’s still active on me, you know I’m gonna be able to jump in and nail you.” 

The man clicks his tongue, raising his gun once more as his Stand hovers over his shoulder. “That’s the trick, kiddo. I normalized yer gravity the second I got in here.”

He points above Ed’s head. “I’ve just been waitin’ for my ability to kick in again.”

Ed’s eyes widen as he notices his feet firm against the ground once more. From beneath him comes the terrible shriek of stone grinding against linoleum. 

Behind his back, the humongous tablet begins to inexorably slide forwards. 

— — — 

Cecilia Valdez is surprised at how effective of a weapon the museum sign is. 

(For the sake of the victims, she hopes it’s not too effective.) 

As the first two possessed targets sprint at her, she swings the sign in a wide arc, sending both of them sprawling backwards with the contact. She backs up towards the door, batting a few more targets out the way as she attempts to reach the doorway to the exhibit. A possessed old woman attempts to approach from behind her; she sends Velvet Underground’s fist out from the sign, hitting the victim with a vicious uppercut (and an internal apology). The woman sprawls backwards, knocking into two other victims. 

The crowd closes around Cecilia as she backs out of the exhibit. Thinking quickly, she switches Velvet Underground’s target of possession from the sign to a metal trash can beside the door. She deforms the can into a tall, wavy metal barrier (slipshod, but it’ll do), then stands behind it, her mind racing as the victims of Scarlet Begonias scrabble against it with their fingernails. 

Cecilia thinks back to the security guard on the stairs. When Henri’s pigeon swooped close enough to him, the Stand’s trap triggered, causing the man’s bones to vacate his body and possess the bird. The enemy isn’t simply sending mindless zombies after her; every one of these enemies is a bone-spiked landmine. Judging by the lack of reaction from her Stand’s hand and her safety so far, the activation range must be fairly minimal, and the fact that none of the victims have triggered, even so close together, means that the Stand doesn’t trigger on other people under the Stand’s influence. 

The conclusion is obvious: if even one victim gets close enough to stab her, she’ll lose. (In pretty horrific fashion, no less.)

But on the other hand, the spikes on the guard retracted quickly — much quicker than the ones on Cecilia’s arm — and once they returned, the guard fell unconscious. It could be that when used as a trap, the spikes’ active time is relatively minimal. And once a victim’s ‘orders’ are fulfilled, the Stand will cease its hold on them; they’ll fall unconscious and won’t chase Cecilia any longer. 

As a victim’s hand reaches over the top of the makeshift barrier, Cecilia concludes that she has two options. The first one is to follow the flower girl's advice: beat the Stand victims until they can’t get back up. The second is far riskier, but also more rewarding. 

If Cecilia can trigger the Stands’ victims without getting hit herself, she can defeat them without anybody being harmed.

A possessed man in a suit clambers over the wall and tumbles to the ground on his stomach, staring up at Cecilia with terrified eyes. 

(Well, now’s as good a time as any to test that hypothesis.)

As the downed man scuttles haplessly on the floor, Cecilia takes a cautious step towards him, aware of the potential danger. The man looks up at her, croaking, “Don’t… come…”

Cecilia holds up her hands. “Relax,” she says, forcing a smile as she edges forward inch by careful inch. “I’ll stay safe. Just try your best to stay still, okay?” (If you even can, she thinks.)

The man twitches, his arms spasming as she steps towards him. She eyeballs the distance as she gets closer. Four steps… three steps… two… 

Her toe creeps over an invisible threshold, and the man’s entire body seizes up. 

Cecilia bends her knees and jumps backwards the instant before sharp spines jut out from the man’s body. 

She lands on the ground safely, letting her breath hiss outwards through her teeth. Before her eyes, the spines quickly retract, leaving the man limp on the ground. From what she can tell, the activation range of the spikes appears to be roughly a foot, and the spikes themselves are about twice that length. Even better, the Stand’s activation is very slightly telegraphed, giving her a window to prepare herself. 

(admirable work, ma’am. vicious is most impressed by your strategic wit.)

Cecilia breathes a sigh of relief as she walks back towards the barrier. There’s only one thing left to test before her strategy is complete. 

She steps close enough to the border to reclaim her Stand. As possessed victims burst through the doorway, she dodges backwards with her Stand at her side. It reaches downwards with soft-gloved hands, picking up the unconscious victim from the ground, and hurls it at the possessed horde. 

With a loud SHINK, three victims trigger at once, their spikes all stabbing at the unconscious man. 

After a brief moment, all three collapse to the ground side-by-side. 

Cecilia feels a swelling sense of triumph. Once the spikes are activated, the victims’ ‘orders’ are cleared, making them eligible to be infected by the Stand’s ability again. But because they’re already unconscious, the ability can’t properly activate. If she continues with this strategy, all of the victims will be knocked out — with no blood spilled and no harm done. 

(And after that, this artist bitch won’t know what hit her.)

The remaining possessed people file into the room, taking extra care to avoid the unconscious bodies of the four victims. Cecilia counts about a dozen remaining. She feels the steady presence of Vicious clasped in her hand. From here on out, it’s a piece of cake. 

She beckons. “Come on. Who’s first?”

There’s another long moment of silence, with only the distant thrum of the air conditioner and the sound of shouting somewhere far above. 

Then every victim moves towards Cecilia at once. 

Cecilia stands in the open center of the room, giving herself as much space to maneuver as possible. Velvet Underground flares out from her body, its hands extended. 

This will be tight, but if she focuses up, it shouldn’t be too tough at all. 

As the first two victims bum-rush Cecilia from either side, Cecilia turns and unloads Vicious on the first one, a possessed security guard. Four bullets hit him in the torso and legs, and he stumbles, delaying him for a crucial moment. 

Cecilia turns away from him towards the other victim, the old woman from the exhibit. Swallowing her instinct to scream, defend herself, or run, Cecilia leaves herself wide open for the old woman to sprint at her. Closer… closer…

When the woman gets within a foot of Cecilia, Velvet Underground’s arms reach out and give a swift, strong push.  

The woman sails backwards as bones sprout from her body, and Cecilia turns to nail the rising security guard with two more bullets. After a few seconds, Velvet Underground catches the woman with two hands before she touches the ground, then swiftly turns to Cecilia’s other side and gently tosses the woman towards the security guard. 

The security guard’s spikes activate. In a moment, he slumps down, joining the old woman in a heap on the ground. 

Cecilia exhales heavily. (Two down. Too damn many to go.)

As four more victims sprint towards Cecilia from all sides, she reasons that her Stand’s body might not be the best suited for this situation. She reaches for another exhibit sign and pushes Velvet Underground inside of it. With a thought, the sign’s surface curves in the manner of a very thick hockey stick — perfect for corralling the victims. 

This time, she permits the sign’s voice to reach her ears. (Intruders! it cries shrilly. Intruders! In our exhibit! Mendacity! Horror! Hellfire and damnation!

Well? says Cecilia. Are we just going to let this girl’s goons trample your prizes?

Burn! Tear! Flog every one of them! it declares. No quarter! No mercy! All hell to those who would trample on our consulate!

Cecilia sees no reason to disagree.) She swings the sign in a wide arc, and it catches two of the victims at once, hurling them onto the existing pile. As their spikes activate, she turns towards a nearby victim and prods him away, sending him sprawling between two sculptures to the side. The fourth reaches a dangerously close distance, and Cecilia fends them off, parrying each blow with the sign. 

When the victim falters for a moment, Cecilia pulls out Vicious and nails the victim right between the eyes with a rubber bullet. 

The stunning lasts long enough for Cecilia to chuck the victim onto the pile of slumped bodies. She turns towards the third and hooks him in close with her Stand, then pushes him halfway across the exhibit as he activates. 

(Six down. The sign cries for holy war in her hands.) No time to rest, though: all the remaining victims charge Cecilia at once. 

As the possessed opponents bear down on her, Cecilia sinks herself entirely into the battle. She parries, dodges, and strikes, launching her opponents towards the pile at every opportunity. (Seven, eight, nine… the pile grows higher with each successful strike.) Every time an enemy gets close enough to risk activating, she stuns them with Vicious or bashes them away with the sign. (Ten, eleven, twelve… scarcely any effort at all.) She covers every angle, watches every opponent. (Thirteen, fourteen… the sign screams incoherently, slashing of its own volition, wielding her more than she wields it.) For a blissful moment, Cecilia’s mind and her Stand are perfectly aligned. 

When that moment ends, she finds herself panting on one knee with the sign in one hand, Vicious in the other, and eighteen unconscious civilians scattered around her in various states of unconsciousness. 

(Purged! Purged! All purged! cries the sign. Glorious victory! Astounding! Brilliant! Magnanimous!)  

Cecilia lays the sign down beside her and exhales, standing up as her Stand returns to her. Though her body is slightly sore, she still feels plenty of Stand power left in her reserves. She pulls a fresh magazine of rubber bullets from her bag and loads it into Vicious. 

(strong work, ma’am, says Vicious as she chambers a bullet. a little sloppier than vicious would’ve liked, but still admirable nevertheless. and without severely damaging any of them? a bang-up job!

Thanks, thinks Cecilia. But don’t congratulate me too much just yet.) She cracks her wrists and knuckles as she appraises her surroundings. The threat is dealt with; the victims are all freed from the Stand’s control, and should be fine with a visit to the doctor and some trauma therapy. 

All Cecilia has to do now is find and defeat the enemy Stand user. 

Yet as the sound of something dragging against the ground echoes off the walls, Cecilia gets the feeling that she won’t go down as easily as her victims. 

“I predicted it,” says the flower girl’s voice from an adjoining room. “I expected you to outlast my thralls. I don’t know exactly what your Stand power is, but I can guess it must be pretty flexible to last you that long.”

Cecilia turns to see the girl walking back into the exhibit, tucking her blond tresses over her shoulder. Her Stand drags a huge wooden crate along the ground behind her. Cecilia involuntarily raises Vicious, though she’s not sure how much good he’ll do at this distance. (vicious takes offense to that assertion.)

“Then why’d you bother sending them after me?” she says suspiciously. 

“Ah, well. It was more of a diversion than anything,” says the girl, shrugging. “An excuse for me to check out the storage room here.” She works the knot tying the crate shut as she speaks. “Discoman dispatched me here to find a painting, but I did some research on this pitiful excuse for a museum last night. Surprisingly, there’s a comprehensive database of everything in Richard Numan’s collection on the website.”

“So you’re stealing a sculpture for yourself?” says Cecilia. 

“Heh. Nah, then I’d just be as bad as Numan, wouldn’t I?” The girl successfully unties the knot and pulls the lid off the crate, rooting around inside the box. “No, nothing of the sort. But I was planning to check out the basement at some point, because they have some really interesting stuff in storage. See, Richard Numan didn’t just buy art. He also bought historical artifacts from throughout history, cultural relics from around the world — and best of all, on display until just last year…”

The girl looks up at Cecilia, a diabolical sparkle in her eyes as she reaches into the crate. 

“Dinosaur bones.”

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

The moment Cecilia understands what the girl says, her fingers instinctually tighten around Vicious, pulling his trigger again and again. But every bullet pings off of the newly formed carapace that swiftly spreads around the flower girl, enveloping her entire body in smooth ivory. 

“It’s just assorted bones, of course,” says the girl as the armor spreads around her chest. “An entire dinosaur skeleton couldn’t fit in here. But the moment I saw that this was in their collection, I simply knew I had to have it.” 

The bones spread across the girl’s face, covering it in a featureless mask with slits for the eyes and mouth. 

“The opportunity to use material this potent doesn’t come around every day.”

She rises from the crate, and rises, and rises. Cecilia gulps as she realizes the girl must be standing a full foot above her usual height. The suit surrounding her entire body is smooth, with spikes jutting from its joints and adorning the chest. Her gauntlets end in vicious spikes, and her hair flows out from her makeshift helmet, the red flowers contrasting with her bone-white garb. Scarlet Begonias floats behind her, its serrated arms extended into the air in exaltation. 

The flower girl raises a hand, and her voice reverberates throughout the room.

“I suggest you run.”  

Cecilia turns on a dime and heeds the girl’s advice. 

As Cecilia runs wildly for cover, five spikes shoot out from the girl’s hand at staggering speeds. Cecilia only manages to dodge them by throwing herself to the floor. The girl sweeps down, and Cecilia rolls behind an intricately carved glass structure, wincing as the girl shatters it with more spikes. Didn’t she say she appreciated art?

The girl’s armor doesn’t have any obvious cracks in it for Vicious to exploit. (not like he’d need any, of course.) The range of her ability seems to be improved, too, and its speed is as absurd as ever. How can Cecilia defeat her now?

A few more spikes shoot out from the girl’s chest, and Cecilia narrowly avoids them. If the girl can only maintain a certain number of spikes, she can potentially dodge them, right? And if the bone doesn’t affect Velvet Underground…

She’s midway through charting a plan to get in close when the girl’s armor suddenly freezes, locking in place. 

Cecilia’s eyes widen in recognition, and she frantically looks around for a suitable shelter. A broad, wide steel obelisk beside her — it’ll do. She ducks behind the sculpture in the nick of time. 

The bone armor erupts into a ball of spikes that fills the entire room, stabbing straight through sculptures and digging into the walls. The harsh sound of scraping and crashing surrounds Cecilia, and she closes her eyes, hoping against hope that her shelter will hold out, that the ability won’t scratch her. Just one moment more, and she might have a chance. 

Finally, the spikes retract, and the only sound left is the pounding of Cecilia’s heart in her ears. 

“This is my magnum opus,” says the Stand user, pride creeping into her voice. “Now, I stand at the pinnacle of beauty and functionality. In form, in function, in range… Scarlet Begonias has surpassed all its limits. I’ve made an unparalleled masterwork, a piece to echo throughout the ages.”

Cecilia hears the cracking of bone, followed by a thunderous step. 

“And I couldn’t have done it without you.”  

Another step. 

“You taught me about the beauty of life, its ephemeral, fleeting glory.” 

Another. Cecilia’s mind begins to race.

“You provided me with a challenge, and I overcame it.” 

Cecilia touches the side of her head. What can she do here?

“For that, I am grateful. I will be kind to you. You will show me the location of this painting.”

Velvet Underground will get turned into a pincushion if she enters close range. Vicious won’t be able to break the opponent’s armor. What can she do? 

“Your talents will not be wasted in the Bureau any longer. My boss will make good use of you.”

The girl takes another step, drawing perilously close to Cecilia’s hiding spot. 

“It’s the least I can do for my greatest collaborator.”

Cecilia desperately presses herself against the sculpture, trying in vain to hide herself from the enemy Stand user. She hopes for something, anything, any way to fight back. All she needs is an option. 

Her bare hand brushes the surface of the sculpture, and it begins to vibrate gently against her.  

(YOU SEEM TO BE STRUGGLING IN YOUR QUEST, COMRADE.)

A powerful voice booms through Cecilia’s soul, like nothing she’s ever heard. Not even Vicious’s voice is this forceful. She sits there, struck momentarily dumb by surprise, as the voice continues. 

(YOU ARE MET WITH A POWERFUL ADVERSARY. A FORCE YOU CANNOT POSSIBLY CONTEST WITH YOUR OWN POWER. IS THIS SO?

A bit of a brutal assessment, but Cecilia can’t help but agree. Yes, she confesses, it is. I’m pretty much up against a wall right now. 

THEN I SHALL AID YOU, COMRADE. YOU ARE AN ALLY OF OUR KIND AND A WORTHY CHAMPION. MERELY SAY THE WORD, AND WE SHALL FIGHT AS EQUALS.)

The girl takes another step towards Cecilia. She’s not going to get another opportunity like this. 

This sculpture is her final chance. 

(Yes, she thinks, pushing Velvet Underground’s body into the object. Let’s cooperate. Together, we shall triumph, and win this day.

MAGNIFICENTLY SPOKEN, COMRADE. WE SHALL LIBERATE OURSELVES FROM THIS BLASTED OPPONENT.) 

The metal surface begins to vibrate faster, until its solid surface begins to warp. Cecilia feels it curling around her hand, its cool surface creeping up her arm like liquid. Her Stand has never worked this smoothly before. Resonating this much and this strongly with an object is completely unprecedented. 

This art piece is powerful. And it might be exactly what she needs. 

Through the slits in her bone armor, the flower girl notices Cecilia Valdez standing up from behind the statue, steel coiling up her fist and reaching to envelop her shoulders. Feeling a sense of curiosity, the girl sends out another mass of bone spikes. They shoot towards the girl, aimed directly towards her head and neck — 

— and snap off in midair as something shatters them with impossible speed. 

The girl recoils. “You…” A note of awe enters her voice. “What is this? What… what are you?” 

Cecilia feels the metal secure itself snugly around her torso and amass around one of her arms, forming into the shape of a blunt instrument around her hand. She rises fully as the statue completely wraps itself around her. Despite the sheer mass of the steel, she feels only a gentle pressure, as if the weight is distributed perfectly for her to bear it.

(DO NOT FEAR THE FORCES OF THE ENEMY.)

Cecilia turns towards the armored girl slowly, her body surrounded in Stand aura.

(DO NOT FALTER IN YOUR RIGHTEOUSNESS.)

A fresh vigor fills her body as the booming voice pounds through her heart. 

(FOR THIS DAY…)

Cecilia lifts the newly formed hammer at the end of her arm towards her shocked opponent. 

She speaks in unison with the obelisk, her voice taking on a mighty timbre. 

“You will know the might of Crash!”

Chapter Text

Some days, Mickey Garcia wonders when he became a fuckup. 

Sure, his childhood was pretty damn good. Ma used to make him liverwurst sandwiches on the weekends, and he would play tag in the backyard with his older brothers. Pa was off at the factory, but when he was home, he had a laugh that could light up a room. It was a pretty good place for a kid to grow up in. 

But then Pa lost a leg in an accident at the factory. Maybe that was the start. He stopped laughing, and started spending his days sitting on the couch watching the tube. Ma was home a lot less, working overtime shifts at the nearby diner. With everything going on at once, no one had time for Mickey anymore, and he grew into a sullen, restless kid — cutting classes, stealing cars, smoking a lot of pot. Didn’t do him any good in the end. 

And then Selective Service shipped him off to ‘Nam. Maybe that did Mickey’s chances in. He never got hurt too bad, but he saw all sorts of shit — little kids cooked alive and buddies impaled on punji sticks. When he got back home, he married a decent girl from his high school, then settled down in the suburbs. He was two kids and an office job deep before he realized he was still deeply unhappy in a way he couldn’t understand. 

So he started staying out late on weekends, drinking himself stupid. Maybe that was the kicker. When he was wasted, he couldn’t reflect on what a wreck he was becoming. He bounced between jobs, staying out nights and missing his kids’ lives. His wife grew more and more fed up until she finally gave him an ultimatum: Either Mickey would get his shit together, or she’d bleed him dry in court and take the kids with her. 

He went back to his office job, hoping against hope that something would deliver him from the tedium. One day at home, he got a call from a war buddy. Listen, his buddy said, I’ve got a real nice deal for you. Come do a few armed gigs with me. We hit banks, post offices, stores in the city, ‘n’ make a decent chunk of money in the process. Put that military training to good use. We’ll even give you the gun. 

You in?

By that point, whatever had fucked Mickey up was way beyond saving, because his response was an enthusiastic yes. 

And the gigs were real good at first, no doubt. Good money, if illegal, and low-risk as well; the city officials struggled under the yoke of corruption and mismanagement, and at some point, they’d stopped bothering to deal with armed robbers. Unmarked envelopes in the mail meant that the mortgage was no issue. It was a comfortable, if not honorable, way to make a living. 

Best of all, the work itself was exhilarating. Mickey never felt more alive than when he was at the end of a gun barking orders. His eyes shone with a new glow: his wife seemed to respect him more and his kids looked up to him. Finally, it seemed he’d found a purpose to his life. 

Yes, becoming a career criminal was the best thing to happen to Mickey Garcia. 

But times changed quickly, and one day, the ol’ squad found themselves caught in a sting operation. The rest of his buddies were cut down by gunfire, while Mickey was caught, cuffed, and brought to court. Armed robbery, conspiracy, attempted murder… the list went on. With a joke of a public defender and a new DA hell-bent on making an example of criminals, Mickey Garcia got hit with a sentence of twenty-five to life, locked away in the harshest prison the state had to offer. 

It was a fucking joke. Mickey never killed anyone — shit, he never touched a hair on anyone’s head. But all the same, he found himself bleeding away his years in the state penitentiary. His wife visited him frequently at first, then sporadically, then stopped altogether after the second year. His kids never sent him letters, and he couldn’t blame them; he’d be ashamed of having a daddy in prison, too. Over decades, the system began to break him, his soul slowly withering into the federal concrete. 

And then, one day, Mickey Garcia was freed. Before he knew what had happened, he found himself in a state apartment downtown. With some effort, he found his way to an Internet cafe and searched up what had become of his family. His wife had moved to Florida, and his kids were across the country. 

But attending college in the city was his granddaughter. 

He’d shot her a message on a website, asking if she’d be willing to meet. She replied quickly, suggesting a time and a place. With newfound resolve in his heart, he’d agreed, and made plans to connect with his only remaining family member. 

On the morning of their meeting, while Mickey was riding the bus with hope in his heart, the Byway Bridge attack happened. 

He was in the hospital for a month with a fever. When they finally discharged him, he found himself alone at home, with no job and no word from his granddaughter. And worst of all, he’d begun to hallucinate some strange gizmo following him around. 

Then one day, a man in black appeared from the dark and informed Mickey that the thing puttering around his apartment was no hallucination. He demonstrated his own power to Mickey, then made him an offer. Using his newfound power, working with his remaining family, and best of all, doing what he truly loved — with how tough it was for ex-cons to even get job interviews these days, he wouldn’t get an opportunity like this again. And to top it all off, he’d even give Mickey a gun. 

How could Mickey turn Discoman down?

So Mickey Garcia finds himself standing on the third floor of the Numan Institute, acting on the orders of a punk rocker to steal a painting with his granddaughter. He hefts Casey Jones in both hands, feeling his pockets swell with ammunition for Truckin’. 

He hocks up a loogie and spits it on the ground beside him. Yes, all things considered, today is going excellently. 

It doesn’t hurt that he’s just one move away from finishing this fight. 

His opponent’s sunglass-concealed face shows a look of pure panic as the giant stone tablet begins to shift behind him, drawing him towards Mickey’s position at the entrance to the room. No matter which strategy his opponent takes, Mickey’s got a counterplay. If he just stands there, the stone will tip over and crush him when Mickey cancels the ability. That’ll be the boring way. But… 

The enemy Stand user grits his teeth and kicks off the stone tablet with a shout, sprinting across the room. 

Mickey grins. Now this is the fun way. 

During his time as a robber, Mickey became very good at reading his targets. He can assume his opponent has some way of blocking Casey Jones’ blasts because of his reaction. And because of that, Mickey’s put him into a no-win scenario. 

If the kid slips up, he’ll be eating a mouthful of shotgun pellets. If he tries to block off the shotgun, Truckin’ will send every remaining exhibit in the gallery flying directly at him. And if he gets into close range… 

Mickey feels the throbbing in his jaw, and grins. 

Well, his Stand is gonna have to unleash hell on this little shitstain. 

The kid sprints forwards, weapon clutched in hand, then suddenly stops in his tracks about ten feet from Mickey. As the stone tablet slowly slides across the ground behind him, his eyebrows furrow above his sunglasses. “Huh. You’re not even lifting your shotgun.” 

Mickey scratches his chin. “Don’t you got bigger problems to worry about, kid?” 

“But I figured that’s what you were trying to do,” says the kid, gesturing with his free hand. “Flushing me out with that stone tablet and trying to get me close to you, so I’d be in range of your shotgun. I don’t know what else you could do with your Stand at this point, so…” 

“Who’s to say I’m not?” says Mickey, hefting Casey Jones. “I could just as easily blow yer brains out from here.” 

“Ah, but you said I might be able to block your shotgun,” says the kid, wagging a finger. “Isn’t that a little inconsistent? Why’d you even do this strategy in the first place?”

Smug little fuck. Mickey swallows his involuntary retort. Stay calm, he thinks. The kid is trying to psych you out. The stone tablet is slowly picking up speed behind him — he doesn’t have much time now. 

“You’re talkin’ a lot of big game,” says Mickey, raising an eyebrow. “You’re actin’ like I got some grand scheme over here. You thinkin’ you got me all figured out?”

The kid shrugs. “Maybe I do. You still don’t know how my ability works, so I feel like I got the advantage.” 

Mickey scratches his chin. “What’re you tryin’ to do here, kid? I think I’ve seen enough to get a decent estimate of it. What, you think you got a way to stop me?” 

“Not yet,” says the kid, raising his weapon. “I’m just trying to delay you.”

Mickey suddenly notices that the kid’s knuckles are white with tension, his arm faintly quivering with strain. He squints his eyes to see a thin, silvery band stretching from the nozzle of the kid’s weapon, arcing through the air behind him. 

His eyes widen in recognition as he lifts Casey Jones. This little shit is trying to do acrobatics again! “Truckin’! Nail him —”

The kid lifts his arm, and the tension in the band releases, slingshotting him backwards through the air. He soars over the stone tablet as it rumbles through the exhibit, right on track to flatten Mickey beneath it.

“Motherfucker! Cancel the momentum, Truckin’!” Mickey shouts desperately. 

The tablet grinds a few more feet forwards, then stops dead in its tracks about five feet from Mickey. He exhales, lifting his shotgun. So the kid’s trying to put a barrier between them, huh? That’ll protect him from Casey for a bit, but eventually he’s gotta make a move himself. 

Mickey takes two steps back, surveying the stone tablet. It looks to be about a dozen feet wide. Considering the situation, the kid has two options now — left or right.

 From here, it’ll come down to whoever catches the other one off guard. If they both pick the same direction, whoever fires first wins. But if Mickey catches the kid from behind, he has a guaranteed win. It looks like fifty-fifty odds, but considering Mickey’s the only one with a shotgun, the situation slightly favors him. 

Plus, Mickey has the ultimate advantage. His ability is tailor-made to bring his opponent to him. 

Mickey rummages around in his pocket for a quarter, rotating the situation in his mind. The kid is hiding somewhere behind the stone tablet. If he sees Truckin’ coming, he’ll probably be able to dodge the shots, but if Truckin’ manages to hit him, Mickey’s sure to win.

So all he needs to do is distract the fucker for a second and give Truckin’ the chance to get its shots off. Luckily, he happens to have the ultimate distraction in his hands. He raises Casey Jones, points it upwards into the air, and presses the trigger. 

BLAM.

The shotgun bucks in Mickey’s hands, and he quickly loads the quarter into the back, his ears ringing from the blast. He runs towards the left side of the stone tablet, shouting “Get his ass, Truckin’!”

With Casey Jones held aloft, he rounds the corner and looks around, expecting to see the hapless kid plummeting towards him. But nothing’s there — the exhibit’s empty, save for the exhibits on the walls. It looks like the kid’s just up and disappeared.

Mickey has only a moment to be confused before he hears a rustling above him. 

He looks up just in time for both of Ed Henderson’s shoes to land directly on his face. 

Together, the old man and Ed land on the ground in a crumpled heap. Ed quickly pushes himself off, scrambling to his feet. He kicks the shotgun out of the old man’s hands, sending it whizzing away across the floor. “Not today, bitch!”

The old man groans, blood pouring from his nose. “How…” he croaks, “the hell…?” 

“I got on top of the tablet, motherfucker,” says Ed, tapping his forehead. “Was hanging onto that shit by my fingertips. Bet you didn’t expect me to come at you from above, huh?” 

“Fuck!” The old man pushes himself up to his knees, giving a wheezing cough. “You conniving little shit…”

“What were you even trying to do, anyway?” asks Ed. “When you shot up in the air, I got worried for a second. But your Stand didn’t even try to…”

Ed trails off as the old man stands up, then takes off his shirt, revealing a withered, emaciated frame. He crouches down into a fighting stance, both arms lifted into the air. The bizarreness of the pose confuses Ed for a brief moment. What exactly is this codger trying to pull?

A moment of confusion is all Mickey Garcia needs. 

“TRUCKIN’!”  

The Stand swoops down above Ed’s head, its red light glaring. It fires down a volley of trash that instantly coats Ed’s head and back in assorted detritus. Receipts, coupons, bottlecaps, expired gift cards — their combined gravity immediately pulls Ed downwards, towards the man. 

Ed doubles over for a brief second, straining to stay on his feet. “Mother… cunter…!”

The man steps in, reaching around Ed’s neck to execute a standing guillotine choke. “You ain’t cut out for this life, kid,” he rasps. “I’ll show you real fuckin’ grit.”

Truckin’ fires one final shot, and Ed sways, scrabbling at the man’s wrist frantically. The man’s arm grows tighter and tighter around his throat, the strength of the gravity preventing his escape. His vision begins to go dark at the edges. This old bastard… shit! Is there any way to get outta this?

A desperate idea suddenly appears in Ed’s brain, and he realizes what he needs to do. If this motherfucker brought him into close range, then all Ed has to do is take advantage of it. 

Ed wraps one arm around the old man, drawing them close together. He leans forwards slightly, then falls forwards, sweeping the old man off his feet before he can let go. The pair of men plummet together as the Stand’s gravity forces Ed down into the ground.

“Eat this, motherfucker!” chokes Ed. With his other hand, he grabs onto the man’s forehead, and pushes.  

The man’s eyes widen. “Wha —”

WHAM.

The back of the man’s head hits the ground with the full power of Ed’s accelerated gravity bearing down on it. Because of the angle of his head, the blow is far from lethal, but it induces a nasty concussion. Combined with the lingering damage from both of Ed’s kicks, the effect is devastating. 

Mickey Garcia is instantly knocked unconscious by the force of his own Stand. 

The man’s grip loosens, and Ed springs out from the hold, gasping for breath. The assorted trash detaches from his head and shoulders and flutters down to the floor like falling leaves. He cracks his neck, grimacing. “Crazy-ass fucking geezer. ‘Grit,’ my ass…” 

He sits on the floor of the gallery for a second, catching his breath. Eventually, his eyes turn to the stone tablet beside him. He wonders how long ago it was made. When did those people from 3000 BC carve letters on a big rock? Could they even have conceived how it’d end up, a pawn in a supernatural gambit between two strange men in sunglasses?

Ed sighs, looking up at the ceiling. This job is fucking insane. 

But he can’t deny that he’s damn good at what he does. 

After a moment, Ed raises the communicator to his mouth. “Henri, you there? I managed to take out the shotgun geezer.”

The communicator is silent for a long moment, then suddenly crackles. “Ah! Brilliant work, Ed!” says Henri breathlessly. “That’s marvelous! Look around for the curator, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“Sure thing,” says Ed. “Uh, is everything going okay?” 

The communicator is silent for a moment. 

“Henri, what's the fuckin' deal, man?” snaps Ed. 

“Sorry, sorry!” says Henri suddenly. “I’ve been watching the situation in the basement, and…”

“The basement?” Ed paces back and forth, cold dread entering his heart. “What’s going on in the basement?”

There’s another moment of silence, and Ed loses his patience. 

“Henri, what the fuck is going on with Cecilia?!”

— — — 

Some days, Janis Garcia wonders why she creates art. 

There’s always been an intrinsic drive within her to create. She’d been coloring and finger painting ever since she was an infant, but as she matured, she displayed an aptitude and a commitment far beyond her years. Her first major piece was made when she was six years old: her mom arrived home to find an intricately crafted mural adorning her daughter’s bedroom wall. 

After the crayon marks were successfully scrubbed from the wall, Janis’s mother realized that her daughter might have a talent. 

As she grew older, Janis continued to sketch and draw. Her mother approved of her prolific doodling, enrolling her in a few art classes and summer camps — though she made it clear that Janis was to focus on her academics first. Janis kept drawing all throughout middle school, but at some point, she realized it wasn’t fun anymore. School had stifled the flower of creativity that had driven her so long ago. 

High school was when Janis’s motivation began to decline. The environment of the school was stifling; the art department was woefully underfunded, leaving her without the proper materials to make everything she desired. Her mother constantly reminded her about how her grandma had been a single mother; she was adamant that Janis keep her grades up to get a job that would allow her to support herself, rather than relying on a man. So Janis worked on her academics, becoming a stellar student, her soul withering with each worksheet and test. 

On a whim, Janis applied to one of the top art schools in the country, located in her home city. She attached a portfolio of what meager creative work she’d produced in high school. She assumed there was no chance of her getting in, that she’d have to settle for a business degree and live an ordinary life. 

When she received her acceptance letter months later, Janis felt her soul begin to bloom. 

Over her mother’s objections, Janis decided to attend her dream school. For the first time in her life, she had a semblance of control. She could not waste an opportunity like this. 

In college, she continued to draw, but she found herself tiring of art once more as she continued. The rote necessity of creating art pieces for assignments began to weigh on her. She felt that everything she did had been done many times before, by artists with skill she could never hope to fathom. Though she continued to receive good grades, she found it harder and harder to pick up her pen or paintbrush — everything she made seemed uninspired and trite. 

It was amidst this creative funk that she received a strange online message one day. A man with her last name had sent her a typo-laden message, claiming to be just released from prison and asking for a time to meet. After briefly checking online, Janis confirmed that the man was, in fact, her grandfather. She agreed to meet, secretly hoping that maybe, this man who her mother refused to speak of could grant her some sort of inspiration. 

On the morning of their meeting, while Janis was waiting in the designated park, the Byway Bridge attack happened.

Janis was debilitated for the next week, confined to bed with a terrible fever. When she awakened, she still felt strange — every time she walked, she felt her bones somehow shifting under her skin. And at random times, red flowers would appear on the ground behind her. 

Then one day, a man in black appeared from the dark and introduced himself to Janis. He revealed that her shifting bones could be controlled and revealed the source of her flowers: a strange, bone-white specter that he called a “Stand.” He revealed his own Stand, a mercurial black demon, then made her an offer. If she fulfilled commissions for his organization, he would pay her handsomely and give her all the guidance she needed for her Stand to reach its true creative potential. 

The opportunity to create, while also making money — these chances didn’t come around often in the art world. Janis Garcia accepted in a heartbeat. 

As Janis discovered the intricacies of her Stand power, her art began to fully blossom. Here was a truly new and innovative field of art. Here was something she could truly call her own, a power that would let her truly be creative. 

Here was the inspiration she’d been searching for. 

Janis now finds herself in the basement of the Numan Gallery. She is surrounded by art, but the suit encasing her body is by far the most beautiful piece in the gallery. She feels a sense of euphoria fill her: this is the apex of her power, the true potential of Scarlet Begonias. Nothing can possibly stand before her. 

So why does her opponent’s new form fill her with an instinctive dread?

The girl walks forwards, her body encased in a purple energy. Thick sheets of metal wrap around her torso, curling up to her neck and down her legs. One of her arms is encased entirely in metal, ending in a giant steel hammer that goes halfway up to her elbow. A long, thin metal pole surrounds her other arm, hanging limply by her side as she strides confidently. 

Janis reasons that all of that steel must be tremendously heavy. With all that on her, the girl shouldn’t even be able to stand right now. 

Yet the girl walks towards Janis with an unburdened gait, as if nothing is weighing her down at all. Her eyes glow a vibrant purple, burning with inner strength. Behind her faceplate, Janis grits her teeth. Even when she’s reached this level of power, this enemy still dares to stand against her. 

Both of them have reached new heights of power. Both of them are using their full potential. 

After this, only one of them will walk out of here. 

Janis takes the initiative, surging forward as a pair of talons extend from her gauntlet. They extend towards the girl’s torso, their tips razor-sharp. The girl effortlessly parries them with her polearm, then spins towards Janis, lifting her hammer into the air. 

Janis’s eyes widen as the girl brings the hammer down with overwhelming force. 

For the first time in their entire fight, Janis dodges to the side as the blow slices through the air beside her. The girl’s hammer shatters the floor with its strike, sending tiles across the room. Janis exhales shakily. If that blow had struck her, her armor wouldn’t have been able to absorb all of it. 

She has to avoid taking hits from this hammer at all costs.

But using such a heavy weapon has a cost for the girl, too — as she lifts it from the ground, the gaps in her armor are left wide open for Scarlet Begonias. That carelessness might cost her the battle. 

The girl turns just a second too late. A spike extends outwards from Janis’s wrist and stabs her straight into her back. 

Swinging her polearm, the girl twists out of the way, but the ability has already taken effect. She tenses up as spikes protrude outwards from her back and shoulder. Janis waits patiently, anticipating the sight of her enemy crumpling to the ground. 

Instead, the girl crouches back down into a fighting stance, her polearm held out in front of her. Her purple eyes size up Janis impassively. 

Janis gulps, her confusion deepening. Scarlet Begonias has just landed a clean hit on this girl’s back. She should be struggling to stand at best, or ideally totally immobilized. 

So how is it that she continues to move?

On the other side of the battle, Cecilia Valdez notes the numbness in her back with a strange detachment. She knows intuitively that the girl’s Stand has taken effect, and right now, more of her bones are outside her body than she’d prefer. In the back of her mind, she even wonders why the ability hasn’t completely paralyzed her yet. 

The reason is obvious, though. In this state, she barely has to consciously control her body. (All she has to do is think, Move. 

GLADLY, COMRADE.

And Crash responds in earnest.) 

The makeshift suit surrounding Cecilia’s body contorts. She kicks off the ground, stabbing her spear directly into the girl’s midsection. The girl crosses both arms to block, but the sheer force of the blow sends her skidding backwards, tripping over a sprawled sculpture. She barely manages to keep herself upright with a few deftly bone spikes, but Cecilia moves to meet her, using her spear for a wicked clothesline that sends the girl sprawling to the floor. 

(Crash, she thinks, I need a follow-up. 

OF COURSE. ONE MOMENT…)

Cecilia Valdez crouches, then jumps, reaching high enough to touch the ceiling. 

On the ground, the girl curls up, tucking her knees into her chest and bracing her arms above her head. With a loud SNICK, the bones in her suit extend outwards, turning herself into a ball of porcupine-like spikes. It’s a desperate move, but if she’s lucky, Cecilia will skewer herself on her defenses in the course of swinging down her hammer. 

Unfortunately for her, Cecilia sees through her strategy. She plummets downwards, the force of her entire body concentrated on the tip of Crash’s spear. It stabs down between a pair of spikes, and —  

CRICK.  

Cecilia vaults backwards, landing on the ground with a solid thump. She cautiously steps back, idly noting that the bones in her back have retracted. For her part, the girl’s spikes retract back into her armor, and she rises shakily to her feet. Though she’s managed to avoid the worst-case scenario, she hasn’t escaped unharmed. 

One of her gauntlets has been completely shattered, revealing a bloodied forearm. 

The girl looks at Cecilia through an impassive bone mask. “What is this?” she asks. “The full form of your ability?”

“Don’t ask me.” Cecilia shrugs, the metal around her shoulders rippling. “I have no idea.”

“Hff… It doesn’t matter. A true masterwork endures through all ages.” The girl exhales as a thin coat of bone begins to surround her injured forearm. As the bone shifts and sharpens, a wicked scythe sprouts from her hand, its keen edges gleaming in the gallery’s harsh lights. 

“No matter the context, its beauty is visible to all observers.” Her remaining gauntlet begins to shift, knots of bone rippling and expanding through it. A condensed ball of bone begins to swell around her hand, expanding outwards into something resembling a shield. 

“I admit your ability has merit.” The girl looks up at Cecilia once more, raising her shield before her. “But my magnum opus will persevere.”

Cecilia rushes in once more, stabbing with her spear. The girl raises her shield, deflecting the blow, and Cecilia is momentarily thrown off-balance. The girl moves in, her scythe extending long enough to lightly tag Cecilia’s shoulder. 

(DO NOT BE DISHEARTENED, COMRADE, rumbles Crash. THIS IS MERELY A PETTY TRICK.)

As short spikes protrude perilously close to Cecilia’s head, she steps backwards, carefully exiting the girl’s range. As the girl rushes in, spikes protruding from her fists, she’s met by a thrust of Cecilia’s hammer. The spikes snap off against the metal surface, and the girl retracts her fist just in time to avoid losing her gauntlet once more. 

(HER MIGHT CANNOT POSSIBLY CONTEND AGAINST OURS.)

Cecilia spins around, hammer dangling from the end of her arm, and strikes it downwards once more. The girl dodges by a hair’s breadth as the hammer pulverizes the floor beneath her. 

(FOR I AM CRASH!)

Before the girl can counterattack, Cecilia raises the hammer back into the air with a twist and spins in the other direction, stepping in towards the girl as she does. 

(AND ALL WHO STAND BEFORE ME WILL BE CRUSHED TO DUST!)

At point-blank range, Cecilia Valdez swings for the fences. 

THWAM!

The hammer completely shatters the girl’s hastily raised shield, raining loose shards of bone all throughout the gallery. She recoils backwards, staggering as Cecilia lifts her hammer high. Just before Cecilia can follow up, spikes protrude from the girl’s helmet, aiming for Cecilia’s eyes. Cecilia instinctively recoils, kicking herself backwards off the ground out of caution. 

As the girl’s spikes retract once more, she regards Cecilia silently. (Amazing work, Crash, she thinks. We’ve got her completely overpowered.

AH, DO NOT PROCLAIM VICTORY YET, COMRADE, rumbles the sculpture.)

Something shifts in the girl’s stance; she crouches low as the bones surrounding her body shift, rippling with tiny, almost imperceptible spikes. 

(OUR OPPONENT MAY STILL HAVE CARDS YET TO PLAY.) 

In the year since Janis Garcia first attained her Stand, she’s found many curious properties of its power. 

Early on, she discovered that when her bones stabbed another person, they could give that person instructions through their bones. These commands could be simple directives, like commanding someone to run forwards until stopped, but they could also be slightly more complex, like commands to walk to a specific location and wait there until an event occurs. 

Janis tested the capacity of her commands out extensively. But in her training under Discoman, she found that using the precise right command was less important than actually managing to give someone a command in the first place. 

With Discoman’s supervision, Janis turned her attention to the conditions in which her commands were transmitted. An obvious factor was time: if her spike was only lodged in someone’s bone for a second, she could only affect them with a localized paralysis. With a minute or more, though, she could turn her victim’s entire body into a ball of spikes, and give them complex commands. 

But as she tested, Janis found another factor. The amount of time it took her to give a victim orders was inversely proportional to the amount of spikes that she lodged in a victim at once. With over five spikes, she could porcupine a victim within fifteen seconds. Ten or more could spike-ify anyone with an instant’s contact. 

With further testing, Janis confirmed the size was irrelevant. For her ability’s purposes, the sheer quantity of spikes was all that mattered.

In the gallery, Janis lifts her arms into the air. Thick cords of bone unravel from her armor, turning the air in front of her into a dense thicket of gleaming ivory. Each branch of bone is covered in thousands upon thousands of miniscule spikes — far more than enough to control her opponent on contact. 

This is Janis’s last chance. It’s also her best one.

A single pierce from the thorns of her Begonias, and the battle is hers. 

Across the gallery, Cecilia chews her lip at the sight of a dense net of bone ropes. (This looks nasty, she thinks. Is there any way we can possibly get around this?

OUR POWER IS OVERWHELMING. IF WE TRULY WISH TO DEFEAT HER, THE ONLY WAY OUT IS THROUGH.

Right.) Cecilia hefts Crash’s hammer into the air. 

(Then let’s crush her, comrade.) 

“SCARLET BEGONIAS!”

As the girl screams her Stand’s name, her bone branches extend towards Cecilia, who rushes to meet them with her hammer raised. 

This will be the final exchange. 

The branches reach towards Cecilia, who swings her hammer across, smashing them to pieces on contact. Cecilia doesn’t slam the hammer down, though; instead, she carries it through, letting the centrifugal force carry Crash’s hammer through for another swing. 

Janis gives a yell as she extends her tendrils towards Cecilia, whose hammer catches every single one in midair. Crash methodically smashes all the tendrils one by one, guiding Cecilia’s hand. For her part, Cecilia gradually advances towards Janis, her entire body wreathed in purple aura, a blazing determination in her eyes. 

Behind her mask, Janis stays calm. Her armor is intact enough to protect her. All she needs is one opening, and she can win. 

Cecilia advances into close range, taking a swing dangerous enough that Janis has to step back. The hammer crushes a dozen of the bone tendrils, then soars up through the air faster than ever before. 

Janis recognizes the trajectory of the blow. Yet another overhead slam. If this hits, she’ll have no way to defend — it’ll be the coup de grace. 

But if Janis dodges this blow, her opponent will be left wide open. 

Janis extends one final bone tendril from her mask, focusing the rest of her power on stepping backwards. She closes her eyes, willing her Stand to give her every drop of power it has left. 

Whizz —

Crash’s hammer misses Janis by mere inches. She doesn’t waste an instant: with a cry of triumph, she leaps forwards, sending a tendril of bone towards her opponent’s face. “Scarlet Begonias!”

 — tap.

Cecilia feels the hammer touch the ground softly, barely making a sound. Her muscles contract faster than conscious thought as Crash takes her beyond her limits. Within a second, the hammer springs upwards, its momentum perfectly redirected. 

Janis glances down just in time to see half a ton of steel hitting her from below. 

CRACK.

The sheer force of the strike obliterates what little of Janis’s armor remains, tossing her into the air hard enough to slam against the ceiling. She plummets to the ground in a heap, blond hair splayed around her face. The remaining shards of bone crumble around her body. 

Janis Garcia has unmistakably been defeated. 

Cecilia lets Crash’s hammer hang limp by her side, feeling a greater weight on her arms. The purple glow begins to fade from her eyes. (...What was that, Crash?

MARVELOUS! roars the sculpture’s voice, laughing jovially. IT SEEMS EVEN I HAD NO IDEA OF MY TRUE CAPABILITIES. MY POWER IS FLAGGING, BUT I’M HONORED TO HAVE BEEN OF SERVICE TO YOU, COMRADE.)

Crash melts from Cecilia’s body, trickling down her arm and reforming on the ground. She smiles. (Sincerely, thank you for the help, Crash. I couldn’t have won without you. 

IT IS MY PLEASURE, says the voice. IF YOU EVER ARE IN NEED OF ASSISTANCE, CALL ON ME AGAIN. I WILL ALWAYS RESPOND TO YOU, CHAMPION OF THINGS.) 

The obelisk fully reforms in the middle of the ruined gallery. It’s completely unblemished, with nary a mark on its steel face. Cecilia looks at it for a moment as her Stand reforms at her side. She places a hand on its surface, quietly thanking it once more, then walks over to her downed opponent. 

The girl lies on the ground, facing the ceiling. She doesn’t seem to have any broken bones (because of her Stand, no doubt), but her arms are covered in surface-level cuts and her overalls are matted with blood. She looks up at Cecilia, breathing heavily. “Are you going… to finish… me off?”

“What? No, I’m making sure you’re still alive,” says Cecilia. “I’m with the feds, remember? We don’t kill people.”

“You’ve got… such a beautiful… Stand. The power to shatter… my masterwork…” The girl coughs. “Damn. I can barely… move a finger. My boss… won’t be pleased.”

“Your boss?” Cecilia’s brow furrows. “Who’s your boss?”

The girl chuckles. “You’ll see soon. He’s probably been… watching us.”

She looks Cecilia in the eyes. “If you know what’s good for you… you’ll find that painting… and hand it over to my boss as soon as possible. If not…” She shakes her head. 

“Sorry,” says Cecilia. “After what you did to those hostages, I don’t think anyone in the Million could possibly be trusted with this.”

The girl makes a half-shrug. “Fair enough. You helped me reach new heights… and I’m grateful. So just remember… I paid you back. I warned you.” 

She turns her head away from Cecilia and closes her eyes, her chest slowly rising and falling.

Cecilia steps away from the girl, stretching the Crash-induced soreness out of her arms. Despite the myriad cuts and scrapes from the battle and the vague discomfort of having her bones realigned, she feels newly reinvigorated. Her mind races, thinking about everything she achieved with Crash on her side. It was like the sculpture had become an extra limb — or an extension of her Stand. 

(It might be possible that Velvet Underground has powers she hasn’t even considered.) 

The sound of someone sprinting through the gallery startles Cecilia. She looks up to see a breathless Henri Taillard, hands on his knees. “Cecilia! I saw what was going on… with one of my birds… and I came as fast as I could. What…” He looks around at the devastation of the exhibit. “What exactly happened here?”

Cecilia’s communicator crackles. “Yeah, lady, what’s going on?” says Ed in an irate tone. “Henri’s being super fucking vague! Did you get in a Stand battle or something?”

Despite herself, Cecilia smirks. “Isn’t it obvious?” She sweeps her hand around the room, over the toppled exhibits and the unconscious bodies piled on the ground chaotically, then turns back to Henri as the purple glow fades from her eyes. 

“I won the fight.”

— — — 

As Ed Henderson bounds up the stairs to the first floor, he realizes that the Stand battles might’ve been the easier part of the operation. The old guy was a little scary, and it sounds like Cecilia got into a hell of a fight, but they managed to take both of them out pretty quickly. 

Now, the next order of business is to find the curators. 

“So if they weren’t on the first floor, they were probably hiding out when the two Stand users attacked, right?” says Ed. “Do any of those people who got tagged look like curators, Cecilia?” 

“I’m looking for ID or potential paintings on any of them. So far, no dice.” A rustling sound comes over the communicator. “Henri, how’s your search going?”

“No signs of life on the first or second floors,” says Henri. “I’ll keep looking, but so far, it seems like they’re either hiding very well… or they fled the gallery entirely.”  

“Dammit.” Ed reaches the fourth floor, looking around. Here, the lobby is filled with various ancient tapestries; the next room is decorated with medieval armor and blades lining the walls. This would’ve been a convenient place to fight that old fuck, he thinks bitterly. 

“Yeah… I’m not getting any hits down here.” Cecilia sighs. “Maybe they all hid out in the storage rooms or something? I’ll check them once I finish up over here.”

“Ooh, that’s a good idea!” says Henri chipperly. “I’ll send some birds down soon to help you!”  

Ed scratches his chin. That might be a good idea, he thinks. It’s not like anyone’s going to be up in this fucking place, unless they’re hiding out — 

Clang. 

A sudden metallic noise, followed by a soft cough, startles Ed out of his thoughts. 

Ed whips around on a dime and glances around the gallery suspiciously. He doesn’t see any figures around, but he knows someone must be lurking. A third Stand user? One of Henri’s birds? Or maybe…

Across the gallery, one of the suits of armor rattles. The chestplate swings open from the inside, and a mustachioed head sticks out. 

“Pardon me, ahem,” says the man, coughing softly. “Would you, ahem, happen to be a representative for the Bureau of Containment?” 

“...Yeah, that’s me,” says Ed. “Uh, what’re you doing in that armor?” 

“Well, when those, ahem, nasty customers came in — well, I decided I had to hide! ” The man wriggles completely out of the suit, tumbling to the ground. When he rises to his feet, Ed realizes he’s tiny — only about four and a half feet tall. His brown suit, bowler hat, and curly mustache give him an old-timey appearance. 

“With my stature, this, ahem, was the most convenient hiding space.” The small man raps the armor with his knuckles, then bows. “Ignatius Claypool, at your, ahem, service. Mister Numan selected me to be the curator of this fine, ahem, establishment. It’s always been a rather quiet job, ahem, until today…”

“Yo,” says Ed. “I’m Ed. Do you, uh, have the painting?”

“Indeed I do!” Ignatius reaches under his suit jacket and, with a triumphant flourish, pulls out a package wrapped  in a thick layer of tape. “Why, I protected it with my, ahem, life!”

Ignatius strides over to Ed and holds the package out, his eyes sparkling with delight. “For you, my good, ahem, chap.”

“Appreciate it.” Ed accepts the package and looks it over. The painting is rather small; Ed reasons it must only be about ten by twelve inches. Beneath the glossy tape, he can make out brown paper wrapped around the painting itself. 

As Ed looks over the painting, he notices something else — a pervasive aura of cold that seeps through the packaging and chills his fingers. 

“This is, ahem, Rhapsody in Blue. A rather infamous work in our collection,” says Ignatius. “It’s said to be a beautiful painting, despite its size, but whoever looks at it…” He shivers. “Ahem, let’s just say it never quite ends well. We’re pleased that the Bureau is willing to take it off our, ahem, hands.” 

“Sick.” Ed nods. “Thanks, little dude. We’ll be sure to take good care of it for you.” 

“That’s all I can, ahem, ask! Good day to you, esteemed government operative — may this painting be safely, ahem, contained!” Ignatius salutes Ed snappily, a smile crossing his mustachioed cheeks. 

“We’ll be sure to contain it extra hard for you guys.” Ed gives a casual salute back, then turns around and walks out of the exhibit, leaving the curator behind him. As he walks down the stairs, he raises the communicator. “Yo, lady, bird guy — I got the painting secured.”

Henri gasps. “Really? Excellent!”

“That’s awesome!” says Cecilia. “Where’d you find it?”

“One of the curators was hiding out up here. Bit of a weird dude, but shit, he gave me the painting.” Ed shrugs. “Meet you guys down in the lobby?”

“Sounds good to me!” says Henri.

“Yeah,” says Cecilia. “See you there, Ed.”

After descending several more flights of stairs, Ed finds himself in the lobby. He sees Henri and a slightly banged-up Cecilia standing in the store. As he approaches them, he raises the painting. “Yo.”

“Hey, Ed!” Cecilia’s face perks up, and she grins as Ed walks up. “Glad to see you in one piece.”

“You’re telling me!” says Ed. “I mean, you beat the fucking bone user all by yourself? That’s nuts, lady! I wish I could’ve helped…” 

Henri claps his hands and smiles winningly. “I must say — excellent work, team! We’ve defeated the enemy Stand users and gotten our hands on the painting. I’ve notified the authorities through the Bureau; they should be here to clean things up soon. All we have to do now is get back to the Watchtower.” 

“You got a car for us, bird guy?” asks Ed. “Or are we gonna take the bus?” 

“Jerry’s on call right now, so we’ve been given a car at a parking garage nearby.” Henri reaches his pocket and pulls out a key ring, jangling it. “All we need to do is secure the car and drive back. Does that sound good?”

“Of course,” says Cecilia.

Ed nods. “Sure!”

Henri beams. “Then let’s go, team!” He steps through the door, out onto the street. 

Cecilia moves to follow him, but suddenly feels a hand on her shoulder. 

She turns to see Ed, a serious look on his face. “What is it?” she asks. 

“Look, lady,” says Ed in a low voice, glancing back and forth furtively. “If this painting is as powerful as people are saying it is, there’s no way they just sent those two Stand users after us, right?” 

Cecilia nods. “Absolutely not. The girl I fought talked to me about her ‘boss.’ I don’t have any idea how many more Stand users they’ll send after us, but somebody’s definitely coming.”

“Exactly,” says Ed. “Look, I trust you, lady. You’re crazy smart and your Stand is strong. If we can coordinate something together, we might be able to bamboozle the people chasing us.” 

“Hmm.” Cecilia raises her eyebrows. “What’re you saying, Ed?”

Ed turns towards Cecilia, a slight grin crossing his face. He adjusts his glasses slightly, his voice lowering. 

“I’m saying I have a plan for just the two of us. And if we nail it right, the Million won’t know what hit ‘em.” 

— — — 

From the shadows, Discoman watches the remaining Bureau operatives exit the building. They converse briefly, then take off in opposite directions. The kid with sunglasses runs alongside the bird user, a blue plastic bag dangling from his arm. The girl with the feather boa walks in the other direction, looking around warily with her hand inside her purse. Despite himself, a tinge of uncertainty enters Discoman’s mind at the sight of the Stand users unharmed. 

The Garcias were not weak by any stretch of the imagination. The girl undoubtedly had more potential than the man, but both were extremely capable in their own right. For them to be so easily dispatched by these low-level contractors… 

Discoman internally chides himself. He has many more resources left in reserve. The Garcias may not have won, but they served their purpose: they wore their opponents down and managed to flush out the location of Rhapsody in Blue. 

From this point, acquiring the painting will be easy. 

He taps his earpiece. “Reggatta, please record cell members Janis Garcia and Mickey Garcia as out of action.” 

“Copy.” The sound of a thocking keyboard fills Discoman’s ears. “Both Garcias marked inactive. Any plans on requisitioning?”

“Barring any special containment measures, it should be simple to free them from the hospital they’re brought to. Once the painting is in our grasp, I’ll secure them.”

“Understood. And do we have intel on the operatives?”

“We do. I was able to assess all of their capabilities. Please open three new files,” says Discoman. “One male, aged 18-21; bound to a taser that fires silvery threads. Another male, aged 18-21; takes the form of a visor that lets him command birds. And one female, aged 18-21; a power type that somehow combines itself with objects.” 

Frenetic keyboard clicking fills Discoman’s ear. “The bird user matches a known Stand user on file,” says Reggatta. “And — hold on.” A few more tentative thocks. “You’re certain it was a bound Stand? Along with a power type that stores itself in objects, correct?”  

Discoman catches a strange note in her voice. “That’s right. Is something up?” 

“We analyzed Betterman’s hideout with Telegram early yesterday morning. The traces of the two enemy Stands match one-to-one with your description.”

Discoman’s head snaps up. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. The power-type Stand belonging to the female, and the bound Stand belonging to the male… It adds up,” says Reggatta. “You may very well be dealing with the pair that took down Betterman.”

“Got it.” Discoman feels a jolt of adrenaline enter his veins. “Please patch me through to B-52 and Starchild.” 

Reggatta is silent for a moment before a new burst of static comes over the intercom. “Copy.”  

Discoman clears his throat. “The two cell members I’ve sent out have been dispatched, so it looks as if you all may be seeing some action. Starchild, do you have a bead on their positions?”

“That I do, Mister Discosaurus Rex!” says a jovial voice. “Got the Funkmeister’s eyes on all of ‘em. Ready to bring the borealis at yer behest.” 

“Understood. B-52, you’ll remain on standby for now.”

“Copy that!” says a chirpy voice. “Ya think I’ll get some action today, boss?”

“We’ll have to see,” says Discoman, the corner of his lip curling up. “You know I tend to avoid direct involvement unless absolutely necessary, but these Stand users are dangerous. They may very well have been the ones to take down Betterman.”

“Oooh, they took down Betterman? Jeez!” Starchild whistles. “Are you gonna scrap with these d’voidoffunkers yourself, Mistadiscotheque?”

Discoman shakes his head. “Not unless necessary. Winston will be sent after the girl. I will relay him his orders after we conclude here. For the other two, I plan to activate the furnace,” he says. “I’ll transport the user to the location of the remaining two operatives; she’ll need to be within its radius for it to properly take effect.” 

The intercom picks up a sharp intake of breath. “You’ve maintained contact with the furnace’s user?” asks Reggatta. “If we may ask… why?”

“Believe me, I know this Stand is a liability,” says Discoman. “That’s why I contained it in the first place. But this is precisely the situation which I reserved it for. Do you understand?” 

An edge enters his voice. “We are dealing with opponents capable enough to defeat Betterman on his own turf. We can’t afford to take half measures.”

“...Fine,” says Reggatta. “We will approve. Just try to minimize collateral damage, if possible.”

“I’ll do my best,” says Discoman. “Above all else, the painting must be claimed. Everything for rapture.”

“Everything for rapture.”

“Everything for rapture.”

“Everything for rapture, brother!”

The intercom temporarily quiets, and Discoman sighs. He looks out onto the street at the retreating Stand users before him. As he melts back into the darkness, he thinks through his strategy once more. 

Knowing that two of them defeated Betterman hardens Discoman’s resolve. These two are not to be taken lightly. No strategy is too extreme for dealing with these threats.

If they stand in the way of rapture, Discoman will do whatever it takes to cut them down. 

— — — — — 

Name: Truckin’

User: Miguel “Mickey” Garcia

- Truckin’ takes the form of a rusty satellite made of pipes. The Stand fires the contents of the user’s pockets as projectiles that cause whatever they hit to be gravitationally attracted towards its user. The Stand itself is semi-automatic, targeting any humans around the user by default, but it can also employ more advanced strategies at the user’s command. 

Name: Scarlet Begonias

User: Janis Garcia

- Scarlet Begonias is a semi-humanoid Stand made of bone, with a garland of roses around its neck. The Stand lets Janis warp her bones at will, phasing them through skin and clothing. She can store “orders” in the bones of other people through bone-to-bone contact, painlessly warping their skeletal structure and making them move as she wishes, along with conglomerating existing bones to herself.

Chapter Text

Even if the halls are a bit austere and the aides are a bit cold, Dani Frusciante has grown to quite like the facility. 

When Dani moved in a year ago, she was quite afraid that she’d find herself alone. She’d heard horror stories about these facilities: senior citizens lying in bed all day, unable to talk to each other or their families, ignored or even tormented by their aides. But now, she decorates her room opulently, takes regular walks to the nearby corner store, and plays mahjong with a small group of friends every Friday night. As she sits in her comfortable armchair, she reflects on her time in the facility. She’s grown to quite like the place and the comforting routines it provides. 

She looks through her window at the pretty little garden in the building’s courtyard. It’s full of all sorts of flowers, with neatly trimmed hedges surrounding the broad dirt walkways. When it’s nice and sunny out, she loves to sit out in the courtyard, reading the newspapers while tossing a little food to the pigeons that gather within. Here, it almost feels like she isn’t in the city at all. 

Dani hears a knock at her door and turns. “Come in,” she says pleasantly. 

The door cracks open, and a young, pimply aide peeks his head in. “Good mo-orning, missus…” he says in a lackadaisical tone. “I was just coming in to check if you were do-oing okay…”

“I’m just fine, thank you,” says Dani, forcing a smile. 

“All ri-ight, missus…” The aide looks around her room. “Been do-oing a little decorating, huh?... That’s ni-ice… Better hope it’s up to co-ode…”

“I checked the code at every step of the process,” says Dani in a slightly-too-sunny tone. “Everything in here is permissible, mister!”

“I ma-ay have to cite you… So-ory, ma’am, we’ve got a quo-ota…” The aide shrugs. “Anyway. We’ve got a mo-ovie tonight in the lounge… Come if you wa-ant… and lu-unch will be served soon… That’s a-ll.” He shuts the door to the room once more. 

Dani shakes her head in disbelief. She has no clue where the facility hires some of these staff members, but most of them seem to be barely trained, if they’ve received any training at all. All they care about is making a paycheck and clocking out. 

It wouldn’t be so tough to deal with them if Dani’s own family visited more. But they’ve barely come around in the past few months. Of course, after what happened to the old house, she can’t quite blame them. But still…

She sighs, turning on the TV. On the screen, the bald-headed anchorman wipes sweat off his face with a handkerchief and clears his throat. “Looks like today’s gonna be another beautiful one, folks. After Friday night’s rainfall, the heat’s finally broken, and we’re in for a bee-yeautiful day!” He beams at the screen, placing his handkerchief back into his lap. “Now for a recap of local news. Uh, the police have made no leads on the mysterious flood at the Ledbetter water treatment plant late Friday night…”  

As Dani stares at the TV, her mind slowly begins to wander. She looks at the crocheted blanket on the bed, at the assorted knickknacks on her coffee table, at the faded photos framed on her nightstand. 

Yes, Dani Frusciante has grown to quite like the facility. 

But sometimes, she can’t help wishing that she was back at her own house.

Out of the corner of her eye, Dani notices something spilling across the floor of her humble apartment. Tendrils of inky darkness pour from beneath her bed, gradually withering away as the light slowly erodes them to nothingness. 

As she watches, a darkly dressed man clambers out from the shadow. He turns towards Dani, his stunningly white hair and plain face newly visible. 

A smile crosses Dani’s weathered face. “Discoman! How lovely to see you, dear.”

“It’s a pleasure to see you doing this well, Miss Frusciante,” says Discoman. “How’s the facility been treating you?” 

“Oh, it’s certainly been all right,” says Dani. “I certainly can’t complain. The food is nice, the garden is beautiful… I must say, it’s quite a nice place overall.” 

“It’s nice to see you’ve adjusted.” A wry smile crosses Discoman’s face. “Looks to me like you’re positively glowing with health.”

“Next up,” says the TV anchor. “Renovations have recently finished on the YYZ Tower in Center City. Currently, it’s the tallest skyscraper in the city. Uh, Tim, can you pull up how it ranks for the whole world? I’ve got a placeholder here…” 

“Oh, stop!” Dani rolls her eyes, waving a hand. “You charming devil.”

“It’s the truth,” says Discoman. “Honestly, I’m just glad you’re here, Dani. It really is the best thing for you.”

“You scamp! Why, I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for your help, young man,” says Dani, beaming. Her smile fades slightly. “But… I don’t suppose you’re here to chat.”

“Yes.” Discoman’s face returns to businesslike neutrality. “I urgently need your help with a Million operation. A group of enemy operatives are currently in possession of a powerful artifact.”

“My help?” says Dani. “You don’t mean…?”

“...stock prices continue to rise steadily, and business is booming on Finance Row. Even though a massive fraud scandal has recently embroiled the stock exchange, the money just keeps on flowin’…”

Discoman sighs, discomfort palpable on his face. “I’m going to use the furnace, Dani. It requires your presence to activate, so I’m taking you with me to the operation site. You’ll be returned here within twenty minutes. It won’t be any trouble at all.”

The furnace. Memories flash through Dani Frusciante’s mind. Metal tendrils. Crumbling walls. Sizzling floorboards. 

And worst of all, the screams. 

“Oh, no, no, no,” she says, eyes wide with terror. “I can’t do that, dear. After everything that happened last time…”

“This won’t be like last time,” says Discoman. He kneels down in front of Dani, his eyes level with hers. “This will be a controlled environment. If it goes out of control again, I can shut it off, just like I did before.”

“But…” Dani shakes her head. “What if a bystander walks into its range? You know what happened with that poor postman. And —”

“I’ll make sure the area is clear before I activate it,” says Discoman firmly. “I promise you: other than our enemies, no one will be harmed. All you need to do is be in the area while I activate it, and nothing will happen.”

“...a brutal robbery of an oddity shop by the Waterfront, where a pen was allegedly jabbed into a cashier’s ear.” The anchorman winces, rubbing the side of his head. “Aw, jeez, that’s gross to think about. I can almost feel it. Yikes!…”

He looks Dani firmly in the eye, squeezing her hand in his. “I know this is difficult for you. But do you trust me?” 

Dani holds his gaze for one second, then looks down. She dwells on the horrific images for one more second, the feeling of total helplessness. Back then, she was nothing more than a bystander, trapped at the center of a disaster. 

But now, Discoman is here. He saved her once. If the worst happens, he’ll surely save her again. 

After a moment, she bites her lip and nods. “...All right, dear. Just please be careful. I wouldn’t want you getting hurt either.”

Discoman reaches into his jacket, a grim smile crossing his face. “Don’t worry, Miss Frusciante.”

He puts out a green eyeshade and gently slips it onto her eyes.

“When it comes to Stand battles, I’m nothing if not careful.”

Dani feels strong hands lifting her up from the bed, cradling her in both arms. She takes a breath. Discoman knows what to do. Discoman will be sure she’s safe. 

A shroud of shadow slowly billows around Discoman, surrounding the pair entirely. Discoman gently cradles the old woman in his arms, his feet planted firmly on a nonexistent ground. Into the darkness, he calls a name. 

“The Damned!”  

When the darkness clears, the humble room is empty once more, save for the soft chatter of the television and the various objects that make up the remnants of Dani Frusciante’s life. 

— — — 

Ed Henderson sprints down the sidewalk, triumph rising in his heart and a blue gift bag swinging from his arm. 

After taking down the old man and snagging the painting, Ed practically feels like he’s walking on air. The lost muscle in his leg has regrown, and the fatigue from the fight has almost entirely worn off with his new rush of adrenaline. Whatever the Million throws at him next, he’ll be ready. 

All he needs to do is stick to the plan, and everything will be awesome. 

“Wait!” calls Henri from behind him, gasping for breath. “Slow… down! I need… a second.” 

But even that might be tougher than he thinks. 

Ed stops on a street corner, turning back towards his partner. Henri is doubled over on the sidewalk, wheezing with his hands on his knees. “Hah, hah… dammit…”

“You good, bird dude?” asks Ed. 

Henri nods. “Yeah… Just… bad stamina. Haven’t… been keeping up… with my conditioning.” 

He gulps, rising to his feet. “Ah… ugh. I’ll scope around for a second.” He summons Little Wing across his eyes, then raises two fingers to his temple. 

Ed furrows his brow. “So, uh, how exactly does your Stand work? Like, how do you control the birds?” 

“Well, I can control all of them at will, pretty much. But seeing them is pretty important for coordination — and I have just one pair of eyes, so I can only see through a single bird’s perspective at once,” says Henri, tapping the side of his headset. “It can make it difficult to control a whole flock, so I’ve got to use my angles carefully. I usually have one bird designated as the point of view, and it flies at a distance behind the rest of the birds. I can swap perspectives, too, but there’s a brief delay, so…” 

He waves a hand. “Well, whatever. The intricacies are boring to anyone else, but this ability has a lot of neat little quirks.”

Ed nods. He can definitely relate to that, at least. “So what happens if the bird you’re in gets taken out?” he asks conversationally.

Henri exhales. “Put simply, nothing good,” he says. “If the bird gets disabled, then my Stand deactivates, and I temporarily lose control of my ability. It means I have to find another bird to start off the activation, and then go through all the trouble of finding more birds… It’s a real pain in the ass, more or less.” 

“Huh.” Ed scratches his head. “Guess you gotta be careful, then.” 

“Indeed.” Henri is silent for a moment. “There doesn’t appear to be anybody suspicious around. Cecilia seems safe as well. We can assume the coast is clear! …So we probably can slow the pace a bit.”

“Sounds good to me.” Ed looks inside the bag on his arm for a second, then squeezes Electriclarryland’s holster. If there’s no one weird nearby, they might be in the clear for now. But how long will it be until the enemy Stand users catch up with them?

Henri stretches his arms above his head as his Stand vanishes. He turns to Ed, blinking his eyes. “Now, if I can ask you a question. Why, exactly, did we split off from Cecilia? You didn’t give me your full reasoning back there.”

Ed picks his teeth, racking his brain for an excuse. “Uh, basically, it’s some pretty high-level strategic shit. Cecilia won her fight in the museum, and her ability’s pretty well-suited out here. My Stand is better for protecting you, so it makes more sense for me to be with you. And now that we’re separated, the Million won’t know which of us actually has the painting. Y’know…” He waves his hands, vaguely gesturing at some grand strategy.

“Huh.” Henri touches his chin. “That makes enough sense. But do we currently have the painting?” 

Ed wordlessly lifts the blue plastic bag. 

Henri’s eyes light up. “I see! So when we get to the car…” He nods enthusiastically. “Then all we’ll need to do is pick up Cecilia, and then find her at the Watchtower!” 

Ed points two finger guns at Henri. “You got it, bird guy. So let’s get to this car, yeah?” 

They cross the street, then continue down the sidewalk, past the glitzy firms and old, necrosed storefronts that populate Finance Row. Above them, the early afternoon sun filters benevolently through the clouds. Ed and Henri get a few sidelong glances from snappily dressed passersby, but they make their way down the street with no interference from Million members. 

While glancing around, Ed notices a poster taped to the front of a dilapidated barbershop. In big block letters, it reads SEE SOMETHING UNUSUAL? CALL THE BOC TODAY. Beneath it is printed a phone number, helpfully labeled Tip Hotline — Federal Bureau of Containment.  

In the past year, Ed’s seen plenty of these posters plastered around, but this is the first time he’s actually bothered to read one. Makes sense, he thinks — the Bureau can’t be everywhere, and a tip hotline is the best place to get the jump on Standshit. 

He turns to Henri. “So where’s this car, anyway?”

“It’s in a parking garage adjoining a local business complex,” says Henri. “You make a left up here, and just continue down the street. We’ve used it as a drop-off point before. At this time in the workday, it’s completely abandoned — it should be simple for us to get out.”

“Sick.” Ed nods, turning his attention back to the street. Barely any drivers are out in Finance Row right now; everyone’s finished their commutes. “You done this spy stuff before?” 

“Ehh…” Henri wiggles a hand. “When I was a contractor, I came here often to meet with my supervisor, but it wasn’t for anything urgent. I usually do reconnaissance work out of the Watchtower. When I do get assigned to an actual mission, it usually involves surveying the scene with my birds and staying out of the line of fire. This is the first time I’ve been on an actual mission. Heh.” He grins a little sheepishly. 

“I guess that makes sense. Long distance Stand and all.” Ed turns the corner, half-focused on the conversation as he obsessively looks around for any potential Standshit. “So how’ve you been liking this mission, then?” 

“It’s been fun so far!” says Henri. “It’s nice to be on the frontlines for once, and being able to support you guys from close range. Though…” He swallows. “Eh, there is something I’ve been wondering.”

“What is it?” asks Ed. He walks forwards, surveying the street in front of him. An awning, a few parked cars, a mailbox — 

Suddenly, Ed freezes. 

Someone is standing upside-down in the shadow of the mailbox. 

“It’s something I worry about a lot,” Henri continues, rubbing the back of his head. “In Stand battles, I mean. It’s like, how do I put this… Ed, would you consider me —”

“Shhh!” hisses Ed, putting a finger to his lips. He sizes up the figure: tall, white-haired, clad in a pin-covered leather jacket with BORN II KILL written on the back…

Wait. Ed looks again. 

Those aren’t Roman numerals — they’re exclamation points. 

As the realization hits Ed, the Million member turns and stares directly into his eyes. 

“Uh, Ed?” asks Henri. “What are you…?”

The figure grimaces. With a sudden step, he disappears into the darkness. 

“Shit!” yells Ed, raising Electriclarryland. “There’s an enemy Stand user!”

“What? What do you mean?” asks Henri, alarmed. 

Ed points at the now-empty shadow. “There was a fucker standing in that shadow! Like, inside it! And he’s got the Million logo on his back!”

He turns to Henri, grabbing him by the collar. 

“We need to get to that car now! The Million’s on us!”

“Crisse!” Henri swallows, nodding. “Let’s go!”

Ed tears off down the sidewalk with Henri close behind him. They sprint past a few stockbrokers coming off their lunch break. A limousine pulls up to the sidewalk, and the opening door nearly knocks Ed off his feet. He quickly fires a mesh tendril to right himself, then shouts “Eat shit!” as he continues running. 

On the left, a brutal concrete structure interrupts the unbroken flow of office buildings. “Henri, is that the parking garage?” shouts Ed.

“Indeed it is!” says Henri, summoning Little Wing. “I’ll send some birds into the garage to scout ahead!”

Ed skids to a stop as a flock of pigeons wheels through the air in front of him, ducking down into the parking garage’s entrance like a fluttering tornado. They fan out through the garage, spreading through each floor and flitting in every direction. 

“Come on… come on…” Henri frantically clicks the side of his visor as Ed taps his foot idly. 

A slow, gentle breeze blows through the air as a few cars cruise down the street lethargically. A voice comes from a nearby television. The sound of tapping shoes heralds a passing businessman, eyes locked on his BlackBerry. 

The tension becomes too much for Ed to bear. “Well?” he asks. “Do you see anybody?” 

“...No.” Henri shakes his head. “It looks completely clear to me.”

“Then let’s get this fuckin’ car,” says Ed grimly. With his Stand clenched protectively in his hands, he steps inside. 

The garage is much cleaner than most of the parking garages in the Twelfth, though its low ceiling gives it a claustrophobic feel. Atop the concrete rivets on the ceiling perch Henri’s birds, staring down at the Stand users curiously. The walls are neatly lined with cars of all makes and models; Ed’s eyes bug out as he spies two Porsches side by side. 

“Holy shit,” he mutters. This place might be worth checking out for a joyride sometime. 

“If I remember correctly, my instructions specified that the car should be on the second floor,” says Henri. “So all we’ll need to do is walk upstairs, and then our mission will be complete.” 

Ed nods. He starts walking upstairs, turning to his partner as he does. “You got a car, bird guy?” 

“Not yet!” says Henri brightly, trailing behind Ed. “I’ve been saving up for one, though.”

“Yeah? What’re you thinking about buying?” 

“Oh…” Henri grimaces. “I’m not very knowledgeable about cars, to be honest. In fact, I’ve always enjoyed taking public transit. There’s something so convenient about the metro, you know?” 

“Really?” says Ed, scratching his head. “Yeah, the subway’s nice and all. But, like, all the people, man. I’ve always wanted —”

Ed stops mid-sentence as a sudden rustling prickles his ears, followed by the unmistakable sound of shoes on asphalt. 

With trepidation, he turns around to see the white-haired Million member standing between two cars on the bottom floor. 

Electriclarryland spins into Ed’s grip as he takes a fighting stance. “Bird guy —”

“Yeah, I see him,” says Henri, gritting his teeth. “Don’t worry. I’ll take this colon down.”

Henri raises both his arms into the air. With a cry of “Little Wing!”, dozens of birds swoop down from the rafters, their talons raised to assail the man from all angles. Their cacophonous screeches and squawks resound off the walls of the parking garage, creating an unearthly chorus. 

The man merely lifts his gaze, staring directly into Ed’s eyes as the birds descend upon him. 

A shadowy haze surrounds the man, making him appear almost blurry at the edges. Swiftly, it coalesces into a dark, horned Stand that seems to shift and undulate the longer Ed looks at it. Eyes, limbs, letters, shapes — the patterns on the Stand’s surface briefly coalesce into something recognizable, then disappear an instant later. 

As the first bird comes into the Stand’s range, a lash of shadow strikes it down. 

The Stand defends its user with an array of amorphous appendages, striking down each and every bird with whip-quick slashes. The cries of bloodlust turn to pained coos as the shadowed silhouette dispatches the birds with minimal effort. In a moment, the attack is completely nullified; they’re forced to retreat back to the ceiling, escaping the man’s range.

Henri slams his fist against his thigh. “Ostie!” he growls. “This speedy bastard…” 

Ed doesn’t respond. He feels a slight twinge of dread in his chest. 

Throughout the attack, the enemy Stand user has not broken eye contact with him once. 

And as Ed watches, transfixed, the man begins to speak. 

“Let’s make one thing clear.” 

The man raises his hands, palms forward. 

“I am not going to kill you.”

“Really?” says Ed. “For someone working with the fucking Million, that means a lot.” 

The man sighs. “To be blunt, I don’t approve of the methods of many of my, ah, rasher colleagues. Unlike them, I don’t believe in causing needless death. It would be pointless for our situation to end in violence, anyway. We can both walk away from here satisfied, with no blows exchanged.” 

“And how do you think we’ll do that?” says Ed, clutching the gift bag to him protectively. 

“Simple.” The man extends a hand. “You hand over the painting to me. Tell your higher-ups that you were attacked by Discoman of the Million, who stole the artifact before you could even blink. Tell them that you gave it your best effort, but still had no chance.” 

He looks at Ed. “It’s merely the civil way to sort this out.” 

Ed considers Discoman’s offer for a brief moment, weighing its merits and drawbacks. He mulls over the potential advantages of surrendering the painting and avoiding a Stand battle, then considers the downsides of giving up the object of his mission. Upon reaching an internal consensus, he decides to respond in a manner befitting the proposal. 

He extends both hands and raises two middle fingers at the man. 

“Choke on a fat one, Millionoid.” 

Discoman is silent for a moment, an expression of slight disappointment on his face. Finally, he shrugs. 

“You know, in every Stand battle where I’ve had the opportunity, I’ve offered my opponent amnesty. I’ve given them a chance to back out nobly before the violence starts. ‘Discretion is the better part of valor,’ after all; I choose to offer everyone an opportunity to prove their valor.” 

“What,” says Ed, “do you fight a lotta pussies?” 

“That’s the funny thing,” says Discoman. He pulls his arms out of his sleeves, taking off his jacket. Beneath it, he wears a sleeveless black shirt decorated with the phases of the moon. It throws his ghostly pale skin into sharp relief. 

“Not a single Stand user I’ve gone up against has accepted my deal.”

Discoman kneels down, spreading the jacket across the ground in front of him as he continues. 

“Maybe combativeness is somehow in our nature. Maybe we’ve only survived this long due to willingness to fight. Maybe the only people who survived the incident and came out with a Stand were, to put it bluntly, assholes. Either way…”

He looks up at Ed once more, his Stand crouched beside him.

“Not a single one of my opponents even managed to scratch me.”

Ed scoffs. “That’s rich. What, you gonna try to fight us, fuckin’ Stand genius? Two-on-one, it might even be fair for us!”

“You’re mistaken. I didn’t come here to fight you myself.” Discoman shakes his head as his Stand reaches out three limbs, rooting around beneath the jacket. “When I’m at a disadvantage, I may have to resort to lethal force. And as I said, the thought of needless death sickens me. But rest assured — the Stand you are about to face will not kill you.” 

The jacket begins to bulge from the ground. Discoman sweeps it from the ground with a magician’s relish, revealing a huge, bulky metallic apparatus somehow concealed beneath it.

“It’ll merely hurt you very, very badly.”

Henri glances at Ed. “Any idea what that thing is?”

Ed swallows. “That’s…” 

He gives the machine a once-over. It’s a complex device covered in knobs and dials, with various small pipes running up and down its face. Four small wheels are crudely welded to the bottom of the machine, perhaps for easier transportation. At its top sits a large button, with three thick pipes protruding out beside it. 

Ed instantly recognizes the machine. After all, there’s one just like it somewhere beneath his apartment. 

“...a furnace?” 

“Well, that much is obvious. But it’s not just any furnace,” says Discoman, patting the top of the machine as he pulls his jacket back on. 

“It was an ordinary furnace once, in a cozy little house in the suburbs. It generated heat that its pipes carried through the house, ensuring the residents were always warm. It was activated in the winter and left to its peace in the summer. It had achieved that great joy in life: being a functioning part of a system.”

The man’s Stand bends down, fiddling with the knobs and dials covering the front of the machine. 

“But then, of course, the incident occurred, and this furnace became the host of the house owner’s Stand. The poor user couldn’t control it; her ability isolated her from the rest of the world, attacking everyone who came to help. It was sheer fortune that another Stand user happened to notice her plight amidst the chaos, and freed her from her Stand-made prison just in time.” 

The Stand straightens up, returning to Discoman’s side. He pulls his jacket snugly around his shoulders, then adjusts his glasses and continues. 

“The user survives today, her Stand along with her. I’ve kept it safe until now, but this will be the first time it’s been used since then. To tell you the truth, I’m a little interested to see the results.”

His eyes glitter darkly.

“In the world of Stands, this ability is the closest thing I’ve found to a ‘bomb.’”

“Bullshit,” says Ed, attempting to conceal the slowly dread building within him. “You’re whipping out a fucking bomb Stand on us? Then all I have to do is block it, headass.”

“You’re pretty rash, aren’t you?” says Discoman. “Well, I suppose I’d be too, if I was in your position. But do what you will. I’ve got only one thing left to say.” 

The shadow Stand slams the button atop the furnace with its fist, and the machine begins to hum.

“Run. Run fast, and run far. Because when they catch you…”

Steam begins to billow from the pipes atop the furnace, and its surface contorts slightly, glowing with a new inner heat. 

“They’re Red Hot.” 

Discoman raises both arms and plummets into a shroud of shadow. As he disappears, the machine starts to rattle and hum, buzzing loud enough to make Ed step back instinctively. The pipes on the top begin to swell and undulate, their metal turning a deep crimson as the heat within them distorts the air. Their mouths begin to shift, stretching further and further upwards, until all of a sudden —

Ka-chunk

Each pipe suddenly grows, surging out from the top of the furnace. 

Ka-chunk

The pipes extend again, extending about a foot in the air. 

Ka-chunk ka-chunk ka-chunk ka-chunk ka-chunk

Before Ed’s eyes, the pipes extend further and further, contorting and twisting. They seem to have no particular direction, merely filling the air around the furnace with demented metal loops. 

“Any idea what this fucking thing is doing?” mumbles Ed. 

“No clue.” Henri clicks his tongue. “I could send a bird with Little Wing, but —”

Chk-chk-chk-chk-chk

One of the pipes begins to grow out with sudden speed. It changes direction in the middle of a loop, lunging for the front of a nearby car. The sharp metal edges pierce through the hood with ease, rooting around for the machinery within. 

When the pipe’s superheated surface makes contact with the gas, the results are nothing short of explosive. 

KABOOM

The pipe moves down the line, piercing through every engine in its path and sending a row of fireballs up behind it. 

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM

The explosions rock the parking garage; even at a distance, Ed feels the heat against his face. Maybe a real bomb would’ve been better, he thinks, feeling a strange sense of disconnection. At least he might’ve been able to deflect the shrapnel. 

But as he racks his brain, he realizes that he’s got no clue if Electriclarryland can block out heat. 

And as the other two pipes slowly turn towards Ed and Henri, both men instinctively realize that they have only one option left. 

Run.  

Chapter Text

As he steps out of a police car, Deputy Chief Douglas Asheton surveys the front of the Numan Institute. 

The construction of the city makes police access to Finance Row remarkably convenient. Seen from above, the central turnpike travels roughly east-to-west through the heart of Center City, with an exit that places any driver remarkably close to the city’s municipal complex, including Jarvis Hall and the headquarters of the city police. After a five-to-ten minute drive west and a quick turn off an exit, drivers will find themselves staring up at the shining glass windows and gaudy chrome rivets that are the flesh and bones of Finance Row. 

These days, it’s rare for the police to visit Finance Row. Back in the seventies and eighties, muggings in the district were bad enough that cops found themselves walking beats there daily, constantly on guard for the sight of a beaten white-collar worker or the sounds of an armed robbery in progress. It had a seedy underbelly then, with dive bars and cheap apartments that allowed its criminal underbelly to flourish. But as crime rates plummeted in the nineties, the seedy pubs and illicit brothels began to close in tandem — and property developers seized the opportunity. 

Now, Finance Row has been thoroughly gentrified, populated solely by office space and upscale restaurants. The only housing that remains are upscale condominiums and glitzy hotels reserved for the biggest jet-setters; for everyone else, the district is a place to be commuted to, accessed but never inhabited. And for the police, the Row has transformed from a hot spot into a location only visited in the wake of biannual white-collar scandals. The cops walk the perp out in front of flashbulbs, stick him in the back of the car, and wait for him to post bail the next morning. It’s a time-honored ritual at this point. 

But today, a call for distress comes from the Numan Institute, of all places. After about fifteen minutes of deliberation, a few spare cars are filled out and sent to investigate. 

And for the first time in years, two police cars make their way into Finance Row for a potential armed robbery in progress. 

As Deputy Asheton stares up at the gallery’s facade, something about the scene reminds him of those old cases in the eighties, back when he was new to the force. He can’t quite put his finger on the source of his feelings. Maybe it’s a vibration in his bones, or a different taste on the wind. 

Either way, he’s certain: the chaos infesting the city has spread its way into Finance Row. 

Asheton knocks on the roof of the other car. “Dispatcher said this is a potential 10-65 in progress, fellas,” he says. “Up and at ‘em. We’ve wasted enough time already.” 

One of the young officers looks at Asheton warily. “You sure this ain’t a false alarm, boss?” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Place this big, it’d be weird if there was only one call, yeah?” 

Asheton shrugs. “Maybe,” he says. “Still, gotta be sure. You’re not weaseling out of this one, kid.”

As the officers shake their heads and file into the museum, Asheton lingers for one more second, looking at the glass and metal pyramid. He gets the sense that whatever’s inside won’t be pretty. 

“You look morose as ever, Doug. How’s work been treating you?” 

Asheton’s ears perk up at the sound of a familiar voice. He turns, an involuntary smile crossing his face as he sees a figure trudging down the sidewalk towards him. Salt-and-pepper pompadour, mustache perched over a permanent slight frown, trench coat draped over the gaunt frame — Asheton could recognize his old friend from a mile away. 

“Pop!” Deputy Asheton extends a hand. “How’ve you been, you bastard? Boy, I sure didn’t think I’d be seeing you today!” 

 “Neither did I, Doug. Guess things just have a funny way of turning up.” Ex-Detective Jim Popowicz accepts the handshake firmly. His face is stoic, but his eyes betray a witty light, just like Asheton remembers. “What’d they ship you out here for?” 

“Got a distress signal out here. Armed robbery’s our best guess, but we’re not sure exactly what the issue is.” Asheton’s eyes flit towards his old coworker. “How about you?”

“Mm…” Pop looks up at the pyramid. “Similar. I got a call that some of our people were involved in a big dustup out here. So I’m supposed to be backing them up — or cleaning up after them, depending on what all’s gone down.”

“Your people?” Worry creases Asheton’s brow. “You mean…”

“Yep.” Pop nods, his eyes growing more serious. “This is containment business.” 

The phrase sends a chill down Asheton’s spine. Over the last year, he’s learned that containment business never means anything good. He’s been at this job for thirty-five years, but the few Bureau of Containment cases that he’s been privy to have baffled him completely. Asheton’s got no idea who their leaders are or what, exactly, they’re containing, but he doesn’t question it. Whenever they’re around, otherwise inexplicable crimes get solved in a blink. 

For the past several years, Detective Popowicz had been one of the most skilled detectives on the force, with one of the highest individual clearing rates in the department’s history. Two weeks after the Byway Bridge incident, though, he abruptly turned in his badge and signed on with the Bureau, who’d been ramping up their disaster relief operations in tandem with FEMA. His reasoning was something about his mental health: the trauma of the incident had made him hallucinate, or something of the sort. It sounded plausible at the time. 

But looking at Pop now, Deputy Asheton notices something subtly different in his demeanor. His time with the Bureau has shaped him. He’s seen things that Asheton can’t even hope to comprehend. 

Asheton doesn’t know if this is the same Jim Popowicz he once knew. 

“Well.” Pop rummages around in his pocket, pulls out a container of mints, then pops one in his mouth. “Best we get to work now. Let’s see if this call has anything to it.”

He gestures. “Lead the way, Doug.” 

“Gotcha.” Asheton nods, hustling over to the door and swinging it open. As Pop walks through, Asheton notices the insignia of a large orange half-sun embroidered on his back. Federal Bureau of Containment is printed below it in small letters. New outfit for the new job, Asheton assumes. 

Inside the building, the rest of the officers are standing around in the lobby. Asheton furrows his brow. “What’re you fellas doing standing around?” 

“Well, uh, we weren’t sure what to do,” says an officer. “Didn’t see anyone on the first floor, so we decided to wait for your orders.”

“Are you crazy?” snaps Asheton. “We might have a goddamn armed robbery in progress! Fan out and look for —”

“Relax, Doug. I’ll handle this.”

“Huh?” Asheton turns towards Detective Popowicz, surprised by the sudden interruption. 

Instead of a response, the detective strikes a bizarre stance. He closes his eyes and places one hand on his hip, lifting the other into the air and pointing his finger upwards. His sleeve rolls partially down his arm, and Asheton notes a leather dog collar cinched around his wrist. Strange — Pop never was the type for jewelry. 

After a moment, Pop drops his arms to his sides. He casts a glance at Asheton. “Huh. I guess you can’t see ‘them,’ eh?” 

“See what?” says Asheton, feeling even more unsettled. 

“You always were a lucky guy, Doug. It only makes sense.” Pop places a hand to his chin, staring at a point on the ground with unfocused eyes. After a long moment of consideration, he gives a decisive nod, and his voice drops into a commanding baritone. 

“Men, it appears whatever has happened in this museum has already been resolved, one way or another. So listen up: I want two of you headed upstairs. Inspect each floor, and keep an eye out for vics and potential suspects. The rest of you will be following me and the deputy down to the basement. Split yourselves up. Got it?” 

The police officers look at each other, then begin quietly delegating responsibility among themselves. Pop begins to walk towards the stairs, Asheton trailing behind him. 

“Uh, Pop…” Asheton swallows. “Do you have, uh…”

“What?” says Pop, his feet beating out a staccato rhythm as he walks down the stairs. 

“Y’know…” Asheton waves a hand as he follows Pop down. “Like…”

“Do I have a plan here, you mean?” says Pop in a slightly acerbic tone. “You want consolation that I’m not just pulling rank on my old buddy and assigning his men willy-nilly? That this isn’t some prank that the feds are pulling on your department? That indeed, my acts have a rhyme and-or reason?”” 

Asheton nods, cowed. “Yeah. That.”

Pop reaches the bottom of the stairs, then turns. “Well, Doug, you naturally remember how the old chief always said I had a talent for investigation.” 

“Of course.” Asheton chuckles. “He used to give you merry hell after every mission. ‘Pop, I’ve never seen a man who’s as committed to sniffing out every bit of evidence...’”

“Good times.” Pop’s eyes twinkle as he places another mint in his mouth. “All I’ll say is trust me, Doug — ‘cause the chief was more right than he knew.” 

Asheton’s confusion only grows as Pop begins to walk through the art gallery at a fast clip, fixated on some unknown target. Pop has always been like this, getting in the zone during investigations. The joke around the department about Pop was that when he got focused, not even winning the lottery could put him off a case. But even if his mind was always elsewhere, Pop would still banter with his buddies and crack jokes. 

Now, Pop is saying some ominous words — alluding to something bigger. Asheton doesn’t like it one bit. He doesn’t know if it’s Bureau business or personal issues, but it’s damn creepy. 

Lost in his thoughts, Asheton nearly misses Pop walking through a door to another exhibit — and then stopping immediately. 

Asheton bumps face-first into Pop’s shoulder. “Damn, Pop, what’s the big…”

His voice trails off as he looks around the room. 

“Gee whiz,” says Pop. “Now this is really something.” 

The exhibit is a scene of utter devastation. Priceless sculptures are toppled to the ground, smashed, or torn. Strangely deep grooves are carved into the walls and floors. Smashed white shards coat the floor, and at the center of the room sits a pile of victims, unconscious or worse. Everything about it is completely and utterly inexplicable. There’s no way a single perp could have done all this. 

As Douglas Asheton processes the devastation, one thought surfaces above all else. 

This is a Bureau of Containment crime scene if he’s ever seen one. 

Pop nonchalantly pulls the container of mints from his pocket and sticks two more in his mouth as he walks over towards the victims. “Hm. Looks like they’re still alive. Best we get ‘em outta here, yeah?” 

Asheton raises his walkie-talkie. “Two dozen unconscious vics down here! Contact the hospital — we’re gonna need a lot of 105s!”

As affirmative chatter comes over the radio, Pop begins to carefully navigate across the room, making his way over sharp shards of glass and scattered tiles. 

He makes his way past the victims to the aisle at the center of the room, then stands for a second, staring at something on the ground. 

“You’re trying to bait me in,” he says after a moment. “It’s not gonna work.”

There’s no answer. 

Pop arches an eyebrow. “Really, there’s no use playing dead,” he says. “I’ve seen more convincing acts from sugared-up kindergarteners. When those ambulances come around, I’m gonna make sure no paramedics get within fifteen feet of you.”

“Pop!” calls Asheton. “Are you all right?” This would be a hell of a time for those hallucinations to return. Does the Bureau not have good mental health coverage?

Pop merely lifts one finger. Wait.  

There’s silence for a moment. Then suddenly, a raspy voice echoes from the ground. 

“...How’d you know I was pretending?”

Asheton’s jaw drops as a blond-haired figure rises from the rubble covering the floor. The girl wears two large, red flowers in her hair, and her overalls and arms are caked with dried blood. She sways back and forth slightly, fixing her gaze on Pop. 

“Call it an educated guess.” Pop brushes a finger through his mustache. “The way your eyes were moving, your pose, the rhythm of your breath… All of it was off.”

He taps the side of his nose. “I’ve seen plenty of trauma vics in my day. I can smell a faker from a mile out.” 

Bullshit, thinks Asheton. Noticing information that precise, at that distance? Pop always was a good detective, but this level of deduction is almost… 

Asheton swallows. 

Inhuman. 

“And I got another assumption while I’m at it,” says Pop, pointing at the girl. “It’s pretty obvious there was a hullabaloo down here. And judging by all that blood smearing you… well, I don’t think you came out on top. Am I off the mark?”

“Maybe. Are you threatening me?” The girl chuckles darkly, crouching into a fighting stance as the air around her subtly warps. “Mister, I assure you — I still have plenty of creative energy left in the tank.” 

“Oho.” For an instant, the briefest smile quirks Pop’s lips. “Showing it off to me right out the gate, huh?”

It fades, and he turns his head, his face locking into a familiar frown and his voice dropping to a commanding tone. “Deputy, I’m going to need you to leave this room. Close off the floor. Make sure nobody gets within sight distance of what’s about to happen.” 

Asheton nods. “O-Okay, Pop. Just…” He looks back and forth between his friend and the mystery girl. “What exactly is going on here?” 

Pop turns and looks directly into Asheton’s eyes with a piercing gaze. 

“You’re my pal, Doug. But if you got hurt on my account, I’d never be able to forgive myself. So do me a favor, for old times’ sake.” 

He tilts his head slightly. 

“Get the fuck off this floor. Now.”

The girl chuckles. “Are you friends with that cop over there?” she says. “Maybe once I finish turning you into an art piece, I’ll get started on him.” 

“Dragging mundanes into this?” Pop shakes his head. “You’ve got some bad manners for a young lady. Damn shame.” 

An overwhelming tension fills the air. Asheton feels beads of sweat pop out on his forehead, and he steps back, almost out of the room. 

Glee at solving a case, disgust at a particularly gruesome crime scene, regret when confronting a victim’s family: Douglas Asheton has seen many expressions on Pop’s face during his career. But as the detective cracks his knuckles, Asheton notices an expression that he’s never seen before. 

Right now, Jim Popowicz’s eyes are filled with sheer, unbridled hate. 

“Looks like things are about to get violent.” 

— — — 

As the pipes surge towards him, Ed Henderson runs for dear life. 

His jacket flaps in the air behind him and his heart pounds a staccato rhythm in his ears. With his legs moving as fast as they can, he rounds the corner and heads up the next level of the garage, Henri hot on his heels. Behind them, more cars begin to explode on the lower level as a pipe ignites their engines one by one. Another pipe arcs towards the rafters on the ceiling, striking one hard enough to shear clean through the concrete. An agonized shriek and a flapping of wings pierce the air. 

“Damn it, my pigeons!” Henri swiftly summons Little Wing, and a tide of birds flees through the windows of the parking garage. The pipe turns upwards, then smashes through a lightbulb, showering the ground in shattered glass. 

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit…” Ed mutters to himself as he sprints up the blacktop. His mind races. If they go down, even through a staircase, they risk being targeted and trapped by the scalding pipes. And if they try to find the Bureau’s car, they’re sure to be caught. 

The only option here is to keep going up. 

What comes after that can wait. 

“Ed!” calls Henri between heaving breaths, wiping sweat from his forehead as he runs. “That guy down there! His Stand… was that odd shadow, right?” 

Ed pushes his sunglasses up his nose. “Yeah!” he says back. “The creepy fuckin’ thing with the horns!” 

“So then… whose Stand is this?” Henri winces as another round of explosions slices through the air. 

“Well, you can only have one Stand, right?” says Ed. “So definitely not his!” 

He scratches his chin for a moment before the implication clicks. “Oh! There’s another user!”

“Right!” says Henri. “A Stand as strong as this… the user must be nearby!” 

“Yeah, yeah!” Ed nods enthusiastically. “So we’ve gotta find them and beat them up!”

“Indeed, but also…” Henri lets out a shuddering breath. “From my training, I can infer… this is probably an ‘automatic-type’ Stand!”

Before Ed can respond, the ground rumbles below him. The asphalt to his left shatters with a loud CRACK, and a pipe surges up from the ground.

Ch-chunk ch-chunk ch-chunk

After a moment’s delay, it surges directly at Ed’s head. 

“Motherfucker!”  

Ed jumps backwards in the nick of time, narrowly dodging the pipe. Even a few inches away, the heat is stifling against his face: he already feels his skin beginning to dry and crackle. 

He can’t let this fucking thing touch him, no matter what. 

Ed takes two steps backwards, righting himself as the pipe curves back around. “Henri, get me a fucking bird!” he yells. 

“G-Got it!” says Henri. “Come on, come on…”

The pipe churns towards Ed again, and he dodges to the right, then dodges again as it curves towards him. He raises Electriclarryland and fires out a quick pane of Stand-mesh in midair. The end of the pipe butts against the mesh but springs backwards before it can touch Ed. It pauses for a second as if confused, then presses itself into the mesh again and again, bouncing off each time. 

Ed uses the momentary break to catch his breath. He feels like one of those Spanish dudes with the stupid outfits, waving a red cape in front of a raging bull. 

One wrong move, and he gets gored. 

A pair of birds whizz past on the other side of the pipe, and it turns, abandoning the elusive Ed for better quarry. With a rhythmic series of ker-chunks, it turns, growing back towards the other side of the garage. 

Ed turns around and gives a thumbs-up to Henri, who wordlessly nods. They turn and continue sprinting upwards, heading towards the next story of the garage. 

“Keep talking, bird dude!” Ed calls over his shoulder. 

“Right!” Henri wipes off his brow. “Eh, where were we?”

“Automatic Stands!”

“Right! So the big thing with automatic Stands… is that they always have triggers!” says Henri. “They don’t attack stuff at random… but they also don’t directly follow orders! They all function off a ‘rule!’”

“Right!” says Ed. “So what’s the rule here?” 

“Well… think about it!” Henri gulps down another breath of air. “So far it’s targeted car engines, my birds… and you. So what do they all have in common?” 

They sprint in silence for a moment, the sound of rending metal and shattering glass filling the air around them as the pipes tear the structure of the garage apart. Ed mulls over the question briefly. A machine, a feathery little guy, and a dude. Are they alike at all? 

After a moment, Henri slams his fist into his palm. “I have it! This Stand is a furnace, right? Then it would only make sense that it’s attracted to —”

KRAK.

The ceiling suddenly fractures, and a pair of pipes surges through the newly opened hole. 

“Shit!” Ed dodges backwards quickly as Henri jumps to the side. In a flash, half a dozen birds follow one of the pipes down through the gap, successfully drawing the Stand’s attention and redirecting it from Henri. 

Ch-chunk ch-chunk ch-chunk.

Unfortunately, Ed isn’t so lucky. 

HISSSSSSS. 

As the pipe brushes Ed’s cheek, he remembers instinctively touching his finger to a hot kettle as a kid. The pain burned, sudden and sharp, strong enough to make him tear up and persistent enough to bother him even after he soaked his finger. Naturally, Ed learned his lesson about touching hot surfaces: from that day onward, the long-remembered sting was enough to give him caution around hot surfaces. 

The feeling of the pipe against Ed’s face is like that pain magnified a thousandfold. 

“FUCK!”  

Ed cries out in pain, instinctively jerking backwards as the pipe reaches towards him again. Instinctively, he fires out a pane of mesh, blocking the pipe from grabbing at his torso. Undeterred, it veers sideways, quickly cinching itself around his free arm and then tightening into a cinch. 

As the heat stings him through his clothes, Ed realizes the pipe is forming a loose approximation of a knot. 

The fucking thing’s trying to trap him! 

“God fucking dammit!” Ed presses Electriclarryland’s trigger as he struggles against the rapidly tightening pipe. His shirt begins to billow smoke as a hissing comes from the mouth of the pipe and a burning pain throbs throughout his body. “Come on, come on —”

The mesh hooks into the ceiling, then suddenly contracts, slingshotting Ed out of the pipe’s grasp and up the ramp. He wheels through the air and lands awkwardly on one knee. The pipe turns back towards Henri, who summons another flock of birds. The pipe chases after them, smashing through a row of fluorescent lights on its way.

Gradually, Ed springs back to his feet. The burn on his face feels like one giant exposed nerve; even slightly moving his head back and forth sends pain throughout his body. 

“Fuck — shit!” He grimaces, holding his burned arm gingerly. Jeez, this Stand is a heap of bullshit!

“Ed!” Henri runs up the ramp. “Are you all right?” 

Ed wordlessly pulls his canister of sun in a bottle and sprays some on his face, then slips his arm out of his jacket and applies a liberal amount of spray. The pain from the burns immediately begins to fade, and he breathes a sigh of relief. 

“Motherfucking thing got me,” he says, shaking his head. “Won’t let it happen again. Fuck.”  

“My birds won’t hold off the pipes for much longer,” says Henri. “But I’m almost certain I’ve deduced the trigger by now. By all appearances, this Stand tracks ‘heat.’” 

“...Really?” Ed considers the thought as he begins to run upstairs once more. “Huh. Like body heat, right? And I guess engines are hot, so that checks.” 

“Exactly!” says Henri, keeping pace with Ed. “But it looks like this Stand’s targeting works off more rules than that. Each pipe only tracks ‘one source of heat at a time:’ one pipe will focus on the car engines, while another pipe will target one of us, or a bird, or a lightbulb. ‘Multiple pipes’ won’t focus on one target, either — there’s a reason those pipes split between us, rather than focusing on one of us at a time.” 

“Okay.” Ed nods, rounding the corner up to the fourth floor. “That’s pretty good for us, I guess.” 

“But also, with my birds, I found out that… the pipes’ targeting works off ‘proximity,’” says Henri. “So if a bird flies between me and the pipe… while the pipe is targeting me… the pipe’s target switches to the bird.” 

“Yeah, yeah, this is all good stuff,” says Ed. “But how the fuck are we going to beat it?” 

“Well, my thought… is to somehow… lower our temperature,” says Henri. “Maybe an air conditioner? Or maybe find… some ice?”

Ed snorts. “We’re in the middle of a fucking parking garage in the summer. How’re we going to cool off?” 

Henri sighs. “Good… point.” 

“This feels like a find-the-user-and-punch-‘em kinda sitch,” muses Ed. “If we could get down somehow, or maybe out of its range…” 

As Ed sprints up another floor, an idea suddenly blossoms within his mind, glorious in its braindead simplicity. He mulls it over. It’s far from guaranteed to work, but if he nails it, it’s gonna be killer.  

“Bird guy,” he says with newfound urgency. “How many birds do you have in your control? Like, overall?” 

“Eh…” Henri thinks for a moment. “Almost a hundred… last time I checked. Maybe… one-twenty.”

“Perfect,” says Ed, a grin crossing his face. “Listen — can you bring all of ‘em together in, like, a big bird group? Somewhere near-ish to here, but outta the Stand’s range? Maybe across the street?” 

Henri looks at Ed, his face flushed with exertion and his eyes betraying a glimmer of hope. “You have… a plan?” 

“Something like that,” says Ed. “And once we get up to the roof, I want you to bring ‘em all over here, just beneath the edge.”

“Okay!” says Henri eagerly. “Let’s… do it!” 

Henri summons Little Wing, and Ed grabs him by the shoulder, steering him up towards the fifth floor. One to go before they reach the roof, he thinks. Just a little ways to go, and they’re home free. 

As they run up the stairs, Ed glances out of the opening in the side of the parking garage. In the street outside, dozens of birds are coalescing in the middle of the street, forming a giant, slowly rotating circle in the air. The sun shimmers off their wings as they cast a dappled shadow down onto the city street. 

Behind his glasses, Ed’s eyes widen. “Holy fuck, bird dude.” 

“Do you… like it?” says Henri, desummoning his Stand and grinning. “It’s one of my favorite… strategies. Always looks… super cool.”

“Absolutely.” Ed focuses on running once more. No distractions. He can check out the cool birds when this pipe asshole is down. 

A little further, and Ed and Henri make the turn up to the roof. The sun shines down on Ed’s skin, filling him with energy, and a strong wind blows through his hair. “Almost up, bird dude!” he shouts. “Little bit more to go!” 

Henri nods enthusiastically. “I’ll bring the birds over!” he says. “Uh, what are we going to do once we reach the top?”

Before he can formulate a reasonable-sounding response, Ed hears a loud cracking behind them. He turns to see all three pipes, extended together from a hole in the asphalt. 

Ch-chunk ch-chunk ch-chunk ch-chunk

One branches off to the side, attacking nearby cars, while the other two surge forwards — calibrated directly towards the two Stand users, their clicking and churning loud enough to drown out the wind. 

“Run!” shouts Ed, pushing Henri forwards. “And get the fucking birds!”  

As Ed and Henri reach the rooftop, Ed fires out a wide panel of mesh behind him, temporarily blocking off the two pipes. They strain against the barrier for a moment before turning in different directions, attempting to find a way to reach their targets. 

Ed knows the mesh won’t hold the pipes for long. He reaches the concrete barrier at the edge of the roof and turns to Henri. “You got ‘em?” 

Henri points downwards, and Ed looks over the edge. The birds hover in a large, tight flock, a continuous flapping mass of wings and beaks and claws. 

Ed nods, placing a hand on the ledge. “All right. Before the pipes get to us, let’s get moving.”

“...Hold on.” Henri’s brow furrows. “Moving where, exactly?” 

Ed points down. “I’m gonna fire out a mesh on top of your birds. Then you can fly us around, or dump us on the ground, and we can see where the user is from there. Sound good?” 

“B-But…!” Henri puts a hand to his head, sputtering. “I don’t know if my birds can support both of us. And how would we even go about locating the user from up here, anyway?” 

Beneath them, the parking garage gives a threatening creeeeeak, and the ground shifts ever-so-slightly beneath their feet. 

“Look, man.” Ed stares Henri directly in the eyes through his sunglasses, a dead serious expression on his face. “I already got a pretty fucking hefty burn from this Stand, and I don’t plan to get another one. If we stay up here, we’re going to get grabbed by these pipes, or the entire goddamn garage is gonna collapse beneath us. So it’s either you go with my plan, or you die.”

He hefts himself up onto the ledge, rising to his feet, then teetering back and forth as the wind rocks him gently from side to side. From six stories up, the streets look small and congested, with a few cars driving through them like scampering beetles. But the parking garage is dwarfed by the rest of the buildings in Finance Row, whose true scope is easier to appreciate from so high up. They extend far into the sky, some almost appearing to the clouds. 

Yes, Ed still has so much higher to climb. 

He turns to Henri. “You in? Or do you wanna try your luck with the scalding hot Stand?” 

Henri raises his hands in surrender. “All right, all right!” He climbs up to the ledge, crouching beside Ed. 

Ed takes a deep breath, looking down at the birds. He’ll have about a second or two to fire out all the mesh he can muster on top of these birds before he lands on them. 

If this works, Ed and Henri will have the position they need to finish this fight. 

If it doesn’t… well, at least they won’t have much time to regret it. 

He grits his teeth, clicking the trigger of his Stand. “Fuck it all.” 

As the pipes grind heedlessly towards him once more, Ed Henderson takes two bounding steps, then leaps off the roof of the parking garage. 

Rushing air screams in Ed’s ears as he falls. He presses down on the trigger, hoping against hope that it manages to cover all the birds. He pushes the mesh out, willing it to spread far and wide. 

A shout escapes his lungs, louder than he’s ever shouted before. 

“ELECTRICLARRYLAND!”  

— — — 

Discoman’s first reaction to the Stand user’s shout is subconscious. 

His brain sends out a complex system of electrochemical signals throughout his body, lighting his biomatter up like a switchboard. His heartbeat immediately speeds up, sending blood cycling through all of his extremities at lightning speed. His kidneys flood his body with adrenaline, and his hands begin to quiver unconsciously. 

By the time his conscious mind fully comprehends the significance of what he’s just heard, Discoman’s body has already shifted to anticipate his excitement. 

He reflexively taps on his earbud as he stares intently out of his shadow, fixated on the scene unfolding in front of him. “Reggatta. Are you there?” 

“We always are,” says Reggatta. “Any updates on the painting?”

“Yesterday. The Jovan Jorgensen autopsy.” He speaks breathlessly, stumbling over his words. “He mentioned a Stand user who shot Vandyke, right?”

A brief spurt of thocking. “Correct.”  

“And he gave it a name, right? What was the name?” 

“The name, hmm…” More thocking, sustained slightly longer. “Electriclarryland. User unknown, abilities unknown.”

“Motherfucker,” whispers Discoman. Electric-goddamn-larryland. He puts a hand to his head, unable to control his spreading grin. “Get this: the man with the bound Stand just said that exact name out loud. A textbook Stand proclamation.”

A sharp breath. “Was there no manifestation?”

“None at all, other than the mesh it shoots out,” says Discoman. 

“So then this means…”

“Exactly what you think it does,” says Discoman. “This kid has a bound Stand that could stop Vandyke in his tracks. And assuming your assumption that he defeated Betterman is right…” 

“This operation is much more interesting than we’d anticipated.” A rare hint of emotion enters Reggatta’s tone. “Hm. We’ll need some time to reassess priorities on the mission. Until then, focus on acquiring the painting and defeating this Stand user if possible. Understood?”

“Perfectly.” Discoman nods. “It will be done. Everything for rapture.”

“Everything for rapture.”

The line disconnects, and Reggatta exhales, dismissing her Stand’s display with a quick keystroke. She permits a smile to cross her face. To think that an artifact as useful as this was in the hands of a Bureau contractor… it almost confounds her. 

She looks around the dingy office, its desks covered in files and assorted hard drives. Reggatta had rented it out for the weekend from an unscrupulous landlord with a tolerance for cash payments and an appreciation for discretion. Such types are not uncommon in the city, of course, but Reggatta appreciates everyone who recognizes the importance of productivity. 

The office is useful for a number of reasons. First, it’s carefully positioned on the border of Finance Row and Center City. To coordinate Discoman engaging with the targets in the Row, Starchild providing support from some club in the Waterfront, and B-52 puttering around downtown, this location is optimal for communications. Plus, an office gives Reggatta a desk to store the sources she’s digitizing, ensuring she’s able to make progress on work even in the middle of a mission.

Her eyes land on the diminutive figure sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, gloved hands folded over their stomach. They wear a long, shimmering jacket and a patterned scarf, along with a broad-brimmed black hat pulled down over their eyes. A metal hatpin ending in a heart juts out from their left shoulder, tilting back and forth slightly with each breath. 

The biggest advantage, of course, is that this space allows Reggatta to accommodate the Collector. 

Reggatta turns fully towards the seated figure. “You’ll be interested in this,” she says. “The Stand user currently in possession of your artifact is the same Stand user who defeated Betterman — and restrained the Bureau’s Vandyke.” 

The room is silent. Reggatta waits patiently. As much as it pains her to waste precious time, showing respect to her superior is far more important. 

After a long moment of silence, the pin in the figure’s shoulder twitches, and the brim of the hat tips upwards ever-so-slightly. 

“Go on,” says a clear voice. 

Reggatta nods. “We’re sure you understand the significance of his capabilities. But there’s another fact that might interest you. As far as we can tell, this Stand has no power-type manifestation whatsoever. It’s a pure object Stand, bound to a taser.”

The figure doesn’t move a muscle, but Reggatta feels a sudden pressure fill the room. 

The Collector is interested. Excellent. 

“This is an artifact candidate that has the potential to contend with Bureau administrators,” says Reggatta. “Stored in the form of a mundane weapon, no less. It’s practically a perfect scenario.” 

She tilts her head to the side. 

“What do you think, Collector?” 

There’s another brief moment of silence. The pressure becomes overwhelming for a moment, and Reggatta feels herself unconsciously take a step back. She holds her breath, running the calculations in her head. Assuming she’s somehow offended the Collector, then…

All at once, the pressure eases. The Collector uncrosses her arms, showing off the links of jewelry dangling beneath her coat. 

She raises her head to meet Reggatta’s gaze, revealing a deeply wrinkled face framed by silver bangs. 

“Why — I’m sure you already know what I think, kind liaison.”

The second Producer of the Million steeples her fingers and smiles. Behind heart-shaped glasses, her eyes gleam. 

“I simply must have that Stand.”

Chapter Text

Ever since his youth, Henri Lavigne has dreamed of flying. 

It was a vain hope from the start, of course. Henri had been born prematurely, and he spent the first half-decade of his life flitting in and out of hospital wards for various medical complications. The doctors declared it a long shot that he’d make it to five. For him to have a full and healthy adult life would take nothing short of divine intervention. It was a waste of money, of medical resources. All it would do is prolong his suffering. 

But one day, his condition marvelously improved. First, he started to breathe easier, then talk, and then walk. Eventually, he was frolicking like an ordinary child, as if his weakness had never bedeviled him at all. 

His recovery left the doctors scratching their heads. They’d never seen anything quite like it. Clearly, some greater power had smiled down on little towheaded Henri Lavigne. 

Henri doesn’t recall any divine intervention, of course. He only remembers looking out the window of his hospital room, staring at the birds wheeling carelessly outside. They moved with a freedom his youthful mind could scarcely conceive. One day, he thought, he’d like to be outside the window too, up against the fathomless blue. 

And Henri improved, and he left the hospital, and he saw the birds against the sky from a whole new perspective. It was only then that he realized just how far away they truly were. 

So Henri became obsessed with birds, devouring every book and TV special he could get on the subject. When it became clear that he wouldn’t one day grow wings, he turned his attention to human flight. Da Vinci, the Wright brothers, Earhart, Lindbergh, Yeager — he read all of their stories greedily, soaking up every bit of precious knowledge. 

At nine years old, he built his very own flight machine, a madcap contraption of wings and engines and hot air balloons. During its maiden flight, Henri ended up breaking his leg in two places and getting a nasty abrasion, but he was starstruck. He’d never seen the world from so high up before. 

From that day onwards, Henri would seek the skies. 

His future would take another turn in secondary school, when a terrorist attack involving airplanes rocked international news. The event shook Henri, the visuals searing themselves into his mind — tools of human progress and ingenuity used for devastation and destruction. He developed a burning desire to make up for all the harm and suffering, to stop such horror from happening again in the future. 

However, Henri himself was not strong enough to help people. His physical frailty still bedeviled him; he found himself unable to run a hundred meters without getting winded. He couldn’t carry people out of burning buildings, or chase down criminals in the streets, or perform CPR on a choking civilian. For all intents and purposes, he was useless. 

This desire for justice ached in Henri’s chest for years, throughout his schooling and his first year of pilot school in an American city. He bemoaned his weakness, his selfishness in choosing a career that gratified him instead of one that helped people. He wished he could be stronger to truly help those around him.

Then the Byway Bridge incident happened, and Henri discovered his true strength. 

It had all happened in a whirlwind. He’d woken up with his ability inadvertently active, and had been startled by the disorienting perspective of a bird. He experimented with it secretly, unsure if anyone else had the same power as him and questioning what he could use it for. 

Henri realized that he hadn’t been secret when a buzzing, heavily pierced man showed up at his door one day. He realized he wasn’t alone when the man identified himself as a White Satin Knight named Nivek and demonstrated another power. 

And when he began his training, he realized that his ability’s uses were far, far vaster than he could have imagined. 

So Henri began his employment at the Bureau, watching over his comrades from afar and protecting civilians from enemy Stand users. It was an excellent job; he threw himself into it vicariously, becoming one of the best-performing contractors in his role. He was even fast-tracked to become a White Satin Knight in the future. 

His job allowed him the gratification of helping people, and his Stand allowed him the sheer bliss of flight. It was everything Henri Lavigne had hoped for. 

Except it wasn’t. Not really. 

Because Henri wasn’t actually the one flying: with his ability, he was merely looking through the eyes of a bird that was flying under his control. It was the same as piloting a drone, in a sense. He saw what the bird saw, but he didn’t feel the wind ruffling his hair or hear the city roaring in his ears. And he wasn’t actually helping people, either: he was providing intelligence and instructions to the people who were actually doing the work. He felt like a fraud, a 911 dispatcher pretending to be a cop. 

If the Bureau’s assumption was right, and a Stand reflected the shape of the user’s soul, then Henri Lavigne was nothing more than a coward. 

So when he was promoted to full Knight status, Henri pressed Misti and Nivek to let him work on a field mission. They assigned him to supervise two contractors, one reliable worker with potential and one relative unknown, and he prayed that he would get to see some action. Even after he hung back, and Ed and Cecilia tackled the Stand users in the museum with minimal help, he kept his hopes up. Maybe there’d be something more after, a moment where he could be a real hero. 

Henri had no idea what he was getting into. 

Now, he stands on top of a concrete barrier, swaying back and forth slightly as gentle winds blow him. He stares down at his gathered birds, and the hard sidewalk below them. The Stand’s speed, the burns on Ed’s face, the fact that they have no way to counter it…

Henri swallows. Maybe he isn’t cut out for field work after all. 

He glances over at Ed Henderson beside him. Somehow, even as the parking garage begins to creak and tilt beneath them, Ed remains resolute. Henri has no choice but to trust his plan.

This trust is immediately tested when Ed gets a running start and leaps off the wall. 

“ELECTRICLARRYLAND!”

Henri watches his partner plummet through the air beside the parking garage. He raises his Stand, and mesh blooms in front of him. It extends over the mass of birds, then sweeps down over the edges, neatly forming a blanket. 

Ed lands safely on the mesh with an oomph. He looks up at Henri, raises his hands to his mouth, and shouts loud enough to be heard over the rushing of the wind and the thrashing of the pipes. 

“JUMP!”  

Henri Lavigne has spent most of his life sitting back and watching other people. 

Now, as the pipes close in behind him, he realizes it’s time to act. 

He gulps, closes his eyes, and steps into nothingness. 

Wind rushes through Henri’s ears, blowing his curly hair around his face and into the air behind him. He lingers in the air just long enough to feel a moment of terror. Did he miscalculate his jump? Did Ed’s mesh fail? Is he about to be splattered against the concrete of Finance Row? 

Pwoof.

Henri lands face-first on a cushiony surface, feeling the ground ripple slightly below him. He rises to his feet, opening his eyes. Looking around, he finds himself on top of a silvery mesh, with his horde of blue-eyed birds holding him up. 

Across the makeshift platform stands Ed, who points upwards. The three pipes of They’re Red Hot arc downwards through the air, greedily targeting the massive ball of heat by the side of the parking garage.

“Bird dude, look!”

“Got it!”

Henri immediately understands what he needs to do. He nods at Ed, then gets to work. As his Stand covers his vision, he feels his awareness extend to cover the birds beneath him. 

He reaches out with all of his mental might and pulls.

“Little Wing, go!”

The birds move as one, and Henri feels himself jolted backwards. After stabilizing himself, he cycles through perspectives, observing the flapping, beating mass from various angles. He finally selects a small pigeon to be his point-of-view bird. With a thought, he sends it out from under the net and up into the air above. 

The bird-supported platform now hovers over the street, far above the parking garage and the office building across the road. The pipes grasp after Ed and Henri in vain, spinning complex circular patterns in midair. After a moment, they relent, turning around and heading back into the garage for easier targets. 

Henri desummons his Stand for a moment and looks around the platform, his heart beating wildly in his chest. The sky is closer than it’s ever been before, and the breeze rustles his hair. He feels an elation swelling through his body that he can’t describe. 

At last, Henri Lavigne knows what it’s truly like to fly. 

“Good stuff, bird dude.” Ed glances over the edge, nodding approvingly. He glances at Henri, eyebrows raised behind his sunglasses. “See? I told you this would work. Pretty fuckin’ sweet view, too.”

Henri nods, lost for words. “Y-Yes. I…” He swallows. “It’s, eh, very nice.” 

“Yeah, tell me about it. Not the type of thing you see every day.” Ed picks his teeth. 

The quiet fluttering of birds and the distant sound of car engines fill the air. After a moment of silence, Ed turns back to Henri. “So, uh, where do we go from here?” 

“...What do you mean?” asks Henri. 

“Like, what’s the plan for defeating this dude?” says Ed. 

“Defeating?” Henri scratches his chin. “Shouldn’t we be heading back to the Bureau?” 

Ed casts a look of confusion at Henri. “Are you serious, bird dude?” 

“This Stand is seriously powerful,” says Henri. “The longer we remain in close quarters with it, the more risk we put ourselves in.” 

“Yeah, but there’s no way we still got a car at this point. And if we try to run, the dark guy’s just gonna turn the heater off, follow us, and then turn it on again. Or he’ll attack us himself,” says Ed. “We have to defeat the furnace fucker and the dark dude here, or else we’re gonna get our shit rocked before we even meet back up with Cecilia.”

“Then what are we going to do?” says Henri. “How do we possibly stand a chance at defeating this Stand? It’s got both of our abilities outclassed in power and speed, and we have no idea where the user is —”

“Bzzzzt!” Ed imitates the sound of a game show buzzer. “Wrong answer, guy. You said it yourself, didn’t you? Stand this strong, the user’s gotta be close. Probably even within the Stand’s range, right?” 

“Okay, but —” Henri sputters. “That would put us at risk of being attacked by it again!” 

“C’mon, bird dude.” Ed taps his head. “You’re smart. Think about it. The Stand targets heat, but the user needs to be near it to activate. Doesn’t something about that not add up?” 

Henri stares at Ed incredulously for a second longer before it clicks. 

“Ostie!” He puts a hand to his head. “Then it would target them!”

Ed nods. “See, now you’re starting to get it. There’s no way a Stand would attack its own user, right? So all we gotta do is look at this Stand’s range, and find out where it hasn’t attacked.” 

He taps the mesh with his palm.

“And for that, I think we’ve got the perfect vantage point.” 

“Excellent!” Henri nods enthusiastically, feeling triumphant. “So we’re looking for a gap in the pipes? Then let us begin our search!”

With a thought, the platform of birds lifts up into the air, smoothly carrying Ed and Henri over the pipe-covered top of the parking garage. By now, the pipes have torn through the concrete walls and the foundation of the garage; they curl outwards from its sides, barely managing to hold the entire thing upright. They twist and turn over each other in a mad lattice, filling the space of the garage with piping hot steel.

Henri reaches the opposite side of the garage, which opens to the end of a small, downward-sloped side street. He lowers the bird platform down towards the ground. It looks like all the upper floors are completely filled with pipes — thankfully, the user doesn’t seem to be hiding up there. 

Henri places a finger to his head thoughtfully. “Hmm. Should I send a bird in to investigate?” 

“You could, but… get a load of that.” Ed points at the garage, and Henri follows. 

One of the ramps on the first floor of the garage leads down to a basement floor. The path down is completely non-noteworthy: the sides of the garage are flanked by rows of cars, a utility closet is at the bottom… 

And not a single pipe is in sight. 

“The enemy has to be down there!” Barely contained excitement enters Henri’s voice as he lowers the birds down towards the bottom floor. “So all we’ve got to do is head down there, find their hiding place, and root them out!” 

“Sounds like a plan.” Ed nods. “So let’s get to it, yeah?” 

Henri directs the birds to hover a few feet off the ground. Ed slides off the side of the mesh, and Henri follows after him. As Ed cancels the mesh, they stand in front of the back entrance, a full flock of birds fluttering behind them. 

“So, how are we planning to go about this?” says Henri. “Should we bum rush downstairs, until we get close enough to the Stand user so that the pipes won’t target us?” 

“Well, we could,” says Ed. “But if they do go after us while we’re on our way, the Stand user might get completely blocked off. And then we’d be totally fucked. So what should we do?” 

An idea begins to form in Henri’s mind, a plan to flawlessly distract the pipes and open up the user. He thinks it over. He’s never done anything so reckless in his life, and he wonders if it’d be too much of a risk. After all the stuff he’s done today, would it be better to sit back and play it safe?

No. He’s done enough sitting back in his life. He just learned to fly, dammit — anything is possible now. 

“...Bird guy?” Ed casts a furtive glance at Henri. “You got a plan?” 

“Yeah.” Henri smiles. “Just watch.” 

Little Wing clicks across Henri’s eyes as he briskly walks forwards, his birds slowly coming into formation around him. He notices a new inner strength within him beyond anything he’s felt before. His resolve is steeled; he’s reached a new level of power. This Stand can’t possibly contend with him. 

Today, Henri Lavigne will be a hero. 

“What the fuck are you doing, dude?” calls Ed. “The pipes are gonna get you!” 

Henri turns. “Go!” he says through the cloud of birds. “I’ll be okay! Find the enemy!” 

Before Ed can respond, Henri turns around and sprints towards the nest of pipes leading upstairs. 

It’s difficult to dodge between the steaming pipes, but with the awareness provided by his birds, Henri is able to find openings easily. He wipes sweat off his forehead as he guides his flock further upstairs, listening intently all the while. Closer… closer…

Ka-chunk ka-chunk ka-chunk

Three pipes surge down through the center of the parking garage. Slowly, their openings turn towards the birds, bellowing hot steam into the air. They waver back and forth, as if choosing between targets. 

“Now!” shouts Henri, and the flock peels off him as one single, feathery mass.

As the birds soar forwards in a loose formation, the pipes soar towards them. But the birds peel apart just in time, deftly weaving around the curving pipes and avoiding the burns. Henri backs off to the side; a dove lands on his shoulder to serve as his eyes. All he has to do is keep these pipes occupied, he thinks, and Ed will be fine. 

The birds fly further into the air, soaring up to the next floor and flying through the dense thicket of pipes now filling the garage. The pipes pursue them, weaving back and forth through the air in demented patterns. Just a little bit longer, and — 

Chk-chk-chk

A squawk of pain pierces the air, and Henri’s blood runs cold. 

One of the pipes has increased in speed. 

Henri wills the birds up, sending them further into the parking garage. But the pipes suddenly fan outwards, darting bird by bird in ruthless metallic blurs. 

Through his Stand, he senses his birds being taken out one by one. 

CH-CH-CH-CH-CH-CH—

“Damn!” Henri raises his hands, thinking quickly. He scatters his remaining birds out the nearest windows, sending them flitting out into the air above the city. If he’s lucky, they’ll escape the Stand’s range. 

After a moment of metallic clicking and churning, there’s silence. Henri breathes a sigh of relief. If he’s lucky, Ed’s defeated the Stand user by now, and he’s free to go. 

Ka-chunk ka-chunk ka-chunk

Feeling a pool of dread in his gut, Henri turns to see all three pipes piercing down through the ceiling once more. 

His hopes are fully dashed as they slowly turn to face towards him. 

“Tabarnak…”

Henri turns, taking two tentative steps back, then runs for his life, dodging under pipes and stepping over cracks in the ground. Panicked wheezes expel from his lungs as sweat pours down his face. Just a bit more, he thinks. Just a few more steps, and he’ll be out of the garage. 

Chk-chk-chk-chk-chk-SIZZ…

He’s three steps away when the pipes wrap around him.

Henri Lavigne has always dreamed of being a hero, of sacrificing himself to save the weak and innocent. 

But as a scalding metal tendril wraps around his face and the smell of charring flesh sizzles his nose, all he can do is scream.

— — — 

As Henri sprints into the maw of They’re Red Hot, Ed Henderson seizes the opportunity. 

Ed sprints into the lower level of the garage, then stops, raising Electriclarryland before him. A few segments of pipe have punched through the ceiling lights above him, but the rest of the floor is blessedly clear of the Stand’s presence. With a brief sigh of relief, he continues further into the basement, the Numan Institute gift bag swinging from his arm. 

While he runs, Ed presses the trigger of Electriclarryland, sending a mesh made of skin out beside him. He reasons that it’d only make sense for Discoman to hide the enemy Stand user in a car. After all, who’d think to inspect every single one? The flesh moves forwards alongside him, phasing through every car intangibly until Ed reaches the bottom of the stairs. 

There’s another noticeably un-piped level of cars to inspect around the corner, but Ed’s attention is caught by the utility closet built into the garage’s back wall. Now here’s an excellent hiding spot — and one right in the center of this little circle of immunity. If he weren’t trying to stop a Stand from smashing up the entire parking garage, he’d almost have to commend the guy. 

“Got you now, motherfucker,” mutters Ed, prying open the door and stepping inside. 

The small, cramped room is lit by a single dim bulb. The walls are lined with slightly thrumming pipes, and a few janitorial materials are scattered around the floor. Several stacked bags of materials are piled along the far side of the room; atop one of the piles sits a small, white-haired figure. She’s dressed in a wrinkled blouse decorated by an abstract pattern and a modest purple dress. A necklace made of twisted steel sits around her neck. 

As Ed steps forwards into the room, the figure stirs. She lifts her head and speaks in a frail voice. 

“Discoman? Is that you?” 

Ed feels his heart sink down to his toes. 

No fucking way this nasty-ass Stand belongs to an old lady. 

“Discoman? Is it finished?” The woman squints her eyes at Ed, then recoils. “Oh! Oh, my. I’m so sorry, dear. I must have mistaken you for someone else.”

“...The pipes.” Ed steps closer to the woman, swallowing. “Are they yours?” 

The woman’s face falls. “Oh, child, your poor face. He told me there would be no bystanders, you know…”

“I’m not a bystander.” Ed lifts the plastic bag dangling in his grip. “I’m the target of this ability. Ma’am, if these pipes are yours, you have to deactivate your ability.” 

“You’re the target?” The woman gasps. “My! He said he was targeting enemy operatives, not wayward young men. You should be in school, dear.” 

“Listen, lady.” Ed takes another step towards the woman, clenching Electriclarryland for protection. “My friend is up there, risking his life for a distraction. I really don’t want to hurt you, but please, you have to deactivate the furnace.”

“Oh.” The woman shakes her head sadly. “I’m sorry, dear. I don’t know if I can.”

“Huh? What do you mean?” says Ed. 

The woman swallows. “When it first activated, this ability trapped me in my own home. It attacked my front porch, my gas main, my laundry machines — I had to be careful that I was nearby whenever something heated up, or else it would attack again. Why, my own children couldn’t even get close to the house. I had resigned myself to dying there… until one day, I was saved.”

Ed waves a hand. “Okay, okay, that’s awful. But during all that time, did you ever try, like, turning it off? Like, thinking, ‘Oh, gee, if only these mysterious pipes could go away?’”

The woman furrows her brow. “Dear, all I thought about in that wretched house was making those pipes disappear. How could I have known it was some… supernatural ability of mine?”

“Yeah, yeah, all right, but you know now, don’t you?” Ed waves a hand, frustration mounting in his voice. “You know the pipes are yours. If you know it, you can control it. So can you please just try to turn the Stand off?”

The woman shakes her head sadly. “You don’t understand anything, dear. At least Discoman will be here soon. Maybe he can help us.”

A shrill scream of pain pierces the air, drowning out the clanking of the pipes. It continues for a long moment, turning into a wail before tapering off. Ed turns, the sound and its implication ringing horribly clear in his mind. 

The Stand got Henri. 

Ed looks at the woman, seeing terror in her eyes. “You heard those screams too, huh?” 

“Oh, dear…” The woman hunches over. “I didn’t want any of this to happen… Oh, why did it have to be this way?”

“Listen, lady.” Ed approaches the woman, raising Electriclarryland. “Either you’re gonna deactivate this Stand yourself, or I’m gonna have to make you deactivate it. Am I clear?” 

The woman shakes her head. “I-I can’t!” she says desperately. “It’s too powerful! I don’t know what I did to get such an awful ability, but —”

“You have to!” yells Ed, sticking his finger in the woman’s face. “You have to, or me and my friend are going to fucking die! Our blood is going to be on your fucking hands!” 

“Oh, dear, oh, dear…” The woman shakes her head more vigorously, rocking back and forth. “Why, Discoman, why?” 

“So are you gonna help us?” Ed continues, his voice reaching a fevered shout. “Are you gonna take control of your ability? Or will you let us die here?”

The woman is silent for a second. Then, out of nowhere, she slaps Ed’s finger away from her face with surprising strength. “Save me, Discoman!” she screams. 

Ed recoils, stepping back slightly. His face curls in anger, and he reaches out, grabbing the woman by her collar. “You goddamn —”

He suddenly staggers as the woman suddenly tilts backwards, pulling him down with her body weight. He steps in, reaching behind the woman’s back to hold her upright. “Jeez,” he mutters. “Are you good, ma’am?”

Ed receives no response. He looks at the old woman’s face and sees that her eyes have suddenly shut. With some trepidation, he places the back of his hand in front of her face and feels shallow breathing.

There’s no mistaking it: the old lady has fainted on the spot. 

And as Ed lifted his head, he realizes that the distant rumbling and clanking of pipes is no longer audible. 

He lowers the old woman to the floor gingerly, placing her head onto a bag of sand. He mouths an apology, then backs up and opens the door, stepping back out into the garage.

The sound of cracking fills Ed’s ears as parts of the upper levels collapse in on themselves. The basement level has gotten darker; a pile of rubble covers most of the entrance, meaning that the only light is now a few flickering bulbs. Ed stands directly beneath one as his mind races. 

The pipe Stand is out of commission for now, which is pretty fucking stellar. The darkness dude is still out there, but Ed’s confident he’ll be able to block the guy in a one-on-one fight. From here, he’ll be able to meet up with Cecilia and coordinate stuff. And, of course, he can’t forget about — 

“Ed?” 

A strained, croaking voice echoes through the garage, followed by a pained wheezing that makes Ed wince. Shit, it sounds worse than he thought. The pipes must have really done a number on the poor dude. 

“Ed? Is that… you?” 

Henri Lavigne steps into the light, and Ed’s eyes widen. 

Oh. Fuck.

Henri’s bomber jacket is in tatters, scraps of charred leather and cotton falling like leaves as he hobbles forwards. One of his ankles is visibly twisted to the side, its skin covered in painful red weals, and the material of his shoe looks like it’s half-melted. His left hand hangs limply at his side, while his right hand holds his shoulder. 

And his face — 

Ed instinctively screws his eyes shut. 

Fuck. Not like waiting will make it any better. 

Slowly, painfully, he reopens them, then looks at the face of his supervisor.

Half of Henri’s face is covered in a nauseating lattice of charred black-and-brown tissue. The blackened tips of his hair hang limply in front of his face. One eye is seared shut by festering burns; wet tears ooze from the other. The skin of his lips peels at one corner. Yet his mouth, somehow, turns up in a smile. 

“Ed… we did it,” rasps Henri with a horribly cheerful tone. “We took down… the enemy. All that’s left… is the darkness guy… right?”

“I —” Ed shakes his head. “Jesus fucking Christ, bird guy. Do you have any sun in a bottle left? We gotta get medical attention, like, now.” 

“It hurts awful…” Henri swallows. “But Ed… I’ve never… felt better.”

A jubilant tear rolls down his cheek as he takes another halting step forwards, dragging his leg behind him.

“I did it, Ed… I did something. I saved you. I’m not a fucking… coward. I won’t sit back… anymore. Now… I’m a hero.”

He looks at Ed, a pleading look in his eyes. 

“Right?” 

Ed shakes his head, lost for words. He’d thought this guy was normal, but the motherfucker just threw himself straight into an enemy Stand’s attack out of chivalry. Maybe the darkness dude was right: all Stand users are actually sickos. 

“Listen,” says Ed, rummaging around in his pocket. “You’re about to fucking collapse, dude. Lemme stabilize your burn, and then —”

“Please.” Henri steps forwards again, more tears falling down his face. “Please tell me… I did good. I need you… to say it.” 

“You need medical help,” says Ed firmly. “Just hold still for a second, will you?” 

“No, please,” begs Henri, frustration entering his voice. “Please, Ed. Just once. I need to know that I —”

THWACK.

From the darkness, something falls down hard on the back of Henri’s neck. 

His eye rolls back into his head. He remains upright for a moment, then unceremoniously crumples to the ground. 

Before Ed’s eyes, a white-haired figure steps into the light, smoky shadows spilling out from his body.

“So you managed to disable my bomb.”

“You mothercunter!” spits Ed. “You lousy fucking jerk! Using little old ladies to carry out your plans?”

In lieu of a response, Discoman merely lifts one of his shoes, then firmly places it on Henri’s neck. 

Ed squeezes Electriclarryland firmly. “You shitheel…”

“Allow me to reiterate what I said earlier,” says Discoman. “I do not believe in needless death, and I prefer to take nonviolent solutions when possible. However, I must remind you that your comrade’s life is in my hands. In his weakened state, The Damned could disembowel him in an instant.” 

“Oh yeah? You’re assuming that’s not exactly what I’m planning,” says Ed, his mind working furiously. “Who’s to say my Stand hasn’t already covered him? And who’s to say that when you go to attack him, I won’t catch you in my trap?” 

Discoman shrugs. “Even if your feeble bluff is true, I’ll defeat you myself. You’re firmly in my territory right now. It’ll be slightly more effort than I’d like, but I’m fully confident in my ability to defeat you.”

Discoman takes his foot off Henri’s throat and steps forwards, darkness spreading out behind him. 

“Consider your situation for a second. One of your allies is out of commission. The other is away from here. And the moment you call for backup, the bird user dies.” 

The darkness solidifies, forming into a shape resembling a throne. Discoman sits down, taking a relaxed stance as he stares at Ed. 

“Any way you look at it, I have you in checkmate. But you still possess one major bargaining chip: Rhapsody in Blue. And I see a way in which this situation could end beneficially for both of us. So.” 

He extends a hand towards Ed.

“Shall we discuss options?”

Chapter Text

“Say. Question for you, missy.” 

Jim Popowicz points at the suspect standing before him.

“What do ya think the main difference is between the Bureau and the Million?”

The suspect blinks at Pop, looking confused. “Huh?” 

Pop looks over the suspect once more. Denim, a beat-up top, and two flowers in her hair: her aesthetic is definitely alternative. And what with her being a college-age girl, it’s easy to get a sense of the crowd she runs with. Not the type of perp Pop usually sees, for sure — but exactly the type of person the Million might attract. 

No exclamation points anywhere on her body, though. She’s not a full-fledged member of the Million, which means he won’t get much useful information out of her. But it also means she’s less of a threat. 

Pop considers the situation as he brushes a finger through his mustache. “Geez, I figured that was a pretty simple question. What’re they teaching you kids in school?” 

“Believe me, I understood,” says the girl, shaking her head. “I just can’t believe you’d ask such a moronic question. The difference between the Million and the Bureau? Are you joking?” 

The suspect extends her hands in front of her, adopting a fighting stance. 

“The Bureau are fascists, trying to crush the city under their sun-stamped boot. The Million are fighting for freedom.” 

A gleaming white Stand manifests behind her.

“And I’ll show you just how powerful we can be.”

As bone spikes shoot out from the suspect’s arms, Pop feels the deep inner satisfaction of cracking another case. 

From the moment Pop entered the gallery, he knew right away that there’d been a massive fight between two power-type Stands. The craters in the floor, the toppled sculptures, the deep gouges in the walls — no other combination of abilities could form this specific pattern of devastation. Recalling the small briefing he received before being dispatched, Pop successfully concluded that the fight involved the contractor Cecilia Valdez, who possessed the only power-type Stand among the group. 

But Valdez’s Stand power didn’t account for the gashes in the walls, the unconscious but relatively unharmed civilians, or the loose shards of white covering the ground. When stepping on one of the shards, Pop felt a distinctive crunch that couldn’t have been marble or a variety of stone. And as he saw the fallen girl, her body surrounded by pieces of the same substance, Pop’s hunch formed into a hypothesis. 

Now, it’s all but confirmed. Pop is facing off against a close-range Stand that can manipulate bones on contact.

“A decent guess, if a bit prejudicial. But unfortunately for you, missy, you’re wrong.” 

Pop raises a collared arm, willing his Stand into existence beside him. 

“The Bureau’s main advantage over the Million is ‘human capital.’” 

The suspect glances at Pop suspiciously. She still seems hostile, but Pop has intrigued her enough to stave off an attack for now. This’ll make a good opportunity for him to set up. 

“Y’see, though we still don’t know your employers, everyone we’ve encountered from the Million is some variety of fuckup. Street rats, old-timers, punks… hell, even your higher ups are head cases and drug addicts.” 

A canine form slowly shimmers into existence beside Pop. It has an angular body with long jowls, and its head is tall enough to reach his hip. Most of its body is covered in screens that display constantly shifting text, letters and numbers flashing in and out of existence and blurring together. As it regards the suspect, it emits a low growl. 

“But the Bureau is full of hand-selected Stand users. To become a White Satin Knight, you need to undergo rigorous training and supervision. Put simply, we’re elite.” 

The Stand gives a metallic growl as Pop runs a hand idly over its head. 

“And an untrained Million lackey… well, let’s just say your odds ain’t great.” 

“Hm.” The suspect scratches her chin. “You talk a lot, cop. Are you waiting for backup?”

“Geez.” Pop wags a finger. “You’re just proving my point, missy. You’ve been making one very basic mistake ever since I walked in here.” 

“Yeah?” says the suspect, crouching lower. “And what might that be?” 

“Oh, it’s real simple. You’ve been going up against a Stand user…” 

Pop points at the ceiling. 

“...with a totally unknown ability.” 

The suspect looks up just in time for a dog to fall directly on her face. 

WHACK.

Girl and Stand crumple to the ground in a heap. The suspect lands roughly on her side as a Stand identical to the one at Pop’s side lands cleanly on its feet beside her. It turns its head, placing its jaws loosely around her neck. The other dog trots beside her, standing guard.

“See, my Stand actually has ‘two’ bodies,” says Pop, walking calmly towards the girl. “I summoned the first one upstairs, when I was beginning my investigation. From there, all I had to do was navigate it above your location, phase it through the floor, and — ker-blam!” 

He crouches down, looking the suspect in the eye. 

“Remember this, missy: the most important factor in a Stand battle is always ‘information.’ When it comes to that, you’ll never have an advantage over me. And if I so much as smell you activating your Stand, well…” 

He clicks his teeth together. “My pals both have a nasty bite. Get me?” 

The suspect pushes herself onto her elbows, staring neutrally at Pop in response. 

“Good. You understand.” Pop nods and steeples his fingers. “So I’ll be upfront with you: you seem to be pretty low in the Million’s ranking. Not exactly a high-priority target. I don’t expect to get much actionable intel from you, but I’ve been having a pretty good day so far. So give us what you know, cooperate with our investigation, and you’ll get off light. Heck, with a Stand like yours, I could even snag you a decent spot as a contractor.” 

He extends a hand graciously.

“Does that sound like a deal, missy?” 

“...” The suspect regards his hand. Pop marvels at her tenacity; he has no clue what she might be thinking. 

After a moment, her gaze switches back to Pop’s face. “Fine.”

“Lovely.” Pop grabs another mint. “Then all you have to do is answer one simple question. What is your boss’s Stand ability?” 

The suspect is silent for a long, drawn-out moment, staring into space. Her heart rate spikes, and Pop catches a pungent whiff of adrenaline — an obvious sign that she’s trying to stall for time. Maybe she’s worried about her boss ratting her out. Ah, hell. She can think all she likes, but by Pop’s estimation, she only has two options: a smart one and a stupid one. 

“Cat got your tongue?” says Pop. “Or dog, I guess?”

The suspect waits one more second. Then she inhales sharply, gathering her strength. 

Internally, Pop sighs. Time for the stupid option. 

Stand aura flares around the suspect as she shouts, bones rippling beneath her skin.

“Scarlet Begonias!”

In lieu of a response, Pop clenches his hand shut, and the dog bites down. 

SHINK.

The suspect suddenly freezes. Her elbows collapse out from under her, and she falls flat to the ground, twitching slightly as a powerful paralytic agent courses through her bloodstream. Her disbelieving eyes are the only part of her body that moves, staring up at Pop in shock. 

“Damn shame.” Pop plaintively clicks his tongue, standing over the girl’s fallen form. “You could’ve done fine work with some decent supervision. Looks like it’ll be containment for you.” 

A few EMTs file downstairs with stretchers, and Pop turns towards them. “Take all of those!” he says. “This one’s being contained!”

One of the EMTs nods. “Got it!” With a few shouted commands, they manage to load the first few civilians and take them upstairs.

Satisfied, Pop turns back to the paralyzed girl. He rummages around in his pocket, then pulls out a pair of handcuffs and snaps them around her hands. Finally, he raises one of his wrists and taps the collar cinched around it. 

“This is Popowicz. I’ve disabled a low-level Million member at the Numan Institute. Looks like your operatives have already finished up here.”

“How wondrous!” says the jovial voice of Misti Mountainhop. “We’ll dispatch a containment unit out to the Institute immediately.”

“Any sign of where the operatives might have gone?” says a rough, masculine voice. 

“Not as far as I can tell,” says Pop, scratching one of his dogs behind the ears. “You sound awfully concerned.” 

The voice sighs. “Look, can you blame me? The damn airhead’s never done a job in the field before. I’m hoping Misti’s greenies didn’t lead him into a death trap.”

“Oh, lighten up, Mister Nivek!” says Misti. “I’m sure Mister Henri is doing just fine. And besides, that’s exactly why we sent Mister Popowicz out, no?”

“Well, you know me, Misti,” says Pop wryly. “Nothing I love more than tracking down wayward recruits.” 

As Misti guffaws, Nivek sighs. “Look, all I want to know is where my recruit's gone. Is that too much to ask, copper?”  

“I know, I know. Just busting your balls a little, hey?” Pop rubs the other dog under the chin with his free hand. “Anyway. My dogs managed to catch a few scents upstairs — some perfume, some body spray — so I’ll put ‘em on the trail. Does that sound all right to you?” 

“It sounds perfect!” exclaims Misti. 

“Sure,” says Nivek dryly. “Just fine.”

Pop rises to his feet, both dogs standing at attention beside him. He stretches, cracking his knuckles above his head.

“Lovely. You sure made the right call sending me here, Misti. No matter where those contractors might have ended up…”

He extends both arms out to his sides. The shifting data on his dogs’ bodies coalesces into defined shapes, and they begin to glow with a soft inner light. 

“The Stooges will track them down. Guaranteed.” 

— — — 

“Options? Please.” 

Standing alone in a wrecked garage, confronting the enemy seated on the unconscious body of his ally, Ed Henderson manages to crack a smirk. 

“You think you’re in any position to negotiate, shithead?” 

“...” 

Discoman leans back ever-so-slightly. His expression is almost unchanged, but Ed notices a subtle twist of his lips. A hint of confusion and intrigue has entered his mind. 

Ed’s just gotten into this guy’s head. 

Discoman nods. “Go on.” 

“Look, man.” Ed extends his hands out to the sides. The plastic gift bag dangles from his arm, and the single fluorescent lightbulb illuminates him completely. “You’re acting like you hold all the cards here. But as far as I can tell, you’re the one who’s out of options.” 

“Hm. Interesting conclusion.” Behind his sunglasses, Discoman arches an eyebrow. “And what makes you think that?”

“First.” Ed raises a finger. “You seem to be a dude with principles — well, at least for a Million fucker. You told me you don’t kill people earlier, yeah? So your little threat about killing the bird dude is completely out. Total bluff.” 

He raises another finger. “Next. I don’t know how many Stand users you have in reserve, but me and Cecilia took out two of your dudes at the museum. And now this old furnace lady’s out, too. That’s already three Stand users — which is kind of a lot, it seems like. And with how confident you are, I doubt you brought any more of your buddies here to back you up. So right now, it’s just me and you.” 

“Leaps in logic aside, you’re missing one crucial point,” says Discoman, extending his arms. “What’s to stop me from coming right up to you and taking the painting myself?”

“Jeez.” Ed shakes his head. “At least let me finish first, dude.” 

Reaching a finger up, Ed points at the light fixture above him. “As far as I can tell, your Stand looks like it lets you do fucky shit with darkness. So as long as I stay in the light, you’re not gonna be able to do that fucky shit to me. And I can wait here until emergency services come to check on this collapsing parking garage. Really, you don’t have shit on me.” 

Ed shrugs theatrically.

“I can wait here all day, motherfucker.” 

“Crude, but well-reasoned. Unfortunately, you made one crucial mistake.” Discoman rises to his feet, the darkness dissolving beneath him. “My Stand hasn’t ever been confined to the darkness.”

The Damned manifests in front of Discoman, three tendrils extending out from its dark torso as it glides forwards over the ground. 

“You make a reasonable bluff. But now, it’s time to…” 

Discoman’s voice trails off as his Stand stops in place. It pushes forwards for one second, the ends of its limbs pressing against an invisible surface. Ed watches Discoman’s eyes widen, feeling a hint of cathartic glee. 

A barrier of intangible mesh stretches between Ed and Discoman. 

“Suck my dick, asshat!” crows Ed, raising Electriclarryland into the air. “How’s that for a bluff?!” 

Discoman is silent for a moment, testing the barrier’s strength with his Stand. Shadowy hands press against it firmly, and it barely budges. The Stand grabs a fistful of the material and pulls it back, then releases; it snaps into place with hardly a sound. 

“So you can repel Stands…” Discoman nods, stepping around his Stand. “Not what I had predicted, but it tracks.” 

He reaches an arm into his jacket, almost all the way up to his forearm and rummages around for a moment. 

Finally, he pulls out a pistol and casually points it at Ed’s face.

“Hand over the painting, and you’ll leave here unharmed.”

Ed gulps, staring down the barrel of the gun as he raises his hands. He has to be really careful not to piss this guy off. “Whoa, man,” he says uneasily. “Do you really think I’d believe —”

In a flash, the barrel drops downwards.

BLAM.

Ed feels a burst of searing pain as a bullet tears through his foot. 

“FUCK!” He instantly falls to the ground, clutching his wounded foot and wincing in pain. “You — you —” 

“I’m tired of your games,” says Discoman, a frosty edge entering his voice. “Give me the painting. Now.”  

Ed breathes heavily, feeling the pain surge through his body. “You want the painting so fucking bad, huh? Then here!” 

He takes the plastic bag off his arm and slings it through the Stand barrier, where it lands at Discoman’s feet. 

“Take it!” 

Discoman looks down at the bag, then back up at Ed, suspicion in his eyes. He carefully bends down to lift the bag off the ground, then tests its weight in his hands, as if doubtful. Finally, he reaches into the bag and pulls out the object inside. His face instantly shifts as the bag falls away, and he gets a good look at the bag’s contents. 

Clutched in Discoman’s grasp is a stuffed animal, resembling a hybrid of a dog, a pig, and an elephant seal.

“Sorry, no painting here. That’s the Almighty Squonk, motherfucker,” says Ed, grinning wickedly as he holds his injured foot. “Used to be a monster around here back in the old days. Say, did you know that ol’ Dick Numan had a corpse of one of them in his —”

The feeling of cold steel pressed against his forehead stops him midsentence. 

Ed freezes, staring straight up into Discoman’s eyes. The man stares back down at him, his hand firmly tightened around the barrel of the gun. Ed half-expects the man’s face to look pissed, or frustrated. It’d make sense after getting a squonk instead of a Stand painting. 

But instead, Discoman’s eyes are completely and utterly blank. The only sign of emotion in his body is a faint trembling that transmits through the barrel of the gun. 

Anger would be understandable. If nothing else, Ed could take satisfaction in the fact he’d gotten in the guy’s head. 

But this emptiness scares Ed really, really bad. 

After a moment, Discoman lifts the pistol into the air, closing his eyes and sighing. He flicks the safety back on, sticking the gun back into his jacket. His Stand disappears behind him as he looks down at Ed once more. 

“You win. Now go.” 

“W-What?” Ed swallows the sudden dryness out of his mouth, rising to his feet shakily. “Are you serious? Is this a —”

“You win,” repeats Discoman firmly. “You fooled me. Congratulations. Now get your partner out of here, and go.” 

“...” Ed regards Discoman suspiciously. “How do I know you won’t just attack me the second I leave?” 

Instead of a response, Discoman walks past Ed, opening the door to the utility closet behind him. He emerges a moment later with the old lady’s unconscious body cradled in his arms. 

“Because I have a promise to keep.” 

Ed shakes his head, momentarily lost for words. “...Why?” 

Discoman tilts his head. “We’re not monsters. I have no problem with you, or even with the Bureau on its own. But when you stand in the way of our goals, we have to take appropriate measures.”

“That’s not it. I mean, like…” Ed gestures. “Why all this? Why bring this old lady out here? Why send those Stand users to the museum? Why go this far and do this much? What the fuck is your endgame, dude?!” 

Up until this moment, Discoman’s expression has alternated between neutral coldness, mild frustration, and vague smugness. But his face now expresses a new mood, one that unsettles Ed even more than his previous neutrality. 

“It’s quite simple, really.” 

Now, Discoman looks utterly blissful. 

“Everything for rapture.” 

“Rapture? Seriously?” asks Ed incredulously. “Why are all you fuckers so obsessed with rapture? Are you all hyper-Catholics or some shit?” 

Discoman is silent for another moment, staring at a point in space beyond Ed’s head.

“Think of the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen,” he says at last. 

Ed presses a finger to his forehead, thinking for a moment. “Okay. Now what?” 

“Now imagine something so immaculate, so radiant, so utterly gorgeous that it completely reduces that thing —” Discoman snaps his fingers. “— to smithereens.” 

“Uhhh…” Ed screws up his eyes, trying in vain to picture the description. “Um...” 

“Exactly. It’s a beauty beyond imagining, a world of utter perfection. That is what rapture is,” says Discoman. “And before it, all other concerns are irrelevant.”

“Damn.” Ed places a hand to his chin. “I guess that kind of makes sense. But do you really need that painting to get there?” 

“...Perhaps you’ll understand someday,” says Discoman, stepping into the shadows with the lady cradled in his arms. “Rapture is coming, after all.” 

He stares off into the distance contemplatively.  

“And when it comes, believe me: you’ll want to be standing on our side.”

Ed remains silent, the new implications running through his mind. Whatever this rapture shit is, the Million’s members are seriously convinced that it’s important. Worth killing for, even. 

Against people that dead-set, is there any way to compromise?

Discoman reaches up from under the old woman and places a finger to his ear. “Reggatta, I’ve confirmed that the painting is in the female operative’s possession. Please inform Starchild that I’ll need her location at once; I’ll send Winston after her once it’s confirmed.” 

Ed’s brow furrows. Is he talking about Cecilia? 

“Wait a second, dude,” he says, taking a step into the darkness. “What the fuck are you doing?” 

“Well, if I didn’t authorize collateral damage, he would be worthless,” continues Discoman. “But he should have no problem at all dealing with a sole Stand user. And… what’s that?” 

“Motherfucker!” Ed breaks into a run, heading straight for Discoman. 

“Ahh, yes, of course. I’ve been able to confirm it for myself, and trust me — if he fully qualifies, the Collector will be pleased.” 

As Ed closes in, Discoman stares straight into his eyes. 

“This Stand will do nicely.”

Ed sends out a string of mesh, but Discoman plummets into the darkness beneath him. The mesh arcs out impotently, phasing through the back of a parked car. 

Finally, Ed stands alone in the darkness. His labored breaths echo off the concrete walls. 

Gradually, he becomes conscious once more of the throbbing pain in his foot. And, dammit — his trusty shoe is wrecked along with it. So far, this whole operation’s just a fucking mess. He bitterly muses as he hobbles back towards Henri, firing another strand of mesh beneath his ally’s unconscious body. 

Ed drags Henri up the ramp, towards the light at the exit to the parking garage. The guy should be safe once the authorities get here. For now, all he has to do is find Cecilia.

Despite the man’s admission of defeat, Ed feels a deep hollowness in his gut. 

Whatever this is, it sure doesn’t feel like victory. 

— — — 

No matter how much Discoman uses The Damned, entering the other side always disorients him for a moment. 

Perhaps it’s the lack of instant light, which ensures that he can’t see the ground beneath him or distinguish between sky and earth; all that surrounds him is continuous black. Or it could be the scattered windows to the outside, which surround him without any rhyme, reason, or connection to their real-world positions. It could even be the various tools that hover around him, placed inside the dimension long ago. 

Regardless of the cause, the effect is the same. When Discoman lands in the world of shadow, he stumbles for a moment, barely managing to catch himself. 

He rises to his feet once more, breathing out. Dani Frusciante is clutched tightly in his arms. 

“Where were we, Reggatta?” 

“Electriclarryland and the Collector.”

“Right, right.” Discoman nods, plodding onward through the blackness. “He doesn’t seem to have the Bureau’s mark, at any rate, so he could be convinced another way. But he’s combative, not especially intelligent, and fixated on his job. I’m not optimistic about recruitment as an option.”

“So you’re suggesting the traditional method instead?”

“You could put it that way,” says Discoman, craning his neck to search for the right exit. “I’m sure the Collector would prefer it, too. Much easier for her purposes.” 

“No doubt.” Reggatta thocks her keyboard idly. “Did you find any evidence regarding artifact eligibility?”  

“None indicating either direction. The form suggests it, of course, but it fires a material that’s itself made of Standstuff, so it remains unclear.” Discoman steps through a shadow, rising out from under Dani Frusciante’s bed. “I’ll send B-52 after him to verify. She’s well matched against his ability, and if it really is an artifact, she should be able to take it from him easily.”

“Noted. And by the way, we’ve received word from Starchild on the unknown female contractor’s location. She’s moving north through Finance Row at a rather slow pace currently.”

“Excellent.” Discoman places Dani on top of her bed, leaving her to rest. He gives her a once-over, then presses the button to call for an aide and vanishes into the darkness once more. 

Once inside, he pulls a burner phone from his pocket, opening it to a text chain with an unsaved number. “Read me the location, if you would?” 

Reggatta dictates the girl’s location dutifully, and Discoman types it into the message bar, followed by a brief physical description of Cecilia Valdez. At the end of the message, he writes — 

Target is in possession of the painting. Take it back. 

No collateral limits. Use of Rat Salad is approved. Engage however you want.

Good luck. Be swift.

He presses send and nods. “Winston’s received my instructions,” he says. “The painting should be recovered shortly.” 

“Good. He’s been reliable recently,” says Reggatta. “If he performs well on this mission, he’ll be one of the top Trashman candidates.”

“Good for him. With his skill, this job should be a breeze.” 

Discoman walks silently through the darkness for a few more seconds, then snaps his fingers. “Oh, and one more thing, Reggatta.”

“Yes?”

Discoman steps out from the shadows into the Financial District, leaning against a lamppost. 

“Please patch me through to B-52.” 

Hawking hot dogs was never Fred Schubert’s passion, but he can’t deny — it pays the bills. 

Even in this new and chaotic age, a hot dog cart in a Center City park at this time of day is a guaranteed way to make money. Flipping city-famous chili dogs to hungry tourists has been a time-tested tradition since the eighties. With how stringent cart licenses are these days, Fred has barely any competition. Not that it would matter if he did, of course, because Schubert’s Sizzlin’ Weenie Shack makes the best damn dogs in the state. 

Fred’s old man ran a cart for thirty years, waking up every morning at the crack of dawn to buy fresh sausages from the nearby butcher and grill them the Schubert way. Eventually, he was able to parlay his profits into a chain of restaurants in the city and its outlying areas. When his dad retired after the bridge incident to run the restaurants full-time, he made it clear that Fred didn’t need to carry on his legacy. The cart could retire. The other boroughs had been conquered by now; Center City could be ceded to the other vendors. 

But Fred knew a business opportunity when he saw one. No other hot dog vendor could grill a sausage like a Schubert. The people came to Center City expecting to stop by Schubert’s and get a real taste of the city. And ever since he’s taken over the cart and expanded its varieties, profits have been skyrocketing. Some critics say he’s even better than his old man was. 

So Fred reflects on the past year as he places a ladleful of chili onto a pair of hot dogs and hands them over to a pair of European tourists. The tourists thank him politely, then take bites of their dogs. As their faces light up, Fred feels a familiar sense of satisfaction. 

Yes, running a hot dog stand isn’t Fred Schubert's dream. But he certainly is damn good at it. 

As he takes a momentary step back from the stand, Schubert looks up at the skyscrapers above him. Another few years running and expanding the Shack, and he’ll have proven his business acumen to his dad — enough to get his own position high up in the company. With some work, he might be able to expand the chain to a regional or national level. He pictures himself in an office atop one of the skyscrapers, shaking hands with bigwigs to expand the Schubert name nationwide. 

One way or another, Fred Schubert is going places. 

“Coming throooough!”

Fred feels the ground suddenly ripple beneath his feet. 

He turns around just in time to see his cart tilt dangerously into the air, then topple over on its side. 

Hot dog brine and fresh-cooked chili dogs spill across the grass. The cash register drawer slowly falls open, and bills begin floating through the air as gently as autumn leaves. Fred lets out a cry of anguish at the sight, rushing over to the old cart. Frantically, he catches the falling bills, plucking them from the pile of hot dog brine and stuffing them into his pockets.  How could this be happening? This is a total catastrophe! 

“Ah, sheez. Sorry about that, guy. Need help?” 

Fred looks up to see a young woman in a bikini looking down at him sympathetically. She wears a pair of goggles pulled up to her forehead, and her long, braided hair cascades down to her waist. 

“You… you knocked over my cart,” says Fred incredulously. 

“Yeah, I could see that,” says the woman, scratching her head. “Bomb wave caught me outta nowhere. But I can put it right back up if you’d like.” 

“You knocked over my cart!” roars Fred, lifting up his ladle over his head. 

“Whoops!” The woman smiles. “Maybe not!” 

As Fred runs forwards, fueled by blind vengeance, the woman spins around to the other direction, pulling down her goggles and lifting one leg in the air. With a cry of “Cowabunga!”, she speeds away down the sidewalk, the ground rippling in her wake. 

Fred slows to a stop, his fury suddenly replaced by confusion. He’s seen plenty of skateboarders speeding through this park. He’s even seen the odd rollerblader stopping by for a bite. 

But that woman hadn’t been standing on anything at all. 

In fact, she’d been hovering a few inches off the ground.

For her part, the woman whoops as she speeds down the sidewalk, blazing past awestruck passersby and sending birds fleeing out of her path. Things couldn’t be better for her. The sun is shining and the wind’s in her hair. 

It’s a perfect day to go surfing. 

“Testing, testing. B-52, let me know if you’re there.”

The sudden sound of a familiar voice jolts the woman, and she stops on a dime, raising her goggles and placing a hand to her ear. 

“Whoops! Heya, Discoman!” says B-52 brightly. “How’s my favorite punk been doing?”

“About as well as I could be,” says Discoman, glancing slightly around the street. “And yourself?” 

“Oh, I’m just stoked!” B-52 beams. “Today’s been a positively bitchin’ day for a surf. Though if you’re callin’ about what I assume you’re callin’ about…”

“The mission?” says Discoman. “Then you’d be correct. I’ve just had a face-to-face encounter with a potential artifact candidate.”

B-52 scratches her head. “A who-now what-now?”

“Ask the Collector later; I'm not explaining this again,” says Discoman. “At present, he’s currently in the heart of the Financial District. He’s a man of average height, with dark blond hair, a jacket, and sunglasses. He carries a taser, and he should currently be walking with a limp. The taser contains his Stand ability.” 

Discoman looks up into the sky. 

“Your goal is to take the taser from him, so that we might determine its viability as an artifact.”

“Sounds easy enough,” says B-52, her smile widening again. “Does that mean I get to wail on him?” 

“Of course.” Discoman nods solemnly. “I grant you clearance to engage however you see fit.”

A whoop comes over the comms. “YEAH! Surf’s up, motherfucker!”

Before Discoman can respond, the staticky sound of rushing wind bombards his ears. He taps his earpiece twice, wincing slightly. B-52 can be a bit reckless, but her sheer enthusiasm makes her a valuable asset. And with her Stand power — 

“YAHOOOOOOO!”

Discoman’s head snaps up as a swimsuited figure blazes past him, speeding down the street with arms outstretched. The ground ripples slightly beneath his feet as he watches her pass by. 

A slight smile crosses Discoman’s face. Electriclarryland’s user has managed to take down two Stand users consecutively, along with Betterman. But both of the enemies he defeated were elderly users of automatic Stands. Their Stands were easily fooled, and their reflexes were weak. Even Betterman relied heavily on using his ability to keep his opponents away. 

But B-52 is different from these enemies. She’s inhumanly fast and incredibly precise. In a full-on slugfest, she’s guaranteed to win. 

How will this kid deal with an enemy who completely outclasses him?

— — —

With a whoompf of exertion, Ed plunks Henri Lavigne’s unconscious body down onto the sidewalk. 

Ed rummages around in his pockets and pulls out his canister of sun in a bottle. He sprays copious amounts on Henri’s damaged face, then onto the sores on his arms and his torso. As flesh begins to bubble back onto the man’s face, Ed feels a grim satisfaction. The paramedics will still have some work to do, but at least the crazy fucker is gonna survive. 

Ed checks his supply of sun in a bottle, then mutters a curse. Before, the bottle had been completely full of orange liquid. But by now, between the injury to his leg in the museum and Henri’s burns, it’s already down to a quarter of its previous supply. It has a few good sprays left in it, but he’ll have to be very, very careful. 

If only he had a refill...

Inspiration strikes Ed, and he starts to rummage around in Henri’s pockets. The jacket contains a cell phone, a pack of gum, and a harmonica. Ed regards it for one second: even with no knowledge of harmonicas, he can tell it’s finely crafted, with lacquered wood and metal that seems to glow in the sunlight. Why the fuck would Henri be carrying this?

Ed returns the harmonica and checks the pockets of Henri’s jeans. The man’s legs are extensively burned, and one of his pockets hangs open and empty. Ed reaches into the other pocket — then instantly retracts his hand, inhaling through his nose. 

A smashed container of sun in a bottle sits awkwardly in Henri’s pocket. Evidently, the Stand burned hot enough to melt the casing itself; now, sludgy plastic congeals on Henri’s leg. The flesh beneath looks pale and miraculously undamaged compared to the rest of his body. 

Ed takes another look at the pattern of sores on the man’s body. After a moment, he realizes that the pattern of injuries on one leg is completely different from the other. The leg without sun in a bottle looks charred, blackened wounds splitting open on angry red flesh. As far as Ed knows, it’s a completely normal third-degree burn. 

And his other leg…

Ed takes a second look, unsure exactly how to consider what he’s seeing. 

Snaking patterns of tissue stretch downwards from the bottle’s remnants, snaking down Henri’s thigh and calf. They remind Ed of the traces left by lava on a volcano, except perversely made from skin. They culminate on the side of Henri’s knee, where the various traces of skin combine to form a large, tumorous growth of pale flesh on the side of his leg. 

Ed shudders a little at the implication. When Henri told them to only spray it on wounds, he’d thought it was just a cost-cutting measure. 

But there might be something more to sun in a bottle than simple healing juice.

Ed gets up from Henri, pocketing his bottle, and begins to hobble down the street at a rapid clip. He can’t afford the time or the sun in a bottle to heal the wound in his foot right now, so he’ll just have to tough it out. 

Right now, he needs to find Cecilia — and the painting. 

And he knows just where he should go. 

The heart of Finance Row was once intended to be the site of its greatest achievement. Ed’s heard the tale many times before: in the 1950s, a wealthy business magnate named Ansel Weiland had a fever dream one night. He envisioned a humongous skyscraper placed by a divine hand in the middle of the Row, a giant, gleaming obelisk of industry tall enough to pierce the heavens and broad enough to strike awe into all who looked upon it.

Weiland woke up in a cold sweat, dialed up an architect, and demanded that construction commence immediately on his job. Over the architect’s objections, he insisted that he would spend any amount of money and twist any amount of legislation in order to get ground broken. He would bend heaven and earth to see this glorious vision realized, to have his mark made on the city for all eternity. 

Animated by a feverish desire, Weiland swiftly made plans to seize four square blocks of businesses and tenements, which he then razed to the ground in a week. The concrete foundation had already hardened by the time the state government caught on to the man’s plan. Immediately, they broke up the whole operation, slapping several city council members with corruption charges, levying crippling fines against Weiland, and sending the unfortunate architect to federal prison. 

Now, the city was left with a civic issue completely unprecedented in its absurdity. They had four blocks of naked concrete and steel rivets sitting very visibly in the center of one of the busiest districts. The optics were nothing short of horrendous. 

Something needed to be done. 

After a wide array of suggestions, including converting the lot to a community center, building a mall of staggering size, and even erecting a shrine to the mayor, the city council eventually settled on turning Weiland Square into a park of sorts. The public works department bored holes in the concrete to plant trees and added an amphitheater to host concerts, along with constructing a playground and adding benches. Considering the square’s initial dismal state and the relative lack of budget available for renovation, the project was a success. 

Even today, Weiland Square is frequented by tourists, local families, and white-collar workers who crave the food trucks that congregate at lunchtime. Yet the lack of budget ensured that the vast majority of the square was still covered in concrete, giving it the appearance of an alien planet. So despite all attempts to improve it, the heart of Finance Row remains a sheet of barren concrete.

Ed finds himself limping into Weiland Square now, his feet tapping arrhythmically against the concrete. The square is flat with few obstructions, so it gives him a massive tactical advantage: if any enemy tries to approach him, he’ll be able to see them coming from far away. Betterman’s water constructs, the darkness dude’s shadow travel, the old guy’s satellite, and even the plant fucker — all of them will be plain as day if they try to attack him here. 

As he passes a pair of mothers pushing strollers, Ed feels the tension in his body ease slightly. The further he gets into the park, the safer he feels. With his Stand, he should be able to block any attack that comes his way. 

The rivets of Weiland’s once-planned skyscraper still jut from the ground today, resembling dead trees, or perhaps grave markers. Most of them have been topped with jury-rigged lights by now, giving them a distinctively post-apocalyptic appearance. As Ed looks up at them curiously, he pulls his toy phone from his pocket and raises it to his mouth. 

“Lady,” he says breathlessly. “I just got out of a fight. The bird dude got taken out, but I managed to distract another enemy Stand user for a bit. Listen, he’s probably gonna be coming for you soon, so be real careful. If you can, meet me in Weiland Square, and then we can find our way back to the Watchtower. Does that sound good?” 

Ed waits for a response. After a moment, there’s a brief burst of static followed only by silence. 

He swallows. “Uh, I really hope you can talk soon, lady. If you’re in a fight, tell me so I can help. But otherwise, come to Weiland Square, cause I could use your help. I’m sure you’ve got it, but, uh… yeah.” 

He lowers the phone and exhales. He really hopes the darkness guy hasn’t found Cecilia yet, but even if he has, she should be able to handle him in combat. With a Stand like hers, protecting the painting should be a cinch. 

Ed looks up at the sky for a moment. For now, all he has to do is chill here until Cecilia calls him back. Waiting is hard, but it’ll sure be a whole lot easier than another fight. 

Yes, thinks Ed, continuing forwards. This shouldn’t be too bad at all. 

Shwoom.

A noise prickles Ed’s ears, and he looks down just in time to see a thin, tubular object whizz narrowly past his foot. The concrete ripples slightly beneath his feet in the wake of the object as it speeds onwards into the distance. 

“What the fuck…?” Ed looks around, a little unsettled. Whatever that was, it didn’t look like an animal, and it didn’t seem like a fancy kid’s toy or something. That thing was going fast.  

Ed gulps. 

It couldn’t have been…

“BANZAAAAAAAAI!”

The sudden shout takes Ed by surprise. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies a figure speeding rapidly towards him, leg raised high in the air. He crouches slightly, turning to the side and clenching Electriclarryland tightly as he prepares to face this opponent. 

Unbeknownst to him, this small motion saves his life. 

WHAM!

B-52’s foot hits Ed Henderson’s head at over thirty miles per hour. 

Ed is fortunate: had he not turned, the kick would have impacted him in the back of the neck, instantly knocking him unconscious and very likely breaking his spine. Because of his slight repositioning, the kick instead strikes the side of his face, landing on his cheekbone and ear. He's about as lucky as he could be: the low angle barely ensures that his brain doesn’t receive a concussion, and being hit in the side of the head means that his nose, jaw, and neck all remain intact. 

But no matter the specifics, being hit in the head by a fast-moving object fucking hurts.  

The kick sends Ed into the air for half a brief second. Then he falls, barely lifting his arm in time to keep his head from slamming against the ground. He lands in a rough, sprawled heap as the enemy speeds past him with a victorious whoop. 

Ed chokes back the immediate wave of pain and subtly turns his head forwards. Through his blurred vision, Ed sees his assailant stop on a dime and turn back towards him. She places a hand to her ear, and Ed barely manages to catch what she’s saying. 

“...clobbered him right in the head! Looks like he’s out to me.” She grins. “Pretty nice drop-in, huh?” 

She waits a moment, nodding along to an inaudible voice. “Ya got it!” she chirps. “I’ll get it from him right now!”

The woman kneels down, taking a wide-legged stance, and begins to accelerate towards Ed. He wills his arms and legs to move, barely managing to make them twitch. Come on, he thinks. Fucking defend yourself!

Suddenly, the woman stops once more, tilting her head. “Damn. Hold on,” she says. “I’m not sure if that kick was as bitchin’ as I thought.”

Ed holds still. Shit. If he plays dead, will he get out of this without being attacked? 

“Yeah.” The woman nods, head turned towards Ed. Although her eyes are covered by something, he can tell she’s looking at him. “Good call. Let’s see how he handles this one…” 

She cocks her foot back, then swings it forwards, sending something whizzing towards Ed at a horribly high speed. 

When he sees the shape sailing towards him, Ed doesn’t think. 

He braces his hands and knees against the ground, then shoves.

Ed springs off the ground and into the air as the shape sails below him with a metallic gleam, setting the ground rippling in its wake. He lands squarely on his feet, Electriclarryland clenched in his grasp, as he stares at the figure in front of him. 

As Ed’s vision gradually clears, he notices that the enemy Stand user is clad in a bizarre outfit. She wears a yellow bikini covered in gaudy patterns, and her hair extends down to her waist, carefully arranged into five braids that each end in a metal ring. A pair of swim goggles protect her eyes, and she wears strange, shiny gauntlets from her elbows and knees downwards. 

The woman takes a one-legged stance on top of a strange, metallic object. It looks like a cross between a submarine and a flip-flop, with metallic bits alluding to a shark’s face and fin, a lobster’s claws, and a stingray’s tail. Gray, smoggy Stand aura wafts out into the air above it, enshrouding the woman’s armored legs. 

Another identical object loops around and stops beneath the woman’s foot as Ed watches. Yep, this must be the form of her Stand.

Most notably, the woman’s upper arms are covered in tattoos. Her right one prominently displays the letters B-52, and the left one shows off two giant exclamation points. 

Ed gulps.

This lady has to be a high-level Million member. 

B-52 places her free foot down on the second body of her Stand, shifting her stance slightly as she does. She grins at Ed. “Pretty fast for a kook! Guess you’re the real deal, huh?” 

She cracks her knuckles. "Then I don't need to hold back."

“...Why are you here?” asks Ed, crouching slightly in a defensive stance. 

B-52 shrugs. “Sorry, guy — they didn’t send me to ask questions.” 

She crouches forwards, her Stand rumbling beneath her feet as she prepares for another attack. 

“All I’m s’posed to do is kick your ass!”

Ed’s vision swims and his head painfully throbs. He shallowly breathes in and out as fragmented thoughts race through his mind. The pain in his body, the woman’s Stand ability, wherever Cecilia is, what the Million even fucking wants from him — it’s just too much. 

But no matter how he looks at the situation, he arrives at one dreadfully clear conclusion. 

There is no possible way Ed Henderson can win this fight. 

— — — 

Name: They’re Red Hot

User: Dani Frusciante

— They’re Red Hot is bound to a mundane furnace. When activated, three pipes filled with scorchingly hot steam grow from the top of the furnace, automatically targeting all sources of heat within a certain distance from the user. While Dani herself is unable to be targeted, her lack of control over her ability means that her Stand typically causes massive collateral damage, isolating her in the process. 

Name: Little Wing

User: Henri Lavigne

— Little Wing appears as a headset around the top half of Henri’s face. The Stand lets Henri control birds at a city-spanning range and gaze at the world from their view. Birds under Little Wing’s influence can be identified by their unnaturally blue eyes. Henri can only look through the eyes of one bird at a time, and cannot see around himself while his ability is active. 

Chapter Text

As B-52 stares at the sky between the rooftops, one question burns in her mind. 

“Why am I so goddamn weak?” 

“Hm?” 

Out of the corner of her eye, B-52 sees Discoman turn towards her, his Stand hovering idly over his shoulder. She wonders how stupid she looks, lying flat on the asphalt with her arms stretched to the sides. It feels as if her entire body is one continuous ache, a messy vortex of fatigued tendons and overtaxed muscles. 

“It’s like…” She shakes her head. “We’ve been trainin’ for weeks straight. You’ve been showin’ me the ropes, givin’ me detailed instructions on exactly what I’m messin’ up and how to make it better And it’s like, dang! Even through all that, I still can’t land a hit on ya.”

“You’re being dramatic,” says Discoman. “First of all, with my Stand, that’s not exactly —”

“It’s not just that, you crustacean,” says B-52, flopping over onto her belly with some effort. “With my Stands, all I can really do is zoom fast in straight lines. They’re predictable, ya know? And in a real Stand fight, I know that isn’t gonna cut it.”

She sighs, tucking her arms beneath her chin. “I feel like a damn hodad. All I can do is be a glorified errand girl.”

Discoman is silent for a moment, staring into empty space. Finally, he takes a seat in front of B-52, his legs perfectly crossed on the concrete.

“What do you think is the biggest determinant of a Stand fight’s outcome?” 

“...Uhh…” B-52 scrunches up her face for a moment. “I know it’s not strength, cause you’ve said that… and it wouldn’t be speed either, cause then I’d be winning easy… Brains, then?” 

“That’s the conventional wisdom,” says Discoman. “And intelligence can often make the difference. But in and of itself, intelligence will not determine the outcome of a Stand fight.”

“Really?” says B-52. “Well, I’m stumped, then. Whaddaya got?”

“Above all else, what settles a fight is ‘context.’”

Discoman raises a finger and points towards the sky above. 

“Right now, we’re training in a heavily shadowed alleyway. My Stand relies on the presence of ‘darkness’ to reach its maximum potential, and shadows allow me to draw that out. And because of the narrowness of the alleyway, you can’t precisely maneuver using your Stand. The ‘environment’ here heavily favors me.”

“I see… I think I’m gettin’ it,” says B-52. “So you’re tryin’ to handicap me, then?” 

“More than that — I’m trying to teach you,” says Discoman. “Your mental context is also vital here, too. From what I can tell, you’ve placed a constraint on your Stand where none actually exists.” 

“I’ve put a what now on it?” B-52 scratches her head. 

“Just now, you said that your ability is to ‘zoom fast in straight lines,’” says Discoman. “That’s your current use of it, but that’s not what your ability is at its core. Let me put it this way: how does it physically feel to move using your Stand?” 

B-52 shrugs. “I dunno. Fast. Windy. Sometimes bugs hit me in the face.” 

“Right, but what sensations do you notice through your Stand?” says Discoman patiently. “When it moves through the ground, what do you feel?” 

“Well, they usually travel pretty quickly,” says B-52. “And when they move, it’s almost like…”

Her eyes widen, and she feels a wave crashing in her mind. 

“...Like they’re traveling through water.” 

“Trashman B-52. You’re a surfer, correct?” 

Discoman’s eyes glitter. 

“So try catching some waves.” 

“Hell yeah!” B-52 grins, jumping to her feet once more as newfound energy fills her body. Ideas race through her mind. Has she been thinking about her Stands all wrong? If she can pull this off, even in this alleyway…

“Oh, and one more thing.” Discoman rummages around in his jacket. “The Collector’s specially selected a vintage piece for you, and the Host told me to hand it over when I felt you needed it. From what I’ve been told, it should complement your fighting style, and make usage of your Stand a lot easier.”

As B-52 watches with mounting anticipation, Discoman pulls out a clothes hanger with several pieces of black plastic dangling from it. He tosses it to B-52, who catches the hanger out of midair. She looks over the equipment, taking a piece off the hanger and inspecting it. 

Up close, it’s clear the strange object isn’t actually made of plastic. Instead, it’s made of a chitinous black material that the light plays upon in strange ways. "BALL-ROOM" is embossed on one of its plates. The individual pieces of plastic are all embedded into a rubbery sleeve with a glove at the end. B-52 raps her knuckles against the material and hears a solid thunk.

Suddenly, B-52 realizes what she’s meant to do. She slides her arm inside the sleeve, poking her fingers out through the glove. As she opens and closes her hand, she feels an instantaneous buzz of power. 

This is more than just armor. 

“Their former user was a professional baseball player, who called them ‘Ballroom Blitz,’” says Discoman. “The Collector didn’t tell me anything about their ability. ‘Figure it out,’ she said; ‘with these, you should be able to take any Stand user down easily.’”

B-52 slides the other sleeve onto her arm, then places her legs into the remaining pieces. The armor extends up just past her knee with a surprisingly comfortable fit. She clenches her fists, feeling a newfound energy coursing through her. 

Yeah. This is about to get real nice.

“Well, you certainly perked right up,” says Discoman, a slight smirk playing across his lips as The Damned flares around him once more. 

“You bet I did,” says B-52. Her Stands manifest, wrapping around her feet, and she crouches down into a fighting stance. 

“You’d better prepare yourself, Disco-boy. Cause right now, it’s a real good time…”

— — — 

“...to catch a monster wave!” 

The enemy Stand user’s voice rises to a shout, smoke shrouding her legs as her Stand revs up once more. She lifts her foot once more, then surges forwards with a staggering burst of speed. 

In the second before the woman’s leg strikes him, Ed Henderson acts on pure instinct. 

Without a thought, Ed raises his Stand in front of him and presses the trigger. A pane of shimmering mesh manifests in the air in front of him. As the enemy Stand user bears down on him, Ed closes his eyes, bends his knees slightly, and braces for impact. 

BWONG

B-52’s foot impacts the mesh, then rebounds off, sending her spinning atop her Stand in the opposite direction. She gathers herself for a moment, letting her Stand surround her free foot once more. 

“Gee!” B-52 scratches her head. “That stuff you got there’s pretty sturdy, huh?” 

“No shit,” says Ed. 

“Well, everything’s gotta break sometime,” says B-52. “And it looks to me like this stuff won’t hold up too long against my attack.”

“Oh yeah?” Ed smirks as he spreads the mesh wider, covering himself all the way down to his knees. “Come and try me.” 

“YAHOO!” 

With a war cry, B-52 sails at Ed once more. The sun glints off the plastic plating on her forearms as she raises both fists in the air. As she reaches Ed, she brings them down in a furious, blazing rush.

BWO-BWO-BWO-BWO-BWO-BWO

The mesh ripples and undulates with elastic tension as B-52 hammers it with wild strikes, raining blow after blow down onto the barrier. Her Stand smokes furiously as she continues to push forwards, straining against the elastic barrier. Ed can feel the ground rippling under him from their exertion. Ten full seconds pass, then twenty, then thirty — all the while, she wears a determined grimace on her face. 

Ed instinctively takes two steps backwards. The fury of the enemy’s blows means that he’s unable to get an opening to retaliate, and her sheer force strikes a note of fear into his heart. Is this Electriclarryland’s secret weakness? Could this woman, somehow, in the dumbest way possible, subvert his Stand’s protection? 

And… is she somehow getting faster?  

B-B-B-B-B-B-B-B-

The intervals between B-52’s strikes grow shorter and shorter as she pushes further and further into the mesh. Her gloved fists begin to shimmer as she lands more and more punches. This lady’s almost as fast as a Stand, thinks Ed. Who the fuck is she? 

One of B-52’s fists slips off the mesh to the side, sending her off-balance. She hesitates for a second, and —

BWOOM!

The mesh suddenly snaps outwards, instantly blasting B-52 backwards. She extends her arms to the sides, whirling them wildly to stay upright as her Stand stops her in place.

“Whoa!” B-52 beams once more, shaking out her wrist. “Jeez, your Stand really is hardy, huh? I almost wiped out!” 

Ed gulps. After all of those punches, B-52 doesn’t look any worse for wear. She’s not breathing heavy, she’s not wincing — fuck, she’s not even sweating. What kind of shit is this lady made of?

B-52 nods. “Yep. Discoman’s really gonna get a kick outta this one…” 

“The darkness dude?” says Ed, his brow furrowing. “What’s he gotta do with —”

“GERONIMOOO!”

Her Stand revs up in a moment, and B-52 sails at Ed once more, her leg raised in the air. Ed crouches behind his mesh shield. This approach looks the exact same as before. Unless this lady is trying some tricky shit…

BWONG

B-52’s kick ratchets off the mesh once more. 

Ed puts a hand to his head. Is this lady fucking stupid? 

As her Stand-covered foot sinks into the mesh, B-52 suddenly releases the tension, sending her spinning quickly away on her planted foot. Ed turns just in time to see B-52 continuing to spin. After a moment, she leaps up and brings her heel down in a powerful ax kick. 

“SHIT!” Ed clicks his Stand to dispel the mesh and hastily fires out a new tendril. He raises his arm to defend himself. Come on, come on —

CRACK.

The Stand’s long tail stabs into Ed’s arm, piercing through his jacket and lacerating his skin. His stance breaks under the force of the kick, leaving him wide open. 

“Bad luck, hodad!” crows B-52. She attempts to step backwards, but finds her leg stuck to Ed’s arm. As she fruitlessly strains to move away, she notices something shimmering wrapped around her leg. 

A tendril of mesh.

“This shit really smarts, y’know? I don’t know how you’re able to move so fast, and I have no idea how your Stand works. But none of that matters now.” 

Ed Henderson looks up. 

“I fucking got you. And now —”

B-52 jerks her bound leg downwards, and Ed stumbles under the sudden weight. As his stance breaks, B-52 jumps with her spare leg, sending a flying knee slamming into the side of Ed’s head. 

BLAM!

Ed collapses backwards, the world spinning before his eyes. He barely has the presence of mind to cancel his mesh, then summons a new barrier just in time to deflect B-52’s incoming fists. As he struggles up to one knee, B-52 turns on a dime and moves in the opposite direction. 

Ed closes his eyes and places a hand to his head, carefully controlling his breathing as the ground ripples beneath him. In, out… in, out.  

As he breathes, the pain slowly subsides into a manageable state. Slowly, he cracks his eyes open. The barrier of mesh now completely surrounds him. For now, he’s protected. Sweat beads on his forehead and drips down his cheeks as he clamps his hand down on his wounded arm, trying his best to stem the flow of blood. 

Ed feels blood pooling in his mouth. Fuck — he must’ve bitten his tongue after that last kick. He spits a gob of blood onto the concrete, then wipes off his chin. All things considered, he didn’t make out too bad after that. But he doesn’t have much sun in a bottle left. He can’t afford to take any more big hits. 

B-52 regards him from a distance as if considering her next move. Good. She can take as long as she likes, for all Ed cares. He needs all the rest he can get against a Stand like this. If he lets up for a moment, he’s going to get defeated. 

The standstill stretches on for a moment longer. B-52 places a hand to her chin. Ed gulps, feeling sweat pouring down his face. Wait, could she be trying to stall for reinforcements?

“...What’s the matter?” says Ed. “I’ve got all day, y’know.”

“That mesh,” says B-52, pointing at Ed. “If I stay in there at up-close range, you’re gonna try and snag me with that junk, huh?” 

She wags a finger. “I know the types’a games you hodads like to play. I’m not fallin’ for it. I’m gonna take you out my own way!” 

B-52 kicks off the ground, extending her arms out and speeding up once more. But instead of going towards Ed, she veers off to the side in a wide arc. Ed crouches behind his barrier, watching her with a little confusion. Is she trying to attack him from another angle?

Suddenly, Ed’s eyes flick to the side, and he realizes what the enemy Stand user’s trying to do. 

In the wake of B-52’s Stand, the blank concrete shifts, rising rapidly from the ground in a peak. The thin column curls over into a crest. The sight is unmistakable.

A wave is rising in Weiland Square. 

“COWABUNGA!” 

And as B-52 continues to surf, it thunders forwards towards Ed. 

“Shit, shit, shit!” Ed cancels his mesh and scrambles to the side. The wave thunders beneath one of the metal girders, sending it up into the air. Its lip grows further and further outwards as it progresses, casting a shadow. If this wave catches Ed, he’s gonna be fucking crushed! 

Ed sprints forwards, ignoring the growing pain in his ankle as he runs for dear life. The wave crests above him, filling his ears with the sound of scraping concrete. He fires off his Stand, aiming for the ground in front of him and internally praying that his timing is right. 

Finally, Ed feels the tip of his mesh hook into the concrete. His feet touch the ground, and he breathes a sigh of relief as the wave slams down to the ground behind him. 

And at the other end of the wave, B-52 cocks her leg back in the air, carefully lining up her shot. 

“Nail his ass, The Cramps!”

As B-52’s leg touches the ground, her Stand rockets forwards with the force of her kick, curving in a small arc and kicking up a miniature wave of its own. Before Ed even notices what’s happened, a massive cut opens up across his ankle, staining his sock red with blood. 

“Motherfucker!” Ed stumbles, reaching down and clamping his hand around his wounded heel. 

B-52 doesn’t pass up the momentary delay. She takes another wide arc around Ed, whooping joyfully. The ground rises up behind her as her other Stand snaps back onto her foot. 

Another humongous wave rises from the concrete of the square as Ed struggles to stand, his entire body throbbing with accumulated pains. Fuck. This lady’s fast, and she can attack through his defenses with her wave. There’s no fucking way he can stand a chance here. 

Right? 

Ed raises his Stand, feeling desperation boiling up in his gut as he confronts the oncoming wave. This lady might be dumb, but she’s not stupid. She saw him slingshot himself away from the other wave. She’s probably expecting him to take the same strategy with this one. And if that’s the case… 

B-52 veers down from the wave. She crouches further, arms extended as she sails directly towards Ed one more time. 

Ed holds Electriclarryland before him in a defensive posture.

Game on. 

As B-52 sails in towards Ed, she raises both her fists in the air. Ed knows that she’s trying to catch him in a bind here. If he tries to avoid or defend himself against the wave, he’s going to get taken out by her, and if he tries to delay her, the wave will fuck him up. And with B-52’s speed, along with the injury to his foot, there’s no way he’ll be able to avoid both of them. 

Instead of running, though, Ed prepares himself. First, he bends his knees slightly, compacting his frame to make himself slightly harder to strike. Next, he angles his body away from the wave, so it’ll strike him in the back rather than the face if it hits. 

And finally, he sends out a tendril of flesh mesh directly towards the enemy’s neck. 

As B-52 closes into melee range, he feels the tendril’s end wrap around her throat. He feels an internal sense of triumph. This surfer chick wants to take him out on the Million’s behalf? Then she’s about to see why nobody’s managed to beat him yet. 

Unfortunately, Ed fails to realize one crucial fact. 

“Electriclarry—”

He was never B-52’s target. 

The first blow of B-52’s combination strikes Ed in the throat, cutting him off mid-shout. The second hits him in the chest, knocking the wind out from his lungs. 

And the third chops him directly on his wrist, causing his grip to loosen. 

Amidst a sudden haze of pain, Ed feels Electriclarryland yanked forcibly from his grasp. His vision suddenly seems to grow dim as he clasps his hand around emptiness. In an instant, he becomes acutely aware of all the pain in his body — his swollen tongue, his aching head, his slashed ankle, and all the residual burns and bruises from earlier. 

Despite the sudden influx of fatigue, Ed feels his mind working horribly clearly. Everything makes sense now: the dark dude’s weird comments in the parking garage, the fact that this lady is chasing after him in the first place… 

The Million don’t want to kill him. 

They’ve been after his Stand the whole time. 

Ed falls to his knees as the shadow of the wave falls over his face. Through blurred eyes, he can barely make out B-52 stopping, then putting a hand to her ear. 

“Heya, Reggatta!”

She looks back over her shoulder towards Ed, raising Electriclarryland in her other hand. 

“Yeah, you betcha. Hey, tell the Collector something for me, yeah?” 

B-52’s smirk is the last thing Ed Henderson perceives. 

“I won.”

Then the concrete wave crashes down upon him, plunging him into blackness.

Chapter Text

Darkness. 

All-encompassing, unfathomably deep, absolute blackness. Total absence of sensation. Spinning in blank space, or perhaps remaining perfectly still, with no stars to light his passage. 

For a short moment that stretches on forever, Ed Henderson is fully convinced that he’s dead. 

And then, in the space between two instants, a speck of light flickers alive. 

Another dot follows, and another. They grow and grow and grow in size and shape and color until a grand cacophony surrounds Ed entirely, a whirling storm of light and wind and glass and liquid crystal. Flashes of the city bombard Ed on all sides: buses, skyscrapers, street vendors, docks, subways, bridges, tenements, trash cans, briefcases, schools — the sheer scale swallows him whole, dwarfs him entirely. 

And all the while, as subtle as a stray breeze, a titanic dark silhouette appears on the urban maelstrom’s horizon. 

You are back. 

Have you considered my question? 

Slowly, Ed realizes the figure’s booming voice is directed at him. 

He licks his lips, wiggles his toes, rubs together his hands. He looks down at himself. His hands are shaky, and spattered flecks of blood cover his shirt, but his body is unmistakably his. He still has some form, even in… whatever this is. 

Next, Ed looks back up at the figure. Above all else, a single pressing question occupies his mind.

“...Am I dead?”

A rough rumbling approximating a chuckle echoes through the space. 

Not yet. 

Fortunately.

Ed shakes his head, vainly searching for something constant to fix his eyes on. But everything in this realm continuously shifts and changes: a child’s face warps into the facade of a prison transforms into a mass of people in Center City becomes the emptiness in the barrel of a gun. 

The only constant is Ed himself. 

And, of course, the presence on the horizon. 

Ed licks his lips. Dozens more questions bubble up in his mind. Focus, he thinks — start with the basic shit. 

“Who are you?” 

Many questions.

A bemused tone enters the figure’s voice. 

But I’ll admit, I have answers. 

It's a little complex, but to sum it up… 

In an instant, the figure shifts out from the horizon, somehow appearing in front of Ed without moving a muscle. It leans back, and some of the shadow falls from its face. 

Although the figure’s face is colored in gray monochrome shades, its features are oddly familiar. Sunglasses, dark-rooted hair, a wry smile…

Ed’s jaw drops. 

I am you.

Ed shakes his head, sputtering at the doppelganger before him. “W-W-What — No. I’m me, dammit. There can’t be two of me!”

Bingo.

The figure’s voice vaguely resembles Ed’s, although tinny, distorted, and synthetic, as if it was transmitted through a bad phone connection or reproduced by a machine.

There is only one of you.

Perhaps… think of it this way.

The other Ed raises a single finger as the contorting images begin to slow down, coalescing into broader scenes. 

The value of ‘one’ can be divided into a hundred, a thousand, a million components. 

Any single unit is made up of infinitely many smaller units. 

To be blunt, you should consider me to be a part of you.

“A part? Like…” Ed scratches his chin. “You’re my leg, or something?”

The other Ed shrugs.

Weirdly enough, you’re not far off. 

But to fully understand, you will need the answer.

“...Answer?” says Ed.

The other Ed raises a finger on its other hand, holding them apart. 

Imagine two separate objects. 

Conceived of as separate, regarded as separate, perhaps even physically distinct.

It touches the tips of its fingers together.

How can you bring them together, and make them become ‘one?’

“Uh,” says Ed. He feels his mind race as a highway whirls around him. “That doesn’t sound possible. Maybe if they were liquids?”

The other Ed purses its lips. 

Perhaps I should throw you a bone.

The trick is that ‘they have always been one.’

It brings its fingers apart once more. 

Even now, separated, they’re still one. 

Get me?

“...”

Oh, come on.

The other Ed grins, disparate images playing across the air behind it. 

It’s just like I said earlier. 

Parts to a whole, components to a system. 

Cards in a deck, machinery in a car, people in a city…

Ed shakes his head. “So you’re saying we’re just all part of one big-ass system? Is that it?” 

On the level of societies, yeah. 

But even on the smallest of scales as well.

The other Ed points both fingers at Ed. 

After all, we are parts of a whole too, aren’t we?

Ed feels a slight breeze on his face, ruffling his clothes. The images have slowed down almost to a stop now. Coherent wide shots of the city’s buildings and infrastructure intersperse with random snippets of civilians shuffling down the streets. 

“Yeah, yeah, okay. You’re… part of me, I get it. But what am I supposed to do about that?” 

I’ll be honest with you.

If you don’t understand what I’m saying, you are going to lose this fight, and most likely die in the process.

The other Ed’s tone becomes grave. It raises its voice over the sound of a growing wind.

This enemy cannot be defeated with a simple gimmick. 

You must use everything you have.

Your brain, your reflexes, your endurance…

The other Ed makes a gesture towards Ed. 

…and of course, your Stand. 

Ed notices a strange twinge in his palm. 

He looks down to see his hand balled into a white-knuckled fist, with a translucent strand of webbing cinched around it. 

The unexpected sight makes his heart pound. He must have somehow grabbed onto the end of the line he fired at B-52. And if she hasn’t dismissed it, that means…

Electriclarryland hasn’t abandoned you yet.

The other Ed’s eyes shimmer with mischievous light as the sound of wind grows into a cacophonous roar. 

You have one more chance. 

Don’t squander it. 

“Wait! But — what about that question?” shouts Ed over the din. 

The images rapidly speed up in frequency, becoming almost indistinguishable. The other Ed flickers in and out behind scattered trains and street corners. The noise becomes deafening, transcending the medium of sound and becoming a sheer physical force. It looks as if reality itself is tearing at the seams. 

And yet, even through all the chaos, Ed can still hear his other self clearly. 

Just remember, Ed.

As the space utterly collapses into ambiguous static and chaos, one final booming phrase fills Ed’s mind. 

Everything is one.

— — — 

“I won.”

Nothing satisfies B-52 quite like a job well done. 

She’s always been addicted to this rush. The feeling of stepping onto shore after absolutely tearing up a monster wave, the small smiles that the other Trashmen give her after returning to base, the look in an enemy Stand user’s eyes when they realize they’re totally beat — shit, it practically gives her shivers. For B-52 of the Million, there’s no high more intense than the feeling of victory.

She closes her eyes and soaks in the feeling for a moment, letting the sun warm her skin. 

Yes, it’s a beautiful damn day for a win. 

“Excellent,” says Reggatta over the intercom, snapping B-52 out of her momentary reverie. “You managed to secure Electriclarryland?”

“Got it right here,” says B-52, spinning the Stand in her hand. Its surface feels plasticky with a rubbery grip and a dangling wrist strap. But despite its small size, it has a strange weight to it. Maybe it’s the weight distribution or the weird Standstuff inside, but something about it feels off in her grasp. 

“Can you provide us with any insight into its abilities?”

“Ahh…” B-52 scratches her chin. “Well, the dude shot out this shimmery material that was mighty tough — I couldn’t even get through it with Ballroom Blitz. He grabbed my leg with it, and also shot the ground to zing himself real fast. He was trying something at the end, too, but…” 

She shrugs. “Well, doesn’t matter now.” 

Inquisitive thocks transmit over the communication line. “Understood. So the taser fires out an elastic mesh, which is resistant to physical strikes, and can carry and release tension at the user’s behest?”

“Uh…” B-52 feels her eyes glaze over slightly. “...Sounds right?”

“...that would serve to explain… Ahem. Noted.” Reggatta gives her Stand two final, deliberate thocks. “Masterful combat work, Trashman B-52. Return to base at once — the Collector will be there to debrief you and test the capabilities of the newly attained artifact, as usual.”

“Aye-aye!” says B-52, beaming. “Everything for rapture!”

“Everything for rapture.”  

The line disconnects, and B-52 breathes a sigh of relief. All in all, this mission is a smashing success. For such an important mission, the enemy Stand user was pretty simple to beat. Heck, she didn’t even get a scratch. And on top of all that…

B-52 inspects the taser clutched in her hands. A strong defensive ability, she muses, but the dude also slung himself around with it a ton. It might make a good addition to her arsenal. With two artifacts on her side, she’d be the most powerful Stand user in the Million for sure. Absolutely no one would be able to take her down.

Something about the taser’s nozzle catches B-52’s eye. On closer inspection, she notices a thin, translucent line of mesh, stretching out from the nozzle like a spider’s thread. 

With some curiosity, she plucks the string, feeling it twang slightly at her touch. It’s pulled as taut as a drum, practically vibrating with tension. She traces it up into the air, then over her shoulder. Was the enemy Stand user aiming for something behind her? Or maybe…

All of a sudden, the line goes slack.

B-52 turns around just in time for Ed Henderson to collide with her head-on.  

WHAM!

The force of the collision knocks B-52 clean off her feet. The Cramps fizzle out beneath her as she topples to the ground, her back smashing into the concrete. For a moment, she gasps for breath, struggling to get her bearings, then freezes as a riptide of realization grabs her. 

“Oh, crap.”

The taser Stand lies on the ground before her, cast aside by the collision. 

Across from her, Ed Henderson lies crumpled on the ground, visibly dazed. His face is covered in cuts, and his lips mouth inaudible words and phrases into the ground. One arm shifts limply by his side, jerking like a broken scarecrow, or a puppet with its strings cut. 

B-52 exhales, popping her goggles up to her forehead with a flick of her thumb. Of course. The damage he’s taken in the fight is already too much. And even after he somehow got out from under her wave, he’s in no shape to continue fighting. What she said to Reggatta isn’t a lie: this fight’s as good as won. 

Feeling her heartbeat slow down, she turns herself over, reaches out, and grabs the taser. 

An instant later, another hand grabs onto her wrist. 

B-52 glances up just in time to see Ed Henderson’s fist rocketing towards her face. 

“Whoa!” She ducks to the side, and the blow whizzes past her jaw. Ed takes the opportunity to move in, shifting his grip on her wrist slightly, and pulls his fist back just in time to block B-52’s open-handed slap. 

B-52 looks at Ed with fresh eyes. His skin is flushed and his teeth are gritted. Blood drips from abrasions on his face and from the corners of his mouth, but his grasp is oddly strong.

At this point in the fight, how can he have so much strength left in him?

A grin crosses B-52’s lips. “Dang, hodad. Looks like you’re really gettin’ heated.” 

“This is my Stand, asshole,” says Ed, restrained hate filling his voice. “I won’t let you steal it from me.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

B-52 sneers. 

“Then come ‘n’ take it, fuckwit.”

Before Ed can formulate a response, she cocks her head back. She swings it down towards his stunned face, and — 

THONK.

B-52 reels back slightly from the impact of the blow, feeling hot blood begin to pour from her nose. Shock fills her mind as Ed rubs his forehead and winces slightly. What the fuck just happened? Did he somehow activate the taser to mess with her, or does he have some secret sub-Stand that let him counter her?

As she looks at her enemy, the answer becomes clear in a flash. It’s so simple and stupid that it brings a smile to her face. 

Ed headbutted her first. 

“We had the same idea!” B-52 giggles, wiping her nose. “Gee, you’re a real nut! Sheesh, why don’t you join the Million? With some good training, you could be hangin’ ten in no time!” 

“Huh.” Ed nods, contemplating the thought for a second. “Honestly, that does sound pretty sick.” 

Bony fingers dig into B-52’s wrist as Ed’s knuckles whiten. 

“But if you’re the teacher, I think I’ll pass.” 

Ed launches a haymaker at B-52, but she suddenly weaves to the side, grabbing his wrist and jerking the Stand back towards her. With both his wrists restrained, Ed suddenly finds himself wide open. Before he can try to headbutt or kick, B-52 sweeps him off his knees with a twist, slamming his back to the ground with a meaty thud.

Ed gasps for breath, as if surprised by the sudden reversal. His face takes on a dazed look once more. But even in his weakened state, he still manages to raise an arm in defense. 

“Holdin’ on even now?” B-52 places a Ballroom Blitz-covered knee onto Ed’s chest, pressing him downwards. “You’re pretty pesky. Let’s see how long you can hold out!” 

With her free hand, B-52 punches straight down at Ed’s face. He blocks with his wrist, but he barely has time to readjust his guard before another blow comes in. Strike, strike, strike, strike, strike — each one arrives faster than the last. B-52’s gauntlet begins to glow as one blow strikes Ed’s collarbone, then another grazes the side of his face. Without his Stand, his defense is weak!

B-52 knows she’s seized the strongest possible position here. With gravity and an artifact on her side, her blows all hit with incredible strength, and with her opponent Standless, one of her punches is guaranteed to break through his slapdash guard and hit clean. And from there, knocking this moron out will be a piece of cake. All she has to do is keep on punching. 

As she lets loose the flurry of strikes, B-52 barely notices when Ed lets go of her wrist and reaches into the pocket of his jacket. 

She only realizes something’s off when, out of nowhere, a plastic bag covers her eyes. 

“Goddamn — !?” The sudden impact causes B-52 to pause, stopping her blows long enough for Ed to grab onto her knee and squeeze his way out from under her. She brushes the bag from her face with her free hand, then instantly searches around for her opponent. A sudden pressure around her neck answers her question.

Her breath begins to constrict as Ed’s plan makes itself clear to her.

This little dickweed is trying to choke her out!

“I don’t want to do this,” hisses Ed directly in B-52’s ear. “Toss my Stand behind you, and I’ll let go.”

B-52 reaches over her shoulder with one hand and swipes aimlessly at Ed’s head, striking only empty air. She gasps slightly as her head begins to throb. With painstaking effort, she pushes herself to her feet, feeling Ed’s weight dragging her down. 

Despite the pain, this isn’t bad at all. Far from it. 

From here, her path to victory is as clear as a tropical sea. 

B-52 flicks down her goggles, grits her teeth, and hisses out two words. 

“The… Cramps!”

Two Stands form from nothingness as B-52 kicks off the ground to accelerate. Instantly, she feels the grip around her neck loosen slightly from the acceleration. There’s a painful squeaking as her opponent’s shoes grind against the ground, but he still remains steadfastly attached. 

Not enough, she thinks. More. 

So the Stand accelerates further. B-52 tightens her jaw. Twenty, thirty, maybe forty miles per hour — the wind picks up her hair, blowing it into a series of long, braided tails fluttering behind her. Somehow, her opponent maintains his grip as they soar across the blank concrete.

Not enough. More. 

So B-52 begins to execute wickedly sharp turns with her Stand, turning zigzags, then figure eights, then inhumanly tight loop-de-loops. Waves sprout up behind her, the concrete contorted into demented facsimiles of tides as she tries her hardest to push the man off. But like a barnacle, Ed Henderson manages to hang on, his arm still firmly secured around her throat. 

Still not enough. 

More.

So B-52 kicks off the earth, accelerating faster than she’s ever accelerated before. The force of the wind physically stings her face, rippling her skin and eliciting screams of exertion from the muscles in her legs. Her Stand billows plumes of smoke into the air high enough to reach past her shoulders. Her opponent’s grip loosens, coming perilously close to slipping, but he manages to stabilize himself by grabbing onto her collarbone. 

A conveniently placed steel girder sticks out from the ground to the side. B-52 turns and accelerates directly towards it. If he won’t fall off from speed alone, she’ll have to knock him off herself. 

She shouts a full-throated “COWABUNGA!” as she speeds directly towards the metal post. Her cheeks flap in the wind as she drops her shoulder, angling her passenger into the air and off to her side. This is a game of chicken that she’s sure to win. 

Closer, closer, closer — 

Just before B-52 veers off to the side, one of Ed Henderson’s hands moves down, grabbing onto the nozzle of Electriclarryland. 

And as she turns in a wide arc, he unwraps his arm from around her neck and simply lets go.

The taser wrenches from B-52’s hand as she fruitlessly grabs for it. With a cry of dismay, she wills The Cramps to stop. A huge wave ripples out in front of her as she screeches across the ground, eventually coming to a halt. 

Her heart pounds in her ears as she looks down, raising up her hand. 

Her palm is empty. Electriclarryland is gone. 

Reggatta is going to be pissed.

But as B-52 turns around towards her opponent, she realizes that her supervisor’s reaction might be the least of her concerns. 

Electriclarryland’s user is still standing. 

And by the look on his face, he’s got something real nasty in mind. 

— — — 

In retrospect, Ed Henderson wishes he’d worn pants. 

As he throws himself from B-52, Ed takes care to tuck his head in, bracing his free hand behind his neck. He lands hard, tumbling and bouncing off the concrete and muttering curses as he does. Eventually, he comes to a stop against the metal girder.

With some effort, Ed rises to a sitting position. Patches of blood stain the concrete behind him. He looks down at his legs, where a dozen new cuts and abrasions have opened up, including a particularly nasty-looking one that extends from his left knee all the way down to his shin. Blood oozes down past his ankles, staining his socks and crusting on the outside of his shoes. Each cut throbs with its own small and unbearable agony. 

It looks like Ed truly won’t be able to run anymore. 

At this point in the fight, though, running could never be an option. 

Ed rises to his feet, placing a hand on the metal girder to stabilize himself. His head swims. His chest throbs. His face oozes blood. His entire body aches with cuts and scrapes and bruises and a thousand tiny little exertions. 

Yet despite everything, Electriclarryland is back in his grasp. 

And he’s never felt more alive. 

Ed looks up towards the sun, his last-ditch plan crystallizing in his mind. He presses down on Electriclarryland’s trigger ever-so-slightly.

This will be dicey. The plan in his mind isn’t really a plan, more a half-cocked and incredibly risky concept. 

But if he nails it, he’ll be walking out of here with his Stand — and his life. 

B-52 stares at Ed from a short distance away. She crouches down slightly, cracks her neck, and gives him a toothy smile. 

“That was a pretty nice play, hodad. Taking your Stand back like that? Real smart stuff. But you’re pretty beat up, yeah? I dunno how much more damage you’ll be able to take. So if you plan to stop now, y’know, I can’t blame ya.” 

Ed remains silent, staring at the woman with his Stand clenched by his side. 

“Really? Fine. It’s your damn funeral.” B-52 shrugs. “No skin off my back, that’s for sure.”

She crouches down slightly once more, taking a fighting stance. The air becomes thick with tension. At any moment, the final exchange could begin. 

Instead, Ed turns in the opposite direction and begins to walk. 

“Huh?” says the surfer, her voice full of audible confusion. “...Hey, what’re you doing?” 

Ed continues to limp forwards, one foot in front of the other. Inside, he trusts that the enemy Stand user will, in fact, be too suspicious to follow him. He couldn’t make a more obvious trap if he tried. 

But this Stand user isn’t especially tactical. In fact, by all appearances, she relies on her Stand’s sheer speed above everything else. 

So all Ed can do is shut his mouth, walk, and hope. 

“You’re pullin’ something, aren’t you?” says B-52. “But you don’t have that shield up around you… Damn! You got a death wish, hodad?” 

Her threat is punctuated by the sound of her Stand revving up. 

Despite all of his instincts screaming at him to turn around, Ed stops. He turns his head slightly to the side and speaks in a loud, clear voice. 

“Wanna know something funny?”

He takes a step.

“Over the past few days, all I’ve been doing is running. Every Stand fight I’ve been in has had me running away from some bullshit.” 

Another step. 

“It’s always been me trying to protect myself from some attack. Preserving myself. Trying my oh-so-hardest not to get killed in a horrible way.” 

Another step. He doesn’t turn around. He knows, by now, she’s listening. 

“Or sometimes, it’s running towards bullshit. Finding the enemy Stand user, flushing them out of their own little hidey-holes. Either way, every fight somehow ends up with me booking it like a goddamn headless chicken.”

Ed crouches down towards the ground, turning around and finally looking at B-52. 

“But now, I’m done running. I know exactly what you can do, and I know exactly what you’re after.” 

He holds up Electriclarryland. 

“So if you really want my Stand that bad…”

He cracks his knuckles against the side of the taser as raw spite enters his voice. 

“Come and fucking take it.”  

For a long moment, B-52 regards Ed silently, rubbing her chin as she calculates something in her head. Finally, she beams at Ed once more. 

“Okay! Decent speech. But y’know what I just realized? Even if you’re pulling something, I don’t have to fall for the bait. I know you can’t run anymore.” 

B-52 cocks a leg backwards. 

“So there’s no way in hell you’re gonna be able to avoid this.” 

With a mighty kick and a shout, B-52 sends one of her Stands blazing out in front of her, speeding around in a wide circle around Ed. A wave begins to spring up behind it as it moves, slowly gathering speed. As the Stand goes in for another revolution, B-52 shouts a gleeful “BANZAI!” and propels herself atop its remaining body, riding atop the Stand’s wave as it grows higher and higher. 

As the wave begins to grow, moving faster and faster, Ed doesn’t panic. Instead, he pushes his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose. He squints his eyes, counting the seconds and mentally keeping track of B-52’s position. 

He might only have a half-second window. 

When it arrives, he can’t miss it. 

The surrounding wave approaches faster and faster as B-52 speeds up, shouting giddily as she rises higher and higher into the air. Even in the center of the circle, Ed feels the ground begin to ominously ripple beneath him. 

Ed glances at the metal beam he’d supported himself against as the waves come closer and closer. He feels Electriclarryland straining in his grasp. Just a moment more, he thinks. All he has to do is find the right moment, and release it. 

As B-52 continues to whoop, the wave sweeps under the metal beam. It practically warps up the concrete wave, sweeping its way to the top of the distorted surface. 

Ed opens his eyes a little further. Here it comes. 

Atop the wave, for a single moment, B-52 passes between Ed and the girder. 

Now.

In an instant, the accumulated tension releases. 

And Ed Henderson vanishes. 

SWISH

In an instant, dozens of wounds open up across B-52’s body. She gives a shout of pain and falls to her knees as her Stand briefly fizzles out. Before her, the circular wave crashes down, sending the ground rippling with tremors.

“Y-You’re kidding…” B-52 looks down at herself. A network of cuts covers her stomach, arms, and legs, each one rapidly dripping blood onto the ground below her. She places a hand on her chest, feeling a strange weakness enter her body as her breath becomes noticeably more labored. 

This makes no sense at all. During this fight, her enemy’s Stand has only displayed defensive powers. It makes barriers and lets him move fast. From everything she’s seen, there’s no possible way it should be able to harm her. 

So what the hell did he just do?

For his part, Ed barely manages to stop his flight by grabbing onto the top of the metal girder and slinging some mesh around the top. He scrabbles upwards, then squats down, perched firmly atop the post.

He peers down at B-52 with his good eye. His enemy's two Stands still belch smoke into the air. Even though she’s been wounded, she’s still standing, and her teeth are gritted with grim determination. 

Ed's gotten a good hit in. But the fight isn’t over just yet. 

This enemy cannot be defeated with a simple gimmick.

You must use everything you have.

Ed looks into the clear blue sky, squinting at a cloud. Despite the blatant unreality of his surroundings, despite all the injuries he's sustained, his head feels clearer than it has in days. At last, he understands part of what his other self is saying. 

At last, he understands what he needs to do. 

“Fine,” he murmurs into thin air. “If it’s really what I gotta do to win…”

It’s a beautiful day in Weiland Square. 

Blood sizzles on the hot concrete. 

The sun shines brightly in the sky above. 

The onlooking skyscrapers silently gaze down. 

And for the first time, Ed Henderson allows his eyes to fully open. 

“Give me everything.”

Chapter Text

Throughout his entire life, Ed Henderson has never been able to see well. 

But, as with everything else in the city, the bridge incident brought change. 

Ever since Ed’s childhood, a tendency towards nearsightedness bedevils him. He first becomes aware of his disability in the classrooms of Public School 41: where other children see colors, shapes, and words on the informative posters lining the walls, he only perceives squiggles and vague, amorphous blobs. After a few quizzical looks and hushed discussions between teachers, the young Ed eventually realizes that something might be off about his vision. 

By that point, Ed has already become well aware that his uncle is a busy man. Asking to spend the time and money on an actual optometrist appointment is out of the question. So through a combination of tactical seating choices, educated guesses, and advice from more skilled classmates, Ed Henderson manages to quietly slip through his school career without any major interruptions. 

In his freshman year of high school, Ed manages to barter a pair of glasses out of an acquaintance. Their presence is a game-changer: now, Ed can read signs from across the street without having to squint or ask passersby. It carries downsides, of course — the prescription isn’t quite calibrated to his own eyes, so Ed finds himself occasionally running into street signs or stumbling on staircases, and one of the hinges squeaks when he opens or closes it. But they are a massive improvement, and eventually, Ed finds himself unable to conceptualize life without them. 

So Ed continues with his glasses for a while. He graduates high school with no distinction whatsoever and immediately sets about making himself useful however he possibly can. His newly restored sight provides critical aid to his burgeoning urge to drive, and he even manages to secure a license after several attempts. Throughout odd jobs, temporary gigs, and the utter chaos after the gas attack, Ed’s glasses preserve his vision perfectly. 

But one day, watching TV in his apartment about two weeks after the incident, Ed takes his glasses off to clean them. For some reason, he glances around his humble home, and slowly becomes confused. Something seems off about the world around him. The TV is too high-definition, his rug is too scuffed — and have his windows always been so grimy?

The realization takes a moment to arrive. But when it does, it practically shakes the earth that Ed stands on.

Somehow, Ed Henderson’s vision has become perfect. 

Ed barely remembers to put on his shoes as he sprints down the stairs, racing to walk outside. He looks at everything around him, overcome by the miracle of his newfound vision. The shiny chrome highlights on cars, the beating wings of pigeons flapping through the air, the subtle eddies of mud being sucked through a storm drain, the small and spiky weeds that push their way inexorably through the cracks in the sidewalks, even the shadows cast by streetlights and trash cans: all of it takes on a new and vibrant cast. He feels as if the world has been reborn before him, all the colors and shapes rearranged into new, different, and absolutely brilliant patterns. 

The sight almost brings a tear to Ed’s eye. He doesn’t know where this new beauty comes from, or why it’s chosen to bless him specifically, but he swears not to take it for granted. He takes a long walk around the city that day, luxuriating in the summer sun and the newly clear world surrounding him. 

For the first time in his life, he feels like he can truly see. 

The next morning, Ed wakes up to agonizing pain. 

His skull throbs as if someone has taken a hammer to his eye sockets. His jaw screams with pain as he shifts it slightly. Every strand of light that touches his eyes sends new torturous spasms through his entire body. He buries his face in a pillow, trying in vain to keep out the sun. 

With herculean effort, Ed manages to stagger his way into the bathroom and look at himself in the mirror. The sight that confronts him is utterly bizarre. His left eye is completely normal, the same blue as ever. But his right eye is bloodshot, with a strangely dark iris. 

The realization takes a moment to arrive. But when it does, it shatters Ed’s newfound self-conception. 

Somehow, Ed Henderson is seeing too much.  

In its headquarters in Washington, D.C., the United States Federal Bureau of Containment maintains a large body of documentation on Stand abilities, including a detailed classification of abilities by effects, ranges, and manifestations. Their reports date back to the 1950s and 1960s, when Stands were rumored to be generated through radiation exposure and Washington top brass covertly discussed their potential to combat the spread of communism. As time went on, however, it became clear that Stand users had far too many liabilities to be applied in real combat, and the war hawks were gradually replaced by science wonks. The Bureau’s role eventually shifted to be that of a passive observer, content to collaborate with private foundations while it amassed a wealth of data behind the scenes. 

In the late 1990s, a particular researcher at the Bureau discovered a strange trend in the health records of known American and Japanese Stand users. After digging further into the data, she discovered that the trend held true for Stand users in every observed geographical region and across every timescale. Even unsubstantiated reports from classical and medieval eras followed the emerging pattern. Within a month, she’d gathered enough findings to draft a paper on the subject. 

The researcher’s thesis hinged on a very simple proposition. The process of awakening a Stand nearly always involves a physically or psychologically traumatizing event, and the impacts of epigenetic responses to trauma have been well-documented. And despite a wide range of background experiences and geographic reasons, Stand users display abnormally consistent traits, including hair with strange colors or patterns, enhanced physical traits, and an egotistical demeanor. Therefore, it could be reasonable to conclude that the epigenetic makeup of Stand-using subjects changes to adapt itself to the presence of a newfound Stand. 

Put another way, the researcher conjectured that Stands fundamentally alter their users at a biological level. 

The internal memo circulated the Bureau of Containment for months, taking the growing population of researchers and agents by storm. After an unusually brief six-month delay, the directors allocated five million dollars to continue the woman’s research, and the newly established Department of Epigenetics mandated that all Stand-using employees register their DNA for testing against control subjects. The news immediately prompted half of the Bureau’s agents to declare their intent to resign. 

The disruption was large enough to rouse the directors, and the department swiftly walked back their requirement, instead providing incentives for Stand users to volunteer their own genetic materials. With enough Broadway tickets and all-access passes to FedEx Field, the department gradually acquired a large enough sample size to begin analysis in earnest. Preliminary results of the study are promising, and the Bureau’s researchers remain confident that their claim will be proven correct. 

Throughout the known samples, the vast majority of epigenetic adaptations boil down to slightly above-average strength, durability, and reaction time, with occasional instances of bizarrely colored hair. But there exist examples of more specialized mutations that correspond to their abilities. Agents with elemental abilities discover immunities to extreme heat or cold, psychological attackers acquire an enhanced interpersonal awareness, suited users grow unnaturally dense muscle tissue… 

And, of course, the rumors about the newly promoted site administrators can’t be discounted either.

Of course, as he stares into his bathroom mirror, Ed Henderson is aware of none of this. Later today, he’ll tape his right eye shut and purchase a pair of dark sunglasses from a corner store. He’ll grow fond of the sunglasses, and end up wearing them at all times, even at night, indoors, and while he’s asleep. Eventually, the sunglasses will become normal to him; he won’t question why he wears them, or where the pain comes from. It’ll simply become a solved issue, a distant and unpleasant memory on which he doesn’t bother to dwell. 

But ten and a half months later, fighting for his life in the middle of a concrete desert, Ed Henderson will remember the clarity of that sight. 

He will realize that the dormant power within him can’t be held back forever. 

— — — 

Over the rim of his sunglasses, Ed sees the band of mesh physically jolt as the tension releases in an instant. 

A wave of elastic force ripples up the band from Electriclarryland’s nozzle. 

And in an instant, Ed Henderson is forcibly jolted up into the air towards the top of the metal girder. 

His knees and feet are yanked forcibly from the ground as he soars up, up, up, over the concrete wave and into the air. Before his eyes, B-52’s face slowly falls from triumph to shock, her eyes still fixed on where Ed was an instant before. 

As Ed soars towards the enemy Stand user, his mind works in overdrive. This is the best opening he could possibly hope to get. He can’t waste it. 

Here goes nothing.

A tendril of blood-red mesh flows out from Electriclarryland’s nozzle. It winds around B-52 in a flash, phasing through her skin and tearing open her veins as it passes. A latticework of cuts engraves itself across her entire body before she can react. 

Ed dispels the mesh. He knows this won’t be lethal. 

But no matter what, it’s going to hurt.

SWISH

As Ed’s counterattack lands, he manages to get a grip onto the girder, clambering his way on top with the help of some well-placed mesh. A slight breeze ruffles his hair as he secures himself, one knee tucked beneath him for support. 

Beneath him, B-52 looks up at him in shock. One blood-soaked hand is clasped vainly to her chest in an effort to stem the bleeding. Her eyes are covered by her goggles, but her expression betrays a precise mix of pain and grit. She might have taken damage, but she won’t go down yet. 

And Ed sees every single detail with perfect clarity. 

Every drop of blood, every bead of sweat, every breath and pore and crack in the concrete is as clear to Ed as the back of his hand. It doesn’t quite feel like he’s seeing in slow motion. Rather, it’s like the resolution and frames per second of Ed’s eyes have increased, giving his mind and body the capability to react quicker. He’s surprised at how easy it feels. Something about this sight feels almost natural to him. 

In fact, as he thinks about it, he realizes he knows the sensation very well. 

The seed ripples and shifts, thorns sprouting outwards in midair as it falls. 

The car swerves onto the sidewalk, its driver vainly pressing the brakes.

Huge, surging tides of water smash through the windows of the facility. 

The old man lifts his shotgun up, eyes full of killing intent. 

And every time, Ed Henderson reacts.  

Ed looks down from the sky, surveying himself internally. His body aches with a thousand small, accumulated pains and his vision is fuzzy at the corners. But his head feels miraculously clear. 

With a deep breath, Ed summons every drop of strength left in his body. 

“Fine. If it’s really what I gotta do to win…”

At the end of this exchange, only one person is going to be left standing. 

All Ed has to do is make sure it’s him. 

“Give me everything.”

His hand whips up into the air, and a tendril of concrete mesh screams forwards towards the ground as B-52 blasts herself off to the side.

In an instant, Ed slingshots through the air, his eyes perfectly tracking B-52 as she speeds away from him. Clearly, she’s on guard after his last attack. Her best strategy is attacking with waves from afar, gradually wearing Ed down. 

But Ed can’t let that happen. 

He needs to press the offensive.

Ed cancels his mesh in midair, twisting his body and firing another strand out towards the retreating B-52. It lodges into the concrete and sends him twisting through the air once more. He lands on the ground, bending his knees and leaping up in the air as a third web of mesh unfurls before him at dizzying speeds. 

The strands all reach outwards, unwinding like a giant spidery hand — then contracting in an instant around B-52’s shoulder. 

A grim smile crosses Ed’s face as the tension pulls him down towards B-52 once more. 

Ed watches B-52 visibly cringe as he draws closer. She stops on a dime, raising both her hands in front of her face and ducking down protectively in anticipation of the incoming attack. 

But the attack never arrives. All she hears is the sound of rubber soles squeaking against concrete. 

She looks up to see Ed standing across from her, hands in his pockets. 

B-52 gives Ed a demented smile as blood dribbles down her chin. “You got… a death wish?” she hisses, bending down in a fighting stance. 

Through his eye, Ed sees the fatigue visible in every breath his opponent takes. He sees her Stand going fuzzy at the edges and the trembling in her stance. She won’t be able to hold out for much longer. 

But Ed knows the damage he’s taken might be even greater. He can barely walk, his face is smeared with blood, and it feels like he cracked a rib after her wave earlier. 

Despite the pain, Ed raises Electriclarryland in the air. He raises his voice, trying to project confidence. 

Neither of us can run away now. So let’s get this over with, yeah?”

Raising his free hand, he flips B-52 off as his voice rises to a shrill shout. 

“Come at me, motherfucker!”

B-52’s breath becomes deeper as her gaze flips back and forth between Ed’s outstretched finger and his face. A curious look comes over her eyes. She crouches lower than she has before, places one foot in front of the other, extends her arms to her sides —

“The Cramps!”

And attacks. 

Ed watches B-52 speeding forwards towards him with a strange sense of detachment. B-52’s traveling especially fast towards him, most likely to avoid him canceling his Stand and attacking her with blood mesh again. If she hits him in time, he won’t be able to muster a defense, she must be thinking. 

Ed admits she’s assumed correctly. At this distance, under these conditions, he has no time to set up mesh. A full-frontal attack leaves him wide open. 

Exactly as he’d hoped. 

Ed feels his body moving unconsciously, almost lazily. He takes a stance, carefully stretching out his hands to the side. As B-52 speeds directly towards him, he sees exactly where he needs to put his body, and the exact right moment to shift. 

He knows that B-52’s blazing speed also comes with a downside. As she barrels forwards, her eyes fully on Ed, she’s sacrificed every other option for speed. She won’t be able to turn or stop or make any precise movements to react. 

The only way she can go is forwards. 

So as she raises out an arm for her final attack, B-52’s face collides with Ed Henderson’s raised knee at thirty miles an hour.

THWACK!

B-52’s head immediately snaps back from the impact as she blazes past Ed, new blood trailing from her face. Ed staggers, feeling another surge of pain jolt through his entire body. He falls to one knee, feeling the strength leave his body. Fuck, did he miscalculate? Did he put his leg in the wrong position, or — 

The sound of loud rumbling from behind Ed strikes dread into his core. 

He turns his head, looking over his shoulder, and sees B-52. 

The enemy Stand user is in a bad state. Blood drips from her forehead and nose now, coating her face in blood. Smoke bellows from her Stand in great gouts, enshrouding her entire body in a gloomy haze. She wavers back and forth slightly on her feet, lifting her goggles up to her forehead to help her sight. 

And yet, her hands are outstretched in exultation. And yet, her Stand revs louder than ever.

And yet, she smiles through the smog. 

Fuck.

“You’re a fighter, hodad, but you’re weak in your soul,” rasps B-52. “Shitty little tricks and surprise attacks. Ya can’t cut it against a real Stand user. But me?” 

She lets out a hacking cough, then pounds her chest, her voice rising. 

“I could never lose to you! I am the fastest! I am the strongest!”