Venice was abuzz with activity. It was New Year's Eve, and the entire populace had gathered together in order to witness the birth of a new year. The excited chatter of millions of voices echoes throughout the concrete jungle and mixed with the lively music of bands playing in the roads, filling the air with sounds of festivity and joy. All of the people in the city were gathered together in the bustling sea of bodies, regardless of their character; young or old, rich or poor, innocent or criminal, it didn't matter. They had cast aside their differences and broken down the barriers of society, discarding all responsibility and taking part in the jubilant revelry. Indeed, on this one night of the year, everyone throughout the city had put aside their differences to welcome in the year of 2002 as a single body, together.
All except one.
From an ornate balcony many floors above the ancient streets, the stone obscured by deep shadows despite the almost suffocating yellow light of the sprawling metropolis below, a figure silently observed as the festivities played out before him. His form was shrouded in an impenetrable darkness, with not a single discernible detail save for a pair of white eyes with fragmented pupils, narrowed in contempt. Their hateful stare swept slowly over the proceedings, casting their disdain upon the crowds below in an almost careful manner, as if trying to make sure that every single one of the peasants below him fully understood the depths of his loathing for them. As he spotted a particularly happy pair of lovers sharing a passionate kiss on a street corner, the shadows shifted and a guttural noise escaped him as he sneered at the futility of their love.
Oh, how he hated them, every last one. It wasn't like the hate that he held for his enemies, the type that was mixed in with the smallest amount of respect from the fact that they had the sheer courage to oppose him, but something else entirely. This emotion was nowhere near as refined as that. It was a primal feeling steeped in covetous thoughts, stewing over time as it mutated to become something malformed and obscene, making him desire to take for himself what other people claimed as their own. Yes, that was it. It was envy.
He envied their happiness.
If they, the peasants barely more than ants before him, could claim happiness, then why was it that he, the most powerful man on Earth, could not? As the esteemed Boss of Passione, had everything he could possibly desire at his fingertips. Wealth, respect, loyal men and political influence were just some of the resources he to be used however he saw fit in his conquest of the world. No matter who a person was, they all lived in his shadow as mere insects, for he was the Emperor. He was Diavolo.
However, none of it never seemed to fill the bottomless void he felt inside him. Whenever he bought the loyalty of another corrupt politician, he felt nothing. Whenever his capos reported a new conquest in the war for the drug trade from the new overseas division, there was nothing but a flat apathy. Whenever he completely eliminated a rival gang and bore witness to the brutal execution of their leader, not once was there the rush that he had experienced in his younger, more volatile days. No matter what he tried, who he killed, what he bought, he could never feel that cocktail of dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin and endorphins he so desperately craved. Happiness was lost to him.
An announcement over innumerable loudspeakers across the city informed the celebrants that only one minute of the year 2001 remained, to which there was a chorus of cheering. The crowd became louder and the music grew more intense. Scoffing once more, Diavolo finally turned away from the spectacle and returned inside, shutting the doors and blocking off the outside world for good.
After making sure that there were no gaps in his heavy blinds and that the thick metal door was locked, Diavolo decided that he was secure enough to turn on the lights. Reaching over to the exact spot he knew the light switch was in, for he had played out this scene innumerable times in his life, he flicked the piece of plastic and lit up the room. Eyes unprepared for the sudden introduction light flooding the room, he was forced to squint until his vision adjusted to the brightness. Slowly but surely, the spots in his vision subsided and he was free to take in the room that he had lived in for so many years.
It was small, unusually so for such a person as the Boss of Passione. One would have expected the main safe house of the head of Passione to be far larger and elaborate, with heaps of space. Of course, it was true that the rest of the building had incredibly spacious rooms on account of it being a massive centuries-old structure that he had purchased under the guise of a rich foreign businessman. However, Diavolo had decided to take up residence in this far smaller room on the top floor, more suited to being the office of a secretary than the bedroom of Italy's most notorious crime boss. He had justified his choice because it was both abundant in escape routes and easily defensible on account of having less space to worry about, and thus less possible points from which he could be attacked.
The room was sparsely decorated, with plain white walls upon which only a few small but stunningly detailed landscapes of rural Italy were hung in elaborate frames, plus a single decently-sized mirror. The floor was of simple yet luxurious carpet which massaged the soles of his bare feet with each step. On the far side of the room stood a heavy bookshelf made of aged wood and carved with intricate floral designs. It was filled to the brim with numerous texts about history, geography and fine art, his secret pleasures. Next to that was a single bed, its sheets crafted from such fine materials that even a king would be green with envy.
On the other side of the room stood a wardrobe with sliding doors that contained various pieces of the best quality that money could buy. Finally, there was a mahogany desk upon which sat a computer. It was on the cutting edge of technology, so advanced that it probably wouldn't be commercially available to the general public for at least another decade. It was new, and the chemical odour of freshly-opened plastic still clung to the tower like a bad habit, assaulting his nose whenever he went near it. It was his fault, thanks to him destroying his old computer earlier in the year in a fit of rage, but that didn't make him any happier about having to suffer the smell.
As he took all of this in for what felt like - and could well have been - the ten thousandth time, he sighed to himself and walked over towards the mirror. It was a pleasant thing to look at, the rectangular golden frame adorned with various swirling motifs. Looking into it, he was met with a rather depressing reflection.
Leopard-spotted hair hung down haphazardly over his shoulders, individual strands curling and pointing in random directions. He usually kept it combed back into a neat ponytail, only letting it come loose during the short periods between when Doppio's consciousness faded and he regained control. These days he had neglected to do so, not even bothering to comb the unruly mane. His face wasn't much better, either. Now that it was fully visible, his visage had clearly deteriorated. He had lost some weight, leaving his face significantly more gaunt. His eyes were slightly sunken into their sockets, forming dark shadows around his eyes. Bags had also begun to form beneath them from a recent lack of adequate rest.
"Look at yourself." He said to the man in the mirror, grasping the object before him with both hands and taking it off of the wall. "You are the very definition of power. You have the one truly invincible Stand, and stand upon the apex of this world as the irrefutable king. Buccellati and Trish are dead, and you have reclaimed your anonymity. Since then, you have only gained more and more."
His teeth ground together and his eyes began to twitch, an unearthly red aura beginning to flare up around his body. "So why?! Why aren't you happy?!"
The crimson light encompassed his form, violently pulsing and spiking as it grew in magnitude. It was like a raging inferno, with tongues of scarlet flame licking at anything within their range like chained, starving hounds. At the peak of its intensity, a new shape began to take form within its light. The detail grew as it assembled itself piece by piece, shards of its being pulled from seemingly nowhere and eventually coming together like a pane of glass shattering in reverse.
Hands, arms, legs, a body covered in crossing lines and more coalesced within the otherworldly flames until, finally, only one part was left unformed on its grid-patterned figure, just above the shoulders and neck. The last few shards pieced themselves together and created a terrifying, vaguely skull-shaped head consisting of two individual faces both permanently contorted in an expression of sheer, unyielding rage.
King Crimson curled its armoured hand into a tight fist and brought it down viciously upon the mirror its master was holding, plunging it straight through the material. Offering no resistance, the polished surface and intricately-carved frame instantly smashed into thousands of tiny pieces. Within moments the floor was decorated with a shower of minute shards and massive chunks of glass and wood alike, the pieces descending almost gracefully. Were he paying attention, Diavolo might have likened the spectacle to a snowstorm of razors that glimmered like gems during their descent.
The moment passed just as quickly as it arrived. The cacaphonous racket of breaking glass and splintering wood faded before Diavolo knew it, and like that he was once again left alone in the tiny room that, to one man, seemed as vast and unpopulated as a castle without a king. Looking down at the mess his Stand made, the Boss of Passione ran a hand through his unkempt leopard-print locks and sighed. All this raging was getting him nowhere. It hadn't for months.
He needed some time away. Away from everything.
Stepping around the mess he had just made with caution so as to not slice open the bare soles of his feet, he trudged over to the wardrobe and pushed its heavy doors aside with one hand while his Stand faded back into nonexistence. A harsh squealing noise pierced the air as the wheels ran along the neglected tracks, causing Diavolo to wince as the offensive sound grated against his very being.
'Of course, even fetching the right clothes is a chore.' He thought bitterly as the last shiver left his system.
When the noise ceased, the mob boss thrust his arm shoulder-deep into the chasm that was his closet. He was only wearing a pair of too-small blue trousers right now, and that was nowhere near acceptable to go out in. For a long while he rooted around its interior, shoving garment after haphazardly balled up garment out of the way until, finally, his hand closed around what he was looking for. Hauling it out from its fabric prison like it was some massive sea creature on the end of a fishing pole, he held it up and exposed it to the light for the first time in over a week.
The attire in question was a sweater with several tears in its fabric, the largest of which being a long diagonal rent across the chest area, and was coloured a deep magenta. Diavolo seemed to recall something about it originally being pure white before his alter ego had made the less-than-stellar decision to go at it with a bucket of dye and a box cutter. The dominant personality shook his head, but slipped it on over his head anyway. He himself hated it with a passion, but it was Doppio's favourite piece of clothing and the boy would just waste time searching for it - and likely wreck half of the room in the process - if Diavolo were to ever throw the ratty thing out. He then pulled on Doppio's socks and shoes, which, despite not being a tasteful suit befitting the head of Passione, he found much more to his taste.
Next, he walked over to the desk and rummaged around in one of its drawers for a pen, a piece of paper and a small badge pin back. When he had found one of each, he hunched over the hardwood surface and began writing a hastily-scribbled note, detailing incredibly precise instructions as the ballpoint rasped across the sheet. Eventually finishing, the mob boss read it over a final time and, once satisfied that the letter was detailed enough, folded it up and secured it to the sweater with the badge pin.
Finished with his preparations, Diavolo walked to the bed and laid down on it. He slowly closed his eyes, letting the warm embrace of the darkness envelop his mind before slipping into a deep slumber. Then, all was still.
…
Not for long, though, for not a moment later the sounds of movement resumed. The eyes of the person laying on the bed lazily slid open as they yawned. Something was different this time, though. Unlike the fragmented pupils previously visible within sunken eye sockets clouded with exhaustion, these eyes were youthful, vibrant and a soft shade of pink. Their voice was different, too, now sounding much younger and far less masculine. Pushing the weight of his still half-asleep body up into a sitting position, the man named Vinegar Doppio stretched his arms out above his head and welcomed the new day. Or night, as it were.
"Oh, man, I feel great. I felt like I've slept for a week!" The young man announced contentedly to the empty room, rubbing his eyes with a faint smile. Just as he was about to get up from the bed, his hand was drawn to his chest and made contact with something that felt distinctly like a piece of paper. Upon looking down, Doppio found that there indeed was a folded piece of paper pinned to his favourite sweater.
"Huh? What's this…?" His voice trailed off as he fingered with the badge pin. After a decent deal of work - child safety locks and small mechanisms had always been nemeses of his - he managed to remove the pin without damaging his beloved sweater and retrieve the paper. Upon unfolding it he found that it was a letter, which he immediately began to read out loud.
"Dearest Doppio," He began, "I have a new assignment for you. You must make your way to Cagliari, in the island of Sardinia. You may travel by plane or boat, whichever you wish, but do not waste any time getting there. After that, go to the Caliagri D'Amare hotel and await further instructions. Any money you might need is in the box underneath your bed. Make sure to destroy this letter once you are done with it. Signed, your Boss."
The late teenager scratched his purple mop of hair in confusion. "The Boss was here? I didn't even notice him come in." He shook his head. "Oh, well, it doesn't matter. Orders are orders, I suppose."
Doppio stood up from the bed and, before even walking three steps, put his foot straight into a pile of wood and glass that he suspected was once his mirror. "W-what? Did I do that?" He pondered, eyebrows furrowed. Why would he have done such a thing? Surely breaking a mirror and then leaving the pieces behind for someone to step on would be something even he would remember? Although, the Boss had recently called and warned Doppio that his memory was at risk of getting even worse than usual lately, and that he should watch himself in case he messed up a mission…
In the end the young man just shrugged and turned on his heel, oblivious to the fact that he was just grinding more shards beneath his foot. "Must've forgotten…" he muttered to himself. He moved back to his bed, got down on all fours and poked his head into the space underneath the bed's heavy frame. It was impossible to see clearly in so much darkness, and the thought of spiders and other crawling terrors sent a cold shiver down the length of his spine, but those were trifling matters when compared to an order from his beloved boss. His hands searched through the dust-covered clutter beneath the bed - when had he allowed himself to become such a slob? - until they were met with the cold sensation of steel. Doppio smiled to himself. Jackpot.
He pulled the box out from the shadows, entered the combination for the lock that would have been considered grossly excessive under any other circumstances and pulled out a black leather wallet brimming with bills. There had to be a good ten thousand euros in there at least, he guessed. More than enough for what he needed to do.
Stuffing the wallet into his trouser pocket, Doppio made a beeline towards the door out of his room, firm resolve evident on his soft features. He had a new mission from the Boss, after all. He couldn't afford to slack off.
Planes could be heard all around, the deafening roars and mechanical whines of their engines clearly audible even from within the walls of the building. Watching them through the glass from among the veritable maze of chairs was an excitable Doppio, a bag of his favourite brand of chocolate in hand. Truth be told, the purple-topped teenager had a secret interest in plane spotting, and getting the chance to spend some of his day watching them soar overhead always managed to fill him with a childlike joy. It was funny; although he spent much time around planes and airports, he was never able to sit back and take the sights in for long thanks to the nature of his job. He was forever preoccupied with carrying out whatever vital task the Boss had entrusted him with, and couldn't get the time to engage in his hobby. As a result Doppio had learned to take advantage of the rare times when he was actually using an airport to catch a flight, rather than for helping some dimwitted smugglers do their jobs or something. Like today, for example.
Until, that was, the sound of a phone pierced the air.
Ring, ring, ring!
"Huh?" Doppio blurted out, dragged away from his train of thought. A phone call? It had to be the Boss checking up on him. Looking around for the source of the ringing, his eyes soon settled on a small, triangular object sat on a table some distance away from him.
Ring, ring, ring!
Not wanting to keep his Boss waiting, Doppio scrambled up from his seat and darted at the phone to answer the call. The moment his fingers closed around the object, he slammed it up to the side of his head. For some reason, as soon as he put it against his ear he suddenly began to feel oddly moist and detect the scents of bacon and mayonnaise.
"Hello, Boss?" The teenager spoke into the device, a serious expression on his face. "Is everything all right?"
"Doppio, pay attention to your surroundings! You are about to miss your flight!"
Doppio visibly winced at the uncharacteristic sharpness and volume of his Boss' tone, actually bordering on cowering. Usually he would be met with some kind of greeting, as short as it may be under certain circumstances, and then the Boss would proceed to calmly and clearly explain what he wanted his most loyal subordinate to do. This time, though, there was none of that, and the Boss had snarled his orders with all the ferocity of a caged beast. He hadn't even replied to the question Doppio asked him.
"Ah! O-Oh no, y-you're right!" The short young man virtually squeaked, beginning to trip over his words. He was distraught, horrified at the thought that he had come so close to inconveniencing or even - God forbid - angering his beloved Boss, the one man who had seen some kind of worth in his pathetic form, taken him in and moulded him into an instrument of the will of Passione.
"I-I'm so sorry, Boss! I-I didn't to! Please forgive me!" Doppio was close to shouting now, his distress evident in every part of his being from his bulging eyes to his trembling hands. "Y-You know I'd never do something like this on purpose, right?! It was an accident, I swear!"
"Doppio, calm down!"
That was enough to stop the young man in his tracks. No matter how much anxiety he was experiencing, no matter how hopeless he felt, an order from the Boss overruled everything. Slowly but surely, Doppio's stature returned to normal and his breathing regulated.
"Doppio, you must listen to me." The Boss' tone was softer now, kinder even, yet still firm enough to command the younger mafioso's complete respect. "The mission you are on is vital to the survival of Passione as a whole. It is a matter of utmost importance. Whatever you do, you cannot afford to be absent-minded."
"R-Right, okay. I'm sorry, Boss, I promise it won't happen again." His voice was still shaky and his eyes still brimmed with unshed tears, but the purple-topped boy managed to reply with conviction nonetheless.
"Good. Please do not allow such a thing to occur again." Said the Boss in a much more calm tone, which also had the effect of calming Doppio. Whenever he spoke to the Boss, it was as if all of his worried suddenly washed away and everything way going to be alright.
However, the boy couldn't shake the feeling he had. It was the sort of emotion that manifested deep in their of a person's stomach, gnawing away at the back of their minds like an itch that couldn't be scratched until it was the only thing they could think about. Something about the Boss was off today. First he had left a letter instead of simply calling, an action that he had never done before, and now he was snapping at his most loyal subordinate. Before he knew it, the teenager just couldn't help himself but give in to his curiosity.
"Um, Boss?" Doppio asked meekly, playing with the long part of his hairstyle as a single bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. "Are you… okay? Is there something bothering you?"
A long while passed before anything happened after that. The teenage underboss waited with baited breath for a reply, completely oblivious to the world around him as that one oddly-shaped phone in his hand suddenly became the centre of everything.
"…That is none of your concern." His leader eventually replied. With that last curt sentence, the Boss' presence disappeared completely and Doppio was left alone again.
The young man subconsciously attempted to swallow, but found that there was a lump in his throat. He'd upset the Boss, he was certain of it. By inquiring about his leader's troubles, he had inadvertently caused the Boss to become tense. He of all people should have known that asking something that personal would just put him more on edge! He'd made the problem even worse! What an awful underboss he was, a waste of good oxygen who couldn't even be trusted to keep his Boss' requirements and preferences in mind at all times! Wasn't there anything he could do right?
He forced himself out of his chasm of self-depreciation and shook his head from side to side, causing the purple tendril hanging above his face to quake comically. The Boss may be upset with him, but that could all be traced back to his own inactivity. Just staying here feeling sorry for himself would only make his leader's vexation swell. With this in mind, Doppio turned on his heel, threw away the half-eaten BLT sandwich in his hand - wait, when had he picked that up? - and began to run full-pelt towards the boarding gate for his flight.
It was still dark on the quaint island of Cagliari, and the chirping song of crickets echoed through the night air. The light of the moon bathed the surrounding scrubland in pale light, lending the scene an almost paranormal factor. In the middle of this desolate landscape, two leather shoes fell rhythmically as they carried their wearer across it. Bathed in darkness, almost as if absorbing it from the surroundings, Diavolo strode towards his destination.
The trip to Sardinia had gone, as he expected, relatively without incident. Aside from Doppio's bout of forgetfulness at the airport, travelling here had been a cinch. Upon landing on the island, his subordinate had taken a taxi to the hotel, checked in, reached the room Diavolo booked for him, and subsequently fainted as the dominant personality seized control. After quickly changing into the pinstripe suit he brought with him via Doppio's suitcase, he left the town under the cover of his King Crimson's time erasure. Twenty minutes into the future, the Boss of Passione had entered the wilderness and was now trudging through the brush like a man possessed.
A decent way away, the New Years celebrations could still be seen, fireworks exploding into firestorms of fluorescent hues before fizzling out and drifting back to the earth as invisible ashes. He scoffed as he watched their existences, so brief and without purpose, fade from reality just as quickly as they were born. Truly, this was a world that only remembered the results. That was why he treasured his King Crimson above all else. The power to control the results that determined the fate of this world was invaluable, and allowed him to stand at the top as the irrefutable, invincible emperor. Unlike those meagre explosions of colour, his will would last forever.
Before he knew it, he had reached his goal. Laying on its side like a lost corpse on the abrasive, patchy grass before him was a small stone pillar, around three metres in length and made of solid marble. Covering its surface was a thick layer of dirt and dead plant matter. To most, it would likely appear that it had simply been blown over by the wind over a long period of time. Diavolo, however, knew better, for it was actually on his orders that the column had been planted here and made up with meticulous care to seem like it had been here for decades. In reality, it had only been there for the better part of a year.
The mob leader's form hunched over the stone cylinder, paused for a moment, then began to emit a red glow as a familiar towering figure manifested just in front of his face. King Crimson extended its hand out towards the pillar until it reached its surface, then kept on pushing as the intangible nature of Stands displayed its usefulness. As the pure-white fingers were searching in the darkness, the tip of the forefinger snagged on something within the cold interior. The Stand user huffed. Creating a secret compartment that only a Stand could access was truly a stroke of genius.
Commanding his Stand to push on the odd protuberance, Diavolo sat back and watched as the top part of the column suddenly fell away like a cap, revealing the pillar to be completely hollow. A puff of dust and stagnant air escaped the newly-opened interior along with what resembled a tiny beetle. He shifted over to the mouth of the opening and reached his hand inside. A few more creatures scrambled to evacuate as their once-safe space was invaded by a marauding giant, but Diavolo paid them no mind. Eventually he found what he was looking for and pulled it out, then raised it up to the sky.
As moonbeams bounced off of the object, its form became far more clearly defined. Gnarled roots, twisted and crooked, tangled through each other in knotted bunches. Dried soil hung off of them, flaking away with every movement Diavolo made. Further up, wide leaves branched out from a thick stem dotted with the occasional thorn. The part that most grabbed his attention, though, was the flower on top. It was a massive thing, easily bigger than his hand and absolutely laden with thin petals that pointed outwards in every direction, giving it the appearance of a particularly fluffy red ball. Out of the top rose several long stamen that swayed whenever they were brushed by the occasional light gust of wind. Whatever this plant was, Diavolo didn't know and didn't care. What he was after was its ability.
Using King Crimson he punched a small crater in the earth, set the flower down inside it and then stood well back. The roots began to extend outwards with unnatural speed and dexterity, disentangling themselves with movements more akin to those of animals than any plant. They sunk deeper and deeper into the soil until the entire root system was covered by dirt, anchoring the rest of the organism to the ground. Then, something fascinating happened.
The petals began to move apart and separate from the middle, and the middle of the flower began to grow larger and larger. Eventually it grew too large for the blossom end and caused it to split apart, revealing - oddly enough - planks of varnished wood. It continued to grow and grow as it was framed by the still-intact petals, revealing more wood, some iron nails and an ornate brass handle identical to the original flower. When the expansion finally ceased, Diavolo was met with a sturdy-looking trapdoor, square in shape with sides of about a metre in length.
This was what he had come to Sardinia for. What he sought was hidden deep within this unusual flower's Stand, 'Dozen Red Roses'.
The story behind the Stand-wielding bloom was a bizarre one, even by the Boss of Passione's standards. After seizing the Requiem Arrow so many months ago and restoring his anonymity, he had accidentally let its head drag along a juvenile rose in front of a flower shop, close to the bridge where his final confrontation with Giorno Giovanni had taken place. Before his eyes the flower wilted and died, then immediately returned to life and matured into the unrecognisable form it possessed today. Unwilling to leave such a priceless item unattended, Diavolo had picked the flower, taken it with him back to his stronghold and reared it to become a valuable asset to Passione.
The Boss walked over to the newly-formed trapdoor and firmly grasped the brass flower, turning it clockwise. A soft click came from within the door, allowing it to open outwards when he started pulling. Putting his hand on the metal frame of the hatch and vaulting over it, he flung himself down into the dark void below.
Diavolo's shoes struck the uneven ground beneath him, and his nose was assaulted by a mixture of the smells of damp and flower petals. It was a strange contrast, a mixture half pleasant and half acrid that left his mind unable to decide whether it was fair or foul. In the end, he deemed it best to not think about it.
Reaching into his suit's pocket, he pulled out a torch and flicked it on, the new illumination casting shadows all around him. The light revealed the he was currently standing inside a circular room with smooth dirt walls, probably ten metres in diameter. However, the dirt walls to be not earthy brown, but rather the same scarlet of the leaves outside. Now under a more powerful light than the feeble rays of the moon the truly pure and piercing quality of the shade could be seen, almost painful to look at directly for too long. As strange as this was, though, Diavolo's attention was on something else entirely.
In the centre of the beam of light there was a plain, undecorated slab of mottled grey stone. Despite its lack of aesthetics, the material was of a high quality and obviously crafted by a master stonemason into a perfect cuboid. Its smoothed face bore no touching epitaph or intricate work of art, but rather just three simple names.
Cosma Mercury
Donatella Una
Trish Una