Author's Note: My first one shot in a while and I can tell you I've hadn't felt so miserable, so alive in a while.
Yes, I got infected with Jojo's Bizarre Adventure and while I enjoyed Battle Tendency and Stardust Crusader a lot it took until Golden Wind to inspire me to something suitable for fanfiction.

Progress; that was what Bucciarati kept in mind as he strutted out of the solitary confinement ward. Or containment, as he added gravely.
Being augmented from replaceable, faceless henchman to a capo's subordinate was progress.
Which meant, as unbelievable as it may seem, Polpo equalled progress.

Bucciarati fell into a trot as he picked his way through backstreets and shortcuts.
He wasn't questioning his own decision as such. It had been an easy choice: while Pericolo proved to be a classic among the leaders, the final true gentleman of the mob, Polpo was treated with a different kind of respect.
There were only rumours, though. All a bit too hush-hush even for Passione standards.
Which had caught Bucciarati's attention.
Secrecy usually implied worth.
But what value the impassive mass only interested in its own comfort behind the glass possessed was beyond his comprehension.
Choosing him had been the right decision; it just had played out a little odd.

And the trial of his, it was...
Well, ridiculous.
Guarding a lighter seemed suspiciously easy.
If there was a trick he hadn't been able to spot it right away and that made Bucciarati a bit itchy.
If how easily affronted he was had been put to the test, Bucciarati considered himself on the winning side. Unperturbed he had picked up the lighter and listened with so much as a content earnest face to the crude instructions given in between munches.
Still he wasn't taking any risks and would store it away safely for the day and wait until...

"Oi, Bucciarati!"

Knowing better than to turn at this barked greeting, Bucciarati dived just in time under the punch aimed at his neck by an accomplice. Then he dodged two more blows before he placed a well-aimed kick at the stranger.
Which of the rivalling organisations had sent for his untimely death he didn't know, but judging by the glint in his aggressors' eyes, they weren't in a talkative mood anyway.
Expertly avoiding the uncoordinatedly flailing fists of the accomplice trying to get up and the caller running up for support he dared for a mad dash ahead.
Only to be tripped by a third one.

There was a strange menacing metallic sound as the lighter hit the cobbles and went out, but that was probably only his guilty imagination. As a reflex Bucciarati relit it and was somewhat relieved as the flame reappeared flickering strangely for a second but still burning at a constant pace before he turned his attention back to his attackers.
But what little confidence remained was dropped instantly. Out of the corner of his eyes he had caught sight of a flicker. A flicker within a shadow. If that was even possible.
He didn't get a chance to rethink his actions.
Neither did he have to come up with a plan how to avoid his impending assassination.
Under a split second all three of them had died.
Right on the spot.

It was what he had learned.
Death meant relieve.
At least it was supposed to be that way.
Not like the frozen expression of utter, never-ending terror which distorted the late aggressors' faces.

The first two had been clean, straight kills.
Mercifully.
The third one hadn't been.

Bucciarati was panting heavily, gulps of air sucked in rhythmically as a reflex to stay alive, back pressed flat against the wall, heart racing.
He wanted to avert his eyes from the inhuman heap of limps; dead, hopefully dead sprung to his mind, but fear had taken over the reins. Fear, abhorrent fear.
He had to run, he knew he had to run, or he would be next.
But he couldn't, eyes still affixed in sheer terror to the remains no longer moving.
The shapes it had convulsed into...
The strange ethereal outline that had been ripped from the flesh...and the monster that had pulled itself free from the quivering body.
And had disintegrated within the bat of an eyelid under the otherworldly orchestrations of tearing flesh, snapping joints and the guttural screams of the dying...thing.
In no circumstances would the meaty mound remaining on the cobbles classify as human.
The impossible scenes playing and replaying before his eyes Bucciarati knew they would haunt him for the rest of his life.
In case there was going to be a rest...

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the strange flicker again. The stirring within the shadows that had...
Primal instincts kicking in he ran. Not where to but from, futile as it may seem.

And futile it turned out to be as from the shadow in front of him not so much flickered as rose a shadow; a solid shadow, a palpable one too, he became aware as the thing grabbed his throat and lifted him off the ground with ungodly force.
His vision blurred, Bucciarati was fairly sure what strange individual/possibly demon was threatening him and considering what little he caught of the thing's gravely words rattling in his skull he wasn't too sure of the who and why he would die.
It was the how that kept him from perceiving the latter two things as he starred in horror at the arrow shaped metal it had produced from its mouth and was now pointing it threateningly at his chin.
Eyes fixed on the glinting metal Bucciarati was certain this had been the three thugs' fate as well.
As a final sane or probably insane thought he speculated on which way would be his. Which way he would be going out. God, he hoped for the quick end.

Quick motions sometimes go in reverse. Which meant Bucciarati realised that the arrow had jolted forward after the head had pierced right through his skull.
His bones had shattered like glass and the flesh was torn to shreds by its force.
And pain. An unearthly agony tantalising his body and soul at slow pace. Pain that could only be described as white-hot nothing, burning away everything else.
All that was left for him was to scream or gurgle as the thing had ripped parts of his windpipe away as well and wait for his end.
The arrow slipped and cut right through his flesh ending his miserable existence by ripping him apart.
Split right through the middle.
Mercifully his life stopped.

"...you are of the chosen kind..."

A statement.
Not a thought.
Definitely not a thought.
The dead didn't think, Bucciarati had always believed.
Neither did they believe.
Or hear.

Bucciarati opened his eyes.
He had died.
He had felt his own death.
He had felt the grim reaper take from him what had remained, take away the pain and his existence.
Hollow...
What had he felt, no, what had stayed behind was nothing more than an echo of life.
Incomplete...
He had been torn in half, he had felt it and yet two hands were still attached to his body.
No blood; no blood was dripping from his neck. The wound gone, too.
Incomplete...
Breathing, a pulse, but still incomplete.
Something had been taken from him, he could tell.
Something had been ripped from him. Torn from his soul.
Its absence making him incomplete.

Bucciarati sat up.
Alone; still alone, the cobbled streets empty of any demon, any monster that had undoubtedly just stood there as every sense in his body screamed in protest, even if the brain thought otherwise.
Not limbo, not any sort of afterlife whatsoever.
The world around him was real.
Only he wasn't.
Incomplete...

The street, the walls, everything still in the right place.
The bodies, still undiscovered, remained as silent witnesses.

And it...

Only now had Bucciarati caught sight of the figure crouching next to him.
Not human, but vaguely resembling, mocking one in strange armour.
Half way propped up on its arms it looked at him, stared with its eyeless gaze that was shielded by a helmet of some sort.

Bucciarati backed away only to find his movements being mirrored by the strange thing.
One perhaps two minutes passed with the two immobile figures sitting opposite each other, revaluating, processing the situation.

It wasn't hostile like the carnevalian thing from before and Bucciarati had no doubt that those two monsters were of the same sort.
And yet, this one seemed unsure, perhaps even frightened.
And a lot slower.
Escaping this one shouldn't be too hard. With that thought in mind Bucciarati got up slowly only to find his movements once again mimicked by the strange thing.

"What do you want?" Bucciarati had asked out of human courtesy when faced with a strange being rather than expecting an actual answer.

It didn't answer of course. Bucciarati wouldn't have known what to make of one anyway.
Like him it just stared and waited.

An experimental movement of his hand was imitated, so were the two steps he took in the strange thing's direction.

Three, perhaps only two paces separated them as the strange thing copied Bucciarati's abrupt standstill.

Against his better judgment he was not afraid. No; perhaps, he thought, that was one joy of the deceased, as he was still questioning his mortality, being robbed of fear.
His brain told him otherwise.
He knew he should get away from the strange thing and he knew he should run and shouldn't be exploring it out of sheer bliss the adrenaline-high had gifted him after a near death experience.
He knew it to be dangerous.
But it didn't feel that way.

The strange thing felt harmless.
Friendly even.
A strange friend he hadn't met yet.
And the feeling grew stronger with every inch that was closed between them.

With his confidence restored Bucciarati felt only a little betrayed by his body as his heart was pounding madly in his chest.
An invitingly outstretched hand, once again mimicked by the strange friend was advancing, hands reaching for each other palm to palm.

A shock ran through Bucciarati's body. Not so much straining his muscles but his core, his soul.
It had pierced right into him and he stared puzzled at the strange friend inspecting his own hand in a parallel manner.
What he had felt...

Again Bucciarati touched the strange friend's mimicking hand to test out what he was suspecting.

Another shock jolted through him, but this time he had been expecting it.

...was not only the strange friend's touch...

Now he was aiming for the strange friend's shoulder, but to confirm.

...but his own touch as well...

Bucciarati gasped in shock at the feeling prickling down his shoulder like droplets of ice water.
The pain of their collision aside Bucciarati could feel the strange friend's shoulder beneath his touch but doubled by the feeling of being touched himself by the friend and tripled as he felt himself running down his fingers on his arm.
The touch of strange and own skin rebounded under his fingertips and sent an echo of life up his arm.
No not an echo. Life. Life itself.
Completion...

Bucciarati closed his eyes and fell forward into his own embrace.
Not into a strange friend's embrace, he thought to himself as the tickling feeling spread through his body, charging up every nerve.
But his strange self's embrace.

Bucciarati took in a sharp breath.
The first suck of air as a new born must have felt similar and painful, like it may have been back then, Bucciarati still cherished it.
His second birth, no, his rebirth.
He had come back whole.
Complete.

They had merged.
His strange self had merged into his body; pulled itself closer and closer until it had disappeared inside of him.
And inside he could feel it.
He had been reunited with himself. A part forcefully separated had come back alienated.

Bucciarati felt whole.
And scared.

He had made his way to the flat rented out by a friend of his, who may or not may come back in a few months, in no time at all.
The place he had intended to hide the lighter in in the first place.
And yet he had hardly cast a glance at the damnable burning thing but tried to catch up with what had happened.
The lighter stowed away safely and secure Bucciarati suddenly found himself in the bathroom in front of a floor-length tarnished mirror, with a load of time at hand, stripped off his clothes as he wanted to ascertain he was still unharmed and a strange monster he believed to be part of himself that had just entered his body.

It had taken his time to let itself be lured back out.
His strange self.
It was part of him undoubtedly, as he felt the pain of something being torn from his body and soul as it materialised.

It took Bucciarati two more hours until he and his strange self could stay separated for a while without the new part of himself merging back into him, startled by a self-doubt.

After another hour he could call and draw back the blue and white monster, he had become attached to in no time, at his leisure.

After six hours they had become inseparable and Bucciarati thought back at the time without his strange self as a time grey and without meaning.

That was until hour number eight when he had searched for the disinfectant he wanted to clean a small cut out with and was suddenly holding it in his hand without having opened the drawer it was in.
And then he had seen the zipper shutting on its own accord before it had vanished.
That was when he really freaked out.

Four more hours and lots of odds and ends he had experimented with or smashed in the process later he had mastered the ability his strange self had come with.

But then he had discovered the space within space.

Two and a half hours later he had learned all there was about his powers.
That was until curiosity had cleared up his mind for even madder ideas.

After eighteen hours with his strange self Bucciarati fell heavily onto the couch.
While in his exhaustion he realised what comfort could be found in an old piece of furniture with springs sticking out at various angles, he recapped his mental protocol.
Zipper could be attached to almost every surface.
Zipper could open to reveal what lies beneath or could create a portal to the space within, what the latter part was exactly he hadn't found out yet but he was sure to master it eventually.
Zipper can be used on living things and parts detached can be reattached onto other zippers, not necessarily the respective ones.
A vision of the strangest twenty minutes of his life resurfaced but he blamed it on his own curiosity as he mentally recapped how he had redesigned and disintegrated his own body.
Moving limbs were still a bit hard to handle, though. Especially when he panicked...

Bucciarati glanced at the pendulum clock at the far end of the room, the ticking resonating differently through the glass he had cracked during his investigative phase.

Not even six hours remained until he would have to return to Polpo.
The trial was still on, he was sure of that now. He had had quite a lot of time to think about his situation while he had tested out his ability.
Like how this was how Polpo kept only the strongest. Hence the chosen ones.
Or how the Venetian carnival/ Alien/ Demon thingy was Polpo's strange self.
Though getting back there without risking to put out the lighter would pose no problem at all.
Not with a confined space he could hide it inside himself.

Bucciarati turned his head as a hand was running tenderly over his chest.

"Sorry for exploiting you," he mumbled eyes half closed.

Was talking to his strange self considered talking to himself?
A few things distinguished them, true...
No, it was probably worse, Bucciarati thought to himself as he rolled onto his side.
At least he could have answered himself...

Why his silent companion had detached himself to lie down next to him he didn't know and honestly he was too tired to care.

All he could hope for right now were a few hours of shallow (definitely) sleep (hopefully) before he had to get up again.

Bucciarati felt the strange self snuggling up to him; snuggling, what was this? a pet?!
Actually it was comforting to sleep next to someone once in a while and so he appreciated the moment in secrecy.
He tried his best to make his mind a blank and not think back about today's events.
Sure, there were better ways to induce a good night's rest.
And apparently his strange self had thought of one.

At first Bucciarati denied the sensation of a hand rubbing his inner thigh. He had detached and reattached all of his limbs so a tingling sensation was probably just a side effect.
After the rubbing had worked its way up to more delicate parts he just imagined, or better yet hoped, it was his own hand nestling between his thighs.
It wasn't, though.

He opened his eyes the slightest bit to see the eyeless gaze staring back at him only inches away from his nose.
Something in the line of 'Thanks, but no' or 'I don't need that' would have been appropriate.
But instead he just moaned as he opened his mouth.
Anyway he would be lying. He needed this.
And, oh, it had never felt this pleasurable before.
His touch...
No, feeling his strange self's touch enhanced by his own touch doubled by the tingling sensation lingering on his skin.

Bucciarati panted, shamelessly rutting against the strokes.

It was almost morning again, he had met his future boss, died, gained a strange self in the process and was now on the verge of going nuts due to sleep deprivation and now he was masturbating with the aid of some sort of demon.
But most of all, he felt like he couldn't care less.

He hadn't been able to hold out long, yet there was no one here to impress, so he didn't give a damn.
Sweaty and panting he opened his eyes and was grateful for the dark room. This way he could spare himself the shame of seeing the mess he had made of the covers. At least until tomorrow morning.

A breathless 'Thank you' was all he could manage and even though the strange self knew his thoughts he felt it was called for.

He leaned over into a passionate kiss that made his nerves go haywire as he had just explored as the first human being how to give himself a French kiss.

He caressed and touched his partner in crime and was rewarded with every doubled touch.

As their hands entangled he could feel his own cold cum staining his hands.

Bucciarati propped himself up on his arms and watched the strange self lie down next to him.
Strange self...
No, he decided, it didn't fit any more.
Not after the way they knew each other. Intimately...
Did I really just think that, he asked himself alongside a tired chuckle.
Anyway a name was mandatory.

As he tried to think of a proper name his eyes fell on the blue almost robotic segmented fingers, still coated with white droplets.

Why it had sprung to his mind he couldn't say.
It was a dirty joke and a bad one too. And he felt instantly ashamed for thinking it.
But he stuck to it nonetheless.

With his right hand he stroked the zipper on the pale cheeks fondly.

"Sticky Fingers..."

A dim lit corridor within the solitary confinement ward was reigned over by silence.
And only a strained ear would have heard the soft metallic sound of a disproportionately sized zipper opening.
But there was no way any onlooker would have failed to see the man stepping through it and pulling it shut in one swift movement after his entering.

Polpo watched with interest as Bucciarati walked up to the glass and trailed a curved line over it with another zipper appearing under his fingertips.
It sprang open under his unspoken command and the lighter was flicked back through it into the giant's hand.