When the world began to accelerate, Diavolo could but curse his fate once more.
He had relocated his many never-ending deaths down to the sewers of Naples, where he would expire every 4 minutes and 11 seconds of a certain refuse gas he happened to be allergic to. Sure, it burned, and smelled, and itched, and made his eyes sting with what might be water, but at least he had some sense of continuity, a routine, now. He could almost kiss that FIAT that rammed him down that manhole—and that was a FIAT. Ironic, too, considering how many cars King Crimson had sent swerving to their dooms through reckless time erasure. Of course, King Crimson was totally offline now that Diavolo was perpetually dying (and worse yet, he now shared a fate with Bruno brutto bastardo di merda), and so what had caused the car to swerve into him wasn't so much King Crimson as it was his choice of attire. It's not often a pink-haired half naked man comes stumbling down the street tweezing bullets out of his crotch.
Purca miseria. This, this is exactly why he'd chosen a life in the shadows!
You could practically see his eyes bulging just like his stand.
No matter! The sewers, these rotten sewers would be his home now. He would gladly soak in these toxic fumes. He would gladly let himself boil and bubble into a wraith of vengeance. Who better to mete out death, than death itself!?
That was the plan, anyway. Up until he noticed his heart stopping its feeble hnggh-hi-hinnps at shorter intervals. One night 4 minutes and 2 seconds. The next, 3 minutes and 20 seconds.
The next, a minute 30.
The shit-water was zooming twice as fast, too, so fast not even the copious rats could keep up. Somehow, Diavolo didn't think he could chalk this one up to yet another cock-up of central planning.
It was shortly before he began wheezing with sheer, excruciating pain, subconsciously crawling in the direction of his hometown, that it occurred to him. How to revive himself.
HE was cursed. Doppio, on the other hand!
Typically, in order to trigger the transformation he needed to slip his trusty designer sweater back on. However, since the final battle against Giorno, that shirt was long gone. There was only one way to evade the ill tide now.
Diavolo knelt weakly, braced his filthy, scabby fingers against the rim, and dunked his stupid pink head into the hyper-frothy shit-water with a rousing "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
As a mafia boss he'd dunked quite a few heads into quite a few toilets to the last glug. And the sewers of Naples were particularly gross due in large part to the trash crisis exacerbated by, you guessed it, the mafia. This thousand-layered ambrosia of irony, too, was not lost on him.
Doppio is not dead! [Gravity] led his soul right back to this liminal vessel, this body that straddles life and death!
Glug. Glug.
The Boss
Hello, it's Doppio
Boss, you there?
Anyone? Boss? I think I'm trapped in a sewer? This river has lots of trash in it and it's fairly dark.
Boss? Boss?
No reception. Accipicchia!
Well, I suppose I should take stock. Deep breath, ow no that hurts
This phone is wet, and moreover furry, with a strangely rigid cord, of course it can't place a call. Sorry, Boss! I can't remember if I'm on a mission here, but I've got to get out! I hope you'll understand!
There's a ladder! C'mon, swim, Doppio, swim!
Yes!
Op-la! All, right, back on my feet. Ughh, somehow, when I'm not moving, the stink is even worse! Ahh, it's starting to burn!
Never mind! If I could survive Pesci's jock sweat, I can survive this!
Up the ladder we go. Ergh, slimy. Boss, I'm going to be borrowing Epitaph! Don't want to slip!
Heuh? Why can I only see a second into the future?
Power through, Doppio! It can't be far now! Grip tighter! The sunlight's poking through!
Wait, is that sunlight getting... dimmer? Is it already sunset!?
Ah, I'm sure it'll all make sense, once I'm on the other side. One-two, one, two, c'mon Doppio! Feel the burn!
Were my fingers always this scuzzy? Ewww, che schifo. What have I gotten myself into this time?
Oh, glad Epitaph's face hit the manhole before me! That would have smarted! Time to heeeeeaavve-ho!
Nighttime already?
A storm! A crazy storm! The winds are crazy!
And... oh my Lord... is the moon... moving?
Boss! I think confusion is beginning to set in!
Boss!?
Boss...?
No no no no no, the Boss can't be dead! What am I thinking? My capo, capped? Preposterous! His power is invincible!
Holy smokes, this wind isn't doing my nipples any favors! Gotta find cover for now! Maybe I can sneak in a shower, yikes...
All right, let's break in to this apartment. Let me just position myself... rear back my head... SMASH! Whoa, those window shards didn't even seem to transit through the air, they just appeared on the ground instantly! It's settled: This isn't just some sewer fume hallucination! No way I'm that imaginative! No, this is the work of an enemy stand!
A stand that can move the moon? It can't be! And yet, I can't shake the feeling, grumbly in my gut, that this isn't just an illusion! And besides, either way there's no way I can fight a stand that strong!
Gotta get me a shower. Gotta clear my head. The boss will understand. Even the best agents need head-clearing sometimes.
Small shower. Haha, poor people. I'm probably smelling the place up even worse. It's okay though, they're gone now. No one but me and the boss. Nothing to stand in our way, except maybe the moon.
These pants are wracked with grime. No point keeping them on now, rip.
Out the window. Might as well toss the furry phone, too. Toss.
All right. Shower time.
Ow ow ow ow, these water droplets are stinging! Bring it down to a trickle!
No, ow, now this is just Chinese water torture. Gotta adjust it just right... let the continuous stream cleanse me gradually. Clear my head.
The Boss is dead isn't he.
I mean, he is. There's no denying it. I can feel his corpse inside of me. Epitaph may as well be his dead head poking out of my brain.
sniff
sniff
NO! WHY! I'll pound these knuckles on the tiles until I can't feel anything!
PERCHEEEEEEEEEEEE!?
I can't even remember anything! sniff Who could have beaten him!? Who could have been strong enough!? Only God himself!
Fuck you, God! You killed the Boss! geh-huck!
You gonna end the world on me? Fuck you! You'll see! You can't beat Passione with just a little ending the world!
Water's really jetting into my face now. Think I care? Hit me with your best shot.
You think you killed the Boss? Don't be absurd! I was the Boss's number one best and most loyal agent! That makes me the top of the organization! I'M THE BOSS NOW!
Epitaph's eyes glowed dimly. Diavolo was dead, but he was not so. Always in a half-state; that fate could not be budged from Time no matter how Time bucked. But now Diavolo's era of consciousness had passed. He had perhaps conquered his past, but his present was sealed. Now it was Doppio who was in charge of this body. A separate person. A separate soul.
Epitaph shuddered and groaned back to life as Doppio took charge.
Being a stand is a singular experience. You have no will of your own, as you are an emanation of a subconscious. However, some stands can form a mind of their own. Many stands come up with methods to carry out the will of their users that the "main brain," so to speak, would not have thought of on their own. Others execute a subconscious will that a conscious will despises. Many brains is one body is a universal trait of sentient beings; some are simply more aware of that fact than most. In fact, those 眠れる奴隷 schiavi dormienti sleeping slaves couldn't even see stands at all.
Epitaph, like all stands, occupied the space between spirit and synapse that people called "psychic." This meant that Epitaph could not be hurt by the blast cannon that the shower had become—only other stands could affect it. It would only die if its owner died. However, in the current state of affairs, it seemed Doppio's imminent death was becoming more and more likely. It should know: it could see into the future.
It would really rather not die.
Time was now dilating, accreting, a twirling bulge. Soon, Epitaph understood, it would chew the universe and spit out a new one. The [gravity] Requiem could exert was ferocious, but this was catastrophic on a whole new level. All living beings would feel terror, and subsequently, perish.
Doppio was a living being. He would be no exception. Not even the likes of Golden Experience Requiem could negate time. Giorno Giovanna, too, would die.
A predicament most peculiar. How not to live, but also not to die? Epitaph knew the answer.
Doppio. Let us become one.
Huh? A voice?
Half flesh, half stand. A ghost glued to life.
Will I become The Boss?
Probably.
Then let's rock.
Epitaph drew a raspy, mummy breath and its eyes exploded with flame. It melted down Doppio's determined face and coalesced into his determined flesh.
We just transacted in the currency of souls. Your prior "boss" has been ejected into a realm that could be called hell.
What boss?
There I am, in the mirror. I'm sexy. I'm strong. My pecs are glistening. My face could use some work—hard to pull off the frog eyes even for me—but the chicks will dig me anyway.
I AM THE BOSS.
Now for a gang that suits me!
Future sight came in handy when skipping across time-space.
Imagine the DNA of the universe snapping like the cables of a suspension bridge tossed in a colossal blender. The bacon bones of everything. Film strips with scenes and screens I'm rushing down.
I'm half-stand, but I can't stay that way. It's a temporary measure. I can see that because I can see the future. Everything is temporary. It's like a laboratory-crafted heavy element, I can only keep myself together for an instant. Luckily, the universe itself has compressed into an instant, for the time being.
When I stop, I will crash. [Gravity] will strip me bare.
But I will choose when I crash! I know when and where Earth will be! A new, similar Earth, my new mafia in an old Italy!
Multicellular life, no, the Ice Age, lame, Peloponnesian War, what even was that? Is there a Peloponnesus still? Whatever, God it took forever for stands to be a thing, boring ass history... AHA!
Finally, my window. Leaping through is probably gonna jumble me up. I'll probably need to hatch a new stand. Not even I can foresee what will happen.
But leap through I will!
A.D. 2005. Naples, Italy.
My mansion looks a lot like that loser Diavolo's, except it's way better. The color palette is classy.
The same goes for this body. The man in the mirror (:P) is wearing the most impeccably manly metrosexual ensemble of violet on pink.
Oh, phone's ringing. Sorry, I talk to myself a lot. I get lost sometimes.
People ask me, Boss, why is your phone a banana phone? Doesn't it clash? I tell them, why can't something be two things? Then I shove a banana into their throat and demote them to codename diavolo, or "stink tier agent." They probably think "diavolo" is a promotion though, haha.
My top guys know what's what, though.
Click.
Yes hello? Why yes, I'd love to attend. Your daughter's communion reception would be a lovely and auspicious occasion. No problem, Pesci.
That was Pesci just now. He's different from the Pesci I knew in the lost world. He's a real rough and tumble sort. Still kinda così così in the intelligence department but he doesn't lack balls. He'll roll with the punches and then roll onto you. (He is fat, you see.) Also, he's the older brother of the pair now. Mortadella has yet to develop a stand but it's only a matter of time before he graduates to eligibility for my Stand Arrow Ritual. Here's hoping his stand matches up to Pesci's Aqua.
Accidenti, Aquais a confusing one. I still don't really understand what it does but whatever, it gets the job done. I used to have a stand people thought was confusing. Not anymore, though. King Crimson Act II couldn't be simpler.
Ding-dooong ding dooooong.
What's that? My doorbell! Oh whoever could it be!?
My old boss, Diavolo, he didn't like to be seen. I like to be seen. Talking to people is fun. I like conversations now. It's fun when you don't already foresee what the next line is. "Your next line will be" gets old QUICK.
People tell me it's sorta shocking how I just vault over the bannister and fall to the first floor when I answer the door. They've been conditioned to expect the sound of footsteps thudding down a staircase. Boring boring boring.
My door's doorknob is cool, it's both diamond and gold. I like double things.
"Hello, good morning."
BLAM
Ugh, you know, my ears will never adjust to gunfire at this rate.
"Black cloak? Wide-brimmed hat? A little try-hard, don't you think?"
I love it when they just stare. Surely you've got more bullets, no? Aim for my heart or something.
I guess I've just got that air about me. Some intimidation mojo. Sometimes I wish my reputation would stop preceding me so much.
"Wanna come in? I don't want my biscotti to burn."
"The bullet..."
"My head ate it."
"Your head ate it?"
"Sometimes my head likes drugs, too. Right now I'm cooking cookies though."
Haha, wow, could this guy not even see stands? His hidden sentries must have let him in as a joke.
"Excellent chance to see all the secrets of the Passione Mansion." C'mon guy, don't piss your pants.
"Your head..."
"Ate the bullet. That's not all my head can do, though!"
Oh, and now he's fallen to his knees. Sad.
"What are you?"
"That, my friend, is a looooong story. But if you stand up, I'll show you my stand too!"
That pun only works in English. Lol. Silly language thing.
Might as well extend a hand. God makes 'em so fragile nowadays.
"My name is Doppio. What's yours?"
"Detective Tiramisu" is seated at my my sleek silver-platinum kitchen table, playing with his fork. Rainbow cookies not your thing? Or are you just dazed?
"I hear you have a power."
Great, the talk has shifted! I'm a patient guy but not patient enough to serenade him about my mansion's construction all afternoon.
"Yes."
"And it's more than just drug-addled rumors."
"Is that what my drugs are doing? I really should pump more drugs into the economy. Make more people see the truth-"
CLLINK.
Brother, you'd better be careful with the sudden noises. If you're not careful I might interpret your stabbing the plate as a grudge against me instead of giving in to the smell of my rainbow cookies.
"Cap'e cazz'!"
Oh, so it is a grudge.
"What, was it a brother? A wife? A son?"
"My grandfather!"
Pffft. Who gives a shit about grandfathers. Half-dead old gravemeat.
Those remarks stayed inside my inside-head though.
"You wanna see an altered state, my friend? You wanna see a power that's out of this world?"
"You've already killed everything I loved in this world. I don't see how it could hurt now."
Excellent!
"Behold King Crimson!"
Punch!
King Crimson Act II is a special stand. It allows me to punch people really hard.
Also something regarding "pulling a person's future into the present" but I never use that.
"Do you want to live?"
Detective Tiramisu, do you want to live? The blood is spreading awfully close to my vintage rug from Puglia.
Dude, obviously when you're punched clean through the lungs you can't verbalize a yes. Stop wheezing and give me a nod. Attaboy.
"Good. Now let's see if the Arrow feels the same way."
Doppio IS
PASSIONE CAPO
Top agents (serafini):
*Pesci and his stand, Aqua. It can manipulate [buoyancy], wreaking havoc like making a victim's intestines float up their blood to their brains. He could of course probably also do that by sitting on them. But stands are convenient because they have ranges.
*Mortadella, his little brother. Stand no doubt in the works.
*Melone. He used to work for a government spy ring, but now he dices up surveillance equipment using his stand, System of a Down. System of a Down [rearranges sensory input].
*Focaccia. Her stand, My Way, grants her the power to compel people or objects to retrace her past day. She's devoted but Doppio often has to wrack his brains to think of a way to employ that power that's not just busywork. She has been instructed to develop it further.
*Ghiacciaio. Agent #2. Her stand is a cross between the lost world's Metallica and White Album named "Black Ice." The water in a victim's body leaks and coagulates into a ice-wire cocoon-prison. It's freaky stuff.
*Provola, Agent #1. Her stand, Stand Proud, enables her to channel the can-do attitude of passers-by into invigorating vitality-bullets, effectively crowd controlling who becomes a sleeping slave and who gets things done.