12 SETTEMBRE 2000, 23:19
MILANO, ITALIA
"Hey, Mista. Whatcha doing?"
The gunslinger turned, seeing Narancia at the doorway to the common area. "Just playing a bit of a prank on Fugo."
Narancia smirked, eyeing the nature of Mista's plan. "You're asking to die, dude."
Mista gave him a fulminating look. "Just think about it, Narancia! It'll be worth it."
Narancia snorted. "If Fugo finds out who did it I am not saving your ass. Just so we're clear."
"I appreciate the support," Mista deadpanned.
Narancia walked up the stairs, likely heading towards his bedroom. Not that he blamed him; it was already getting late.
"Almost done…" Mista whispered. He grinned. "There!"
He wiped down the coffee table, making sure to hide any evidence before placing his masterpiece on the counter alongside the rest of the groceries. Mista grabbed his own stuff and made his way up to his room, hiding the now-empty bottle of hair gel in the storage cabinet under his bathroom sink. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face.
Let the shampoo-and-hair-gel hilarity commence.
13 SETTEMBRE 2000, 07:48
MILANO, ITALIA
Narancia yawned, making his way down to the kitchen. He'd only woken up a few minutes earlier thanks to the alarm clock and was still feeling a bit groggy because of it even in spite of getting a decent night's sleep.
"Buongiorno."
Narancia turned, seeing Fugo in the common area. He was already dressed and ready to go, coffee in one hand and a copy of Paolo Coelho's The Alchemist in the other. His hair was voluminous and in pristine condition.
"Buongiorno," Narancia said slowly, eyeing him carefully. "You're up early."
Fugo placed his mug down on the coffee table. "I wanted to get a shower before Abbacchio decided to hog the hot water again."
Narancia snickered. "I know what you mean." Abbacchio's hair was so high-maintenance that sometimes he spent over half an hour in the shower, often depriving the others of hot water at times where they wanted to get showers as well (which were usually not long after he did). He raised an eyebrow, seeing that bandages were still present on Fugo's side. "How's the injury?"
Fugo shrugged. "Much better than it was, though the Stand user who treated me told Abbacchio to tell me not to push it for a bit."
"That's fair. Although if you piss me off I'm not gonna promise anything."
"The feeling's mutual."
Narancia went back to the Moka pot, frowning as he prepared his cappuccino. It's pretty obvious Mista's prank backfired, since Fugo's hair isn't gelled over and I didn't hear him scream bloody murder earlier. I saw Mista switch out the shampoo for the hair gel. Last night. But who's using the same shampoo as Fugo, anyway?
13 SETTEMBRE 2000, 07:53
MILANO, ITALIA
Bucciarati embraced the feeling of the hot shower, water cascading down his body like ocean waves.
True to his word, he and Abbacchio had kept the previous night's discovery a secret between themselves. No word was mentioned of the hidden basement whatsoever, not even before Bucciarati had turned in around midnight.
After a few minutes, he was belting out Think by Aretha Franklin as he scrubbed the conditioner through his hair, though it was a bit of a challenge since he couldn't hit this particular singer's legendary range (and he wasn't the world's best singer, either). Next came the shampoo, which slicked his hair back a bit (but it was a clarifying shampoo so that was to be expected). He finished up in the shower, drying off. He ran a towel through his hair, but the strands would not move.
Huh. That's weird.
Bucciarati frowned, looking at his reflection in the mirror. His hair just stayed slicked back-even the bangs. He touched a hand to his hair, finding that the strands had hardened.
"The hell?" he whispered. The squad leader glanced at the shampoo bottle, frowning. "I don't get it; I've been using the same shampoo for the past several months. It shouldn't be doing that. Unless-"
He racked his brain for a possible solution. Maybe the shampoo's formulation had changed? Doubtful. He'd checked the ingredients at the store. Bucciarati frowned. They'd bought more hair supplies than just shampoo: conditioner, the x amount of hair products that Abbacchio used, and-
"Hair gel," Bucciarati groaned in realisation. Someone must've thought it would be funny to switch out my shampoo with hair gel. His eyes narrowed. When I find out which one of them did it, they'll be in for a surprise of their own.
"Merda." This is NOT how I wanted to start my morning.
13 SETTEMBRE 2000, 07:56
MILANO, ITALIA
The sound of Bucciarati singing a horribly off-key version of an Aretha Franklin song rudely jerked him awake.
Abbacchio groaned, grabbing the pillow underneath him in a vain attempt to cover his ears. He gave up after a minute, exiting his room to go find his squad leader and tell him to please shut the fuck up for I am trying to get my beauty sleep.
He heard the water running through his superior's closed door and knew that there would be no reasoning with him.
"Screw it," Abbacchio decided. "I'm getting coffee."
He made his way downstairs, yawning. Mista, Fugo, and Narancia were already there, though the two older teenagers were still in pyjamas. Fugo was already dressed and had an aura that screamed "I'm being productive" around him.
"You're finally up," Narancia remarked.
Abbacchio barely bit back a litany of curses. "I'm only awake because somebody was singing rather loudly in the shower," he complained. "And to be honest, it did not sound great."
Bruno, I don't mind you singing in the shower, but you've got a long way to go before you can even hope to hit Aretha's high notes.
"It wasn't me," Mista responded.
"No shit it wasn't you," Abbacchio retorted, sighing. "I need caffeine. And food."
Abbacchio made his way over to the refrigerator, grabbing eggs and other ingredients needed for a frittata. He turned on the oven, pouring in the eggs and veggies before making his way over to the Moka pot to brew some post-meal espresso. Anything to keep him awake at this point, even though he actually got a decent night's sleep for once.
It was the waking up part that he currently had a problem with.
The teenagers had started chatting amongst themselves, though Abbacchio didn't know or, quite frankly, care what they were talking about. From what he'd heard, it was something about making plans to keep searching for "the Reaper." Mista and Narancia's outing the other night had apparently been a bust. The coffee finished brewing, and Abbacchio prepared to pour himself a strong one for after the-
Abbacchio's gaze was abruptly drawn to a slim figure walking down the stairs. Bucciarati was clad in black dress pants, a white button-down shirt that had similar patterns to his usual suit, a set of dress shoes, and a black trench coat. Black eye liner painted his eyelids, and his hair was slicked back, a few flyaway strands managing to poke their way towards the front.
Holy shit he's beautiful.
Bucciarati made his way into the kitchen area, but to Abbacchio it was as if he was walking in slow motion. Even with a severe look on his face, he still looked-
-EEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEEEEP. BEEEEEEP. BEEEEEP. BEEEEEP. BEEEEE-
Something smells like it's burning.
Abbacchio ripped his gaze away from Bucciarati, yelping in shock as he saw his breakfast on fire. The smoke alarm was sounding its warning call.
"Cazzo!" He shut off the oven, summoning Moody Blues to grab a nearby fire extinguisher. The Stand handed it to him, vanishing, and Abbacchio quickly sprayed the dry powder over the flames.
"Well," he said once the last of the flames died down. "That's ruined."
"It could be worse."
Abbacchio turned, seeing Bucciarati looking as though he was about to head out the door. He raised an eyebrow. "You're not having breakfast?"
Bucciarati sighed. "Somebody switched out my new shampoo for hair gel," he grumbled. "I need to get some more."
Abbacchio gave the teenagers an exasperated look. They hastily averted their eyes, though the ex-cop noticed a certain gunslinger go pale.
Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we have ourselves a prankster.
As hilarious as it was to see Bucciarati get his just desserts after the rude awakening several minutes earlier, Abbacchio knew the person behind the shenanigans still needed to be dealt with. The ex-cop folded his arms. "You have something to say about this, Mista?"
Bucciarati also looked in the gunslinger's direction, eyes narrowing. The gunslinger gulped, likely fearing the squad leader's infamous lick test. "In my defence, Fugo was the one I was trying to prank, not you. How was I to know that you two bought the same shampoo?"
Bucciarati facepalmed, groaning. Abbacchio glanced at his superior, expression softening. "Oi, Bucciarati."
The younger adult removed his hand from his face, looking the ex-cop in the eye. Abbacchio unfolded his arms. "I have an extra bottle. You can use that."
Bucciarati smiled. "Thanks, Abbacchio. If it's not any trouble."
"Go for it." Abbacchio leaned against the counter, looking the squad leader dead in the eye. "But, seriously, you should eat something."
Bucciarati let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Given how the kitchen was just on fire a few minutes ago? I think I'd rather go out to a café."
Abbacchio glanced at the sorry-looking no-longer-edible frittata and at a zipper-opened window that was helping to clear the smoke before turning back to his superior. "I might actually join you."
Bucciarati started. "Yeah. Sure. That would be great. But you might want to get out of those pyjamas."
"Oh, I will, don't worry." He gave Bucciarati a quick wink before exiting the kitchen. "I made some coffee if you want any," he hollered as he walked up the stairs. I know I want some before we head out.
Abbacchio quickly brushed his teeth, accelerating his morning routine. He didn't even bother to put on much of his usual makeup, only going for black lipstick before he brushed his hair, put it up in a high ponytail, and put on a long-sleeved black shirt and black dress pants. His usual shoes followed suit, and he was back down the stairs in an elapsed time of just under ten minutes (according to the wall clock hanging in the common area).
Bucciarati noticed him, handing him a mug. "I figured you'd be interested in a cappuccino as well."
Abbacchio flashed his superior a grateful look. "Grazie mille, Bucciarati."
"Of course!" The squad leader's expression darkened as he looked at the younger members of the gang. "I think I know just what to do here."
Abbacchio raised an eyebrow. "Why don't I like where this is going?"
"Hush," Bucciarati admonished, though there was a mirthful spark in his eyes. The adults made their way over to the table where the others were sitting, taking their own seats.
"All right, Mista," Bucciarati said, "Here's your punishment."
All eyes were now on the squad leader. Abbacchio noticed the younger adult had the playful expression of a cat on his face-which wasn't exactly a good sign for Mista.
"You're going on a supply run at the mall this afternoon," Bucciarati said. "You will be buying all of the items for the rest of us. By yourself. Don't expect us to pay you back, and don't buy anything for yourself unless you need to get food for the Pistols."
Narancia scoffed. Fugo rolled his eyes. Mista shrugged. "Seems pretty simple to me."
The Cheshire Cat expression on Bucciarati's face only got wider. "There's a catch."
"Oh?"
Abbacchio raised an eyebrow.
Bucciarati smirked. "Since I know Milan can be expensive, here's what you'll do: You will be buying for all four of us. Four items each. No more, no less. Do not deviate from the list."
Mista shrugged. "That's pretty sim-wait, WHAT?!" His expression morphed into one of horror when the nature of the punishment sank in.
Fugo guffawed. "Congratulations, Mista. You played yourself!" He put a hand on the gunslinger's shoulder. "I suggest you feed Sex Pistols beforehand." He looked towards Bucciarati for advice.
The squad leader nodded. "I like that better, actually."
Mista groaned. "I hate both of you right now."
"You fucked up, so it's coming out of your paycheck," Abbacchio said bluntly.
"Fine."
Narancia snickered. Mista glared at him. "Don't act like you didn't know about this, Narancia. You saw me last night."
"Yeah," Narancia responded. "And I told you, I wouldn't be saving your ass."
"Thanks a lot," the gunslinger deadpanned.
Narancia grinned.
Abbacchio went back to his coffee, downing the rest of the beverage a couple of minutes later. He got up, putting the mug in the sink before proceeding to grab the end result of his disastrous attempt at cooking while staring at his superior and scraping the frittata into the trash can. He put the skillet in the sink, glancing at Bucciarati. "You ready?"
The squad leader nodded, placing his own empty mug in the sink. He glanced at the teenagers. "Try not to pull the same shit Abbacchio did while we're gone."
"Hey!" Abbacchio interjected, indignant.
"Don't worry," Fugo said. "If anything catches on fire, you'll know about it."
"Don't push your luck, brats," Abbacchio warned.
"They'll be fine," Bucciarati coaxed. He glanced at the others. "But seriously, don't set anything on fire."
"We won't," Fugo reassured them.
"You'd better not," Abbacchio muttered under his breath.
"We'll be back soon!" Bucciarati said. He and Abbacchio exited the door, Bucciarati unzipping the key pocket in his arm to lock the door before returning the item to its place. The zipper dissipated upon its closure.
"The metro?" Bucciarati asked. "The station isn't that far away."
"Sure."
They made their way over to the station. There was a cool breeze, and it was cloudy outside, but the weather wasn't unpleasant. Bucciarati was right; the station was only a couple of blocks away. They descended the escalator, walking to the ticket machine.
"Are you sure Mista will be able to handle this?" Abbacchio asked, sceptical.
Bucciarati finished up, handing Abbacchio his ticket. "I've got faith in him. There are a few mathematical combinations he can apply to get to sixteen without any use of the number four whatsoever."
"Ones that are just addition only, right?"
"Yep."
Abbacchio gave him a knowing look. "You're not gonna tell him, are you?"
"Nope. That's something he'll have to figure out for himself." Bucciarati stretched. "Come on; let's head down to the platform."
"Do you have any particular place in mind?" Abbacchio asked as they started walking again.
Bucciarati shrugged. "I was thinking we could go to that place we went to a couple of nights ago. The food there was pretty good."
He wholeheartedly agreed with Bucciarati on that one; Abbacchio, Fugo, and Bucciarati had enjoyed the café's cooking and coffee. Abbacchio's favourite had been the tiramisu.
"Want to get some tiramisu again?" Abbacchio asked.
Bucciarati smiled as the two got on the escalator. "Absolutely." They descended the route to the platform. According to a digital clock and directory, the train wouldn't be arriving for another few minutes yet. Abbacchio hadn't brought his headphones and CD player, so he settled for standing beside Bucciarati.
And staring at him like some lovestruck teenager.
Get a grip, Leone.
"What?"
Abbacchio started, noticing Bucciarati giving him a quizzical look. He felt his face flush. "N-Nothing," he stammered. "You just look…" He gestured to the entirety of Bucciarati's body. "Great...that's all."
A blush coated Bucciarati's cheeks. "Grazie. You look...stunning...as well."
If Abbacchio hadn't already been blushing, he sure as hell was now. A PA announcement announcing the train's arrival saved the two of them from further awkwardness. The train pulled in, doors opening on their side of the platform after various other passengers disembarked. The gangsters boarded, standing next to each other and grabbing the handrails above them.
"I don't even want to know what possessed Mista to do that," Bucciarati said, referencing the hair gel incident from earlier.
Abbachio smirked, elbowing him gently. "Come on. You have to admit, it was pretty funny."
Bucciarati pulled a face. "In hindsight, yes." He adjusted his grip on the handrail. "But at the time, I was pissed."
"Doors closing," the PA announced.
The train started moving a few seconds later, swiftly followed by an announcement for the next stop. Abbacchio couldn't help but think about the craziness of the morning so far, sighing inwardly.
Teenagers scare the living shit out of me at times, Bruno included.
"You can be pretty evil sometimes, you know that?" Abbacchio whispered to Bucciarati.
The squad leader smiled. "It's better than having Fugo beat the shit out of him."
13 SETTEMBRE 2000, 15:32
MILANO, ITALIA
Mista would have preferred Fugo beating the shit out of him to this.
Remind me never to do a solo prank on Bucciarati ever again.
He would have been fine with just about any sort of punishment. Even if it was cleaning Fugo's bathroom with the team's youngest member supervising.
But, seriously, he would have been fine with anything that didn't involve the number four, dammit!
He checked the shopping list, frowning.
Bucciarati: 1 lampada a luce nera, 1 contenitore di candeggina, 1 confezione di maschere facciali usa e getta, 1 fotocamera usa e getta
Abbacchio: Smalto nero (il buon tipo) [2], rossetto nero (il buon tipo) [1], 1 scatola di guanti in lattice
Narancia: 1 boombox portatile, 1 set di cuffie, 1 fotocamera usa e getta, l'ultimo CD di Tupac [1]
Fugo: 1 fotocamera usa e getta, 1 paio di orecchini fragola (sterlina), 1 spazzola per capelli, 1 copia di "The Prince" di Niccolò Machiavelli
"I don't even want to know what Bucciarati needs a blacklight for," the gunslinger muttered. "Or the bleach, for that matter."
Maybe his toilet's clogged or something.
He sighed. "Might as well get this shit over with."
It's sixteen items total. Just think of it like that.
But 4 squared is 16...
Mista walked inside the mall, tetraphobia screaming at him from inside his mind.
"Okay," he said quietly, talking to himself. "Think. How the fuck can I pull this off?"
I can make multiple trips back to the van. I mean, given the amount of stuff Bucciarati and the others are having me buy I pretty much have to. But two trips means eight items plus eight items if split evenly. Two times two is four. Eight divided by two is four.
Mista sat on a nearby bench, groaning. "This is a lot harder than I thought."
I can't do four trips of four. That's insane.
No. Nuh-uh. Nope. Not happening.
What about three trips?
Five plus five is ten. Ten plus six is sixteen.
Mista straightened, the lightbulb going off in his brain. "Yep. That'll work."
Two trips of five, one trip of six. No fours whatsoever. I approve.
The gunslinger stood, somewhat more relaxed now. "Time to get this party started."
Mista bought the three disposable cameras and Narancia's headphones and boombox first, loading the stuff in Man 'O' War's trunk before locking the van back up and making the second round. This one consisted of Bucciarati's blacklight, Fugo's earrings, the bleach, the pack of face masks, and the gloves. The third consisted of everything else, partly because he knew Abbacchio would go ballistic if anything happened to the cosmetics should they be left unattended to, especially the nail polish.
Overall, he'd spent just under two-and-a-half hours at the mall.
And a bit more of the past month's paychecks than he'd have liked.
"All right," Mista said, starting the engines. "Time to head back."
Mista returned to the safe house a little while later, bringing everything into the building at once (though he'd enlisted the Pistols to help him finagle the door open). "I'm back!"
"Ah, Mista. Good," Bucciarati said approvingly. "You survived."
Mista nodded, putting the items on the table. He grabbed the receipts, handing them to Bucciarati. "Here. Proof that I didn't deviate from the list."
Bucciarati skimmed through the receipts, checking the bags to make sure all of the stuff in there had been obtained legally. He finished after a minute, grinning. "Consider yourself off the hook."
Thank God. "Yes!" Mista said triumphantly. "Grazie, Bucciarati!"
Bucciarati gave him a short nod, returning to whatever it was he was doing earlier. Paperwork, from the looks of it.
I don't envy him in the slightest.
Mista proceeded up the stairs, finding Fugo and Narancia gearing up for target practice. By that, it entailed throwing knives at the wall.
"Ciao," Mista announced.
"Ciao, Mista," Narancia responded. "How'd it go?"
"I'm no longer in the doghouse, so I'd say it went pretty well."
Narancia smirked. "Did you get the boombox?"
"Yep." He gestured to the knives. "Mind if I join you?"
Fugo nodded. "Go for it."
13 SETTEMBRE 2000, 19:49
MILANO, ITALIA
METROPOLITANA DI MILANO
"Hopefully we'll have better luck than we did the other night," Narancia muttered as the teenagers got off the metro.
"Yeah," Mista agreed.
Fugo glanced at them. "I did some searching on the Internet earlier today. Apparently none of Milan's urban legends mention anything about a Grim Reaper who can run on water and manipulate energy."
"That's just great," Mista muttered sarcastically.
"What about other paranormal stuff?" Narancia asked.
Fugo shook his head. "Nothing there, either."
They exited the station, the city's nightlife buzzing around.
"Where do you want to go?" Mista asked.
Fugo shrugged. He glanced at a parking garage across the street. It was as though he was being drawn towards it.
More likely to something within it.
"How about over there?" he suggested, gesturing to the building.
Narancia scoffed. "What? You think a parking garage is haunted?"
Fugo gave the older teen a fulminating look. "And you don't?"
Mista sighed. "Let's just go over there already, before you two kill each other."
Fugo nodded, relenting. They walked across the street, entering the parking garage. They descended the flights of stairs into the underground levels.
That source is further down. I know it.
They reached the bottom-most level a couple of minutes later. It was relatively sparse, save for the cabs of a few commercial vehicles and some sedans.
The sound of something being sprayed indicated that they were probably not alone.
The teenagers walked towards the source of the noise. A tall, lithe figure with long, black hair was busy graffitiing stuff on the wall. They turned around, and Fugo stopped, startled, upon recognising the artist.
Helena Sabbatini?
Sabbatini yelped, staggering backwards, a terrified look on her face. Fugo gulped, also taking an apprehensive step back.
Okay. I was not expecting this.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Sabbatini asked. It seemed as though she was trying to remain calm, but her voice betrayed her anxiety.
She's probably scared that I'll bring Purple Haze out again. Not that I blame her, really.
"Checking out some urban legends," Narancia responded, saving Fugo from potentially doing something stupid (which he was internally grateful for).
Sabbatini raised an eyebrow. "In a parking garage?"
Fugo exhaled, fight-flight-or-freeze instincts momentarily fading away. "Long story. You?"
Sabbatini gestured to the graffiti mural on the wall. "I wanted to de-stress a bit before work. I've got a branch meeting at 20:30, which I am not looking forward to." Her expression towards the end of the statement seemed to vindicate that. She glanced at Fugo, eyes resting on the large bandage wrapping his side. A guilty look presented itself on her face. "I'm sorry about what happened on Saturday."
Fugo shook his head. "Don't sweat it; you've got nothing to apologise for. Besides, we were able to find somebody to patch me up. Domenico...De Luca, I think his name was?"
Sabbatini's eyes lit up. "Oh yeah! Yeah, Margherita and I went to grad school with him; he's a pretty chill dude." She tilted her head to the side. "How's he doing?"
"No idea. I was unconscious the whole time I was there."
Sabbatini grimaced. "My bad."
Narancia took a few steps forward, eyeing Sabbatini's handiwork. "They look so adorable!"
Fugo turned, seeing that Sabbatini had spray-painted a group of kittens on the wall, playing with a ball of string. He had to agree with Narancia on that one, as he found himself smiling.
"Thanks," Sabbatini beamed.
Mista frowned. "There's only four of them," he said uneasily.
Sabbatini turned towards him, face softening. "I can do a fifth if it makes you feel better."
Mista nodded. "Please."
Sabbatini grinned, proceeding to graffiti a fifth kitten on the wall. The addition took a couple of minutes, joining its fellow felines in playing with the string.
"What do you think?" the vampire asked.
Mista smiled, relaxing. "It's brilliant."
Sabbatini returned the smile, fangs gleaming in the electric lighting.
"I didn't think a scientist would be moonlighting as a graffiti artist," Narancia remarked.
Sabbatini's smile faded, replaced by a guarded expression. "It's a coping mechanism," she said after a moment. "Some bad stuff happened while I was in grad school a few years back. I'd rather not have to think about it."
"Fair enough. But graffitiing? It's not exactly legal," Mista noted. "Though none of us have any room to talk."
Sabbatini snorted, though Fugo saw no mirth on her face. "It's better than drinking myself to death."
A loud bang, followed by the sound of a few car alarms going off, saved any of them from having to respond. They turned, soon locating the source of the commotion.
A man approached them, knocking out any nearby security cameras with bullets fired from a high-calibre pistol.
"What the hell are you doing, stronzo?" Fugo snapped.
The man ignored him, continuing his trek forwards.
The ginger felt his temper boiling. "Oi! Are you deaf? Answer the fucking question!"
The man ignored him.
"Something tells me he doesn't speak Italian," Sabbatini remarked.
That may be possible, he conceded. But it didn't make him feel any better.
"English!" Fugo snapped, switching over to that language. "Do you speak English?"
The enemy gunslinger paused, tilting his head to the side. "Very little," he responded, a thick (and definitely foreign) accent underlying the tones.
"Who are you?" Mista snapped, switching to (heavily accented) English as he whipped out his revolver. "Name!"
The enemy smirked. "Eötvös Győző. Family name comes first in mother tongue."
Fugo glared at him. "Now that we've got that established, what the fuck do you want?"
"Man who can replay past," the foreigner said, pointing his gun at them. "Which of you is it?"
Sabbatini slowly got to her feet. "The hell are you talking about?"
"Which?" Eötvös repeated, voice raising, weapon steady.
"Fuck off!" Mista snarled, aiming his revolver at the enemy. "I will not hesitate to splatter your brains all over the concrete, pal."
Eötvös smirked. "You may try. But you will fail." He took a step forward.
"Don't come any closer!" Mista warned. Both gunslingers had their weapons trained on each other in what was now point-blank range as Fugo watched. He figured Sex Pistols could deflect any bullets that the foreigner fired at him, but if Mista shot the man before any useful information could be revealed then they'd be back at Square 1.
A strange light caught the ginger's eye, distracting him from his musings as he whipped his head up, eyes wide. A Stand had materialised by the foreigner, so dark that Fugo could barely see it, and it looked to be gearing up for an attack.
Cazzo.
"MISTA!" Fugo hollered. "Don't shoot!"
The younger gunslinger's eyes widened, evidently seeing the enemy Stand, and he fired anyway. The bullet hit the foreigner in the shoulder, and the Stand attacked, shooting...something at high speed.
Sabbatini lunged at Mista, shoving him out of the way just as the large projectile made contact with her skin. A few seconds later, there was some kind of explosion, the force of which sent the teenagers flying into the concrete wall several metres away. Fugo let out an involuntary cry of pain as the impact aggravated his still-healing side wounds. More car alarms went off.
"What the-?" Mista asked, groaning.
Narancia helped Fugo up. Fugo glared at the gunslinger as he clutched his side. "Didn't I tell you not to shoot?"
"He was going to attack us anyway!" Mista argued. "I had to let him know we meant business!"
"Ngh."
Eötvös gestured to his Stand. "Bat Out of Hell," he said, gesturing to the large, black mass. "Acid hit you, you go boom. Just as she go boom."
Fugo grimaced. "This isn't good," he muttered.
"What the hell does he mean by that?" Mista asked, bewildered.
Fugo switched back to Italian. "His Stand's name is Bat Out of Hell, and its ability is to shoot some kind of acid that explodes on contact!"
Mista gave him a blank look. "It doesn't make sense no matter what language you say it in."
Oh for the love of- Fugo slapped him on the back of the head. "It's. A. Bomb. Stand. You. Idiot."
Mista winced, rubbing the spot where the ginger had hit him. "Oh, fuck."
Narancia's fists clenched. "Say the word and I'll turn him into swiss cheese."
Fugo glanced around, seeing blood and appendages right where Mista had been standing just seconds before Bat Out of Hell had launched its attack. He tried not to think about how the gunslinger almost certainly would have died if Sabbatini hadn't thrown him out of the way.
Fugo felt murderous rage rise up within him. "Fire away, boys."
"With pleasure," Narancia said darkly, summoning Aerosmith. The plane Stand opened fire, but Eötvös dove out of the way, hiding behind a car. That didn't stop Aerosmith's weapons from tearing up the concrete, though.
Mista summoned the Pistols, joining Narancia in the firefight. Eötvös crawled out from his hiding place, making his way towards Fugo.
Fugo ran towards the enemy, wincing as the pain in his side made itself known. "Damn him," he cursed through gritted teeth. He slowed down, taking a few more steps forward, hoping to find something that could be of use.
Something cold grasped his shoulder. Tightly.
Fugo flinched violently at the touch. It wasn't Mista or Narancia; this felt foreign. His breath hitched as flashbacks of what happened with his professor threatened to invade his mind.
No. Please, no. Don't think about that! Anything but that...
As if sensing his discomfort, the presence disengaged before a full-blown panic attack could ensue. It moved in front of him, and Fugo saw that it was a Stand. One that he had fought not even a week earlier.
Terminal Frost?!
But that means...
Fugo turned, eyes wide. Sure enough, Sabbatini was back on her feet, though heavily wounded. Her body was still in the process of regenerating as various appendages reattached themselves.
Her...nude...body.
Mista's eyes were also wide, while Narancia had proceeded to cover his own. "I didn't see anything!" he muttered.
"Bullshit," Mista responded. "Uncover your eyes, Narancia, for fuck's sake! Otherwise you won't be able to use Aerosmith's radar."
The enemy Stand user turned around, eyes practically bugging out at the sight of the naked vampire. Fugo couldn't tell if it was from terror or voyeurism.
He sincerely hoped it was the former.
Sabbatini, however, didn't seem to be fazed by the stares as she gave Eötvös an annoyed look. "Is that really the best you've got?"
Bat Out of Hell geared up for another attack, but Sabbatini was ready this time, dodging the acid. Terminal Frost handed Fugo the enemy's pistol, and the ginger fired a couple of warning shots at the concrete above him.
I have an idea for a trap, but I need to piss this guy off first in order for it to be effective.
He gestured to Mista and Narancia to hide, and for the latter to use his Stand to detect Eötvös's next move. It was all in the breathing.
This guy has to have a weakness of some kind.
They had no clue what the limit was; all they knew was that the acid was some sort of ranged attack. There was no guarantee what the range on the actual Stand was. The borrowed pistol was the only method of attack that Fugo felt like using; he did not want to summon Purple Haze unless there was absolutely no other option. Not just because of the virus, but also because he wasn't in the mood to aggravate his wounds any more than he had to.
No. Long-range attacks were his best option at the moment.
I need to get his attention.
Fugo opened fire at the enemy Stand user, both shots only centimetres away from his shoulder. "Hey, ugly! Over here!"
That worked. Both Eötvös and his Stand turned towards him, the user's teeth bared into a snarl. Fugo got a good look at Bat Out of Hell for the first time; it was close to two metres tall and muscular, resembling a bat-human hybrid with black fur and four glowing red eyes.
I hope Mista doesn't lose his shit if he looks this Stand in the face.
Knowing him, though, he probably will.
Bat Out of Hell attempted to land a punch on Fugo. The young gangster leapt backwards, and it missed. Fugo backed up further, finding that, while remaining close to its user, Bat Out of Hell's punches consistently fell short.
Fugo blinked. This thing's got a lousy range.
I guess the acid is compensating for that, then.
Which is bad news for us.
Terminal Frost kicked the other Stand away from Fugo. Eötvös staggered backwards. Sabbatini's Stand returned to her user's side while the enemy was distracted. Fugo aimed the pistol, pulling the trigger-
Click.
Fugo's heart sank. "Huh?" He pulled it twice more, with the same results.
"Out of bullets," he realised. Fugo looked up, finding that the enemy had discovered his predicament. "Uh-oh."
Now might be a good time to dodge.
Fugo dove behind a sedan, the stream of acid missing him by only a couple of metres.
Shit. This is bad.
"WRYYYYYYYYYYYYY!"
Fugo glanced over his shoulder, seeing Sabbatini tackle the enemy Stand user to the ground. She threw a punch, but Eötvös rolled, and her fist hit concrete. To Fugo's surprise, it was the concrete that cracked. He looked closer, seeing a dangerously homicidal look on the vampire's face.
So this is what she looks like when she's in the mood to kill, Fugo realised. I am so glad I didn't have to deal with that during our previous encounter.
The enemy got to his feet, licking his lips as he eyed Sabbatini's figure. An all-too-familiar sense of dread crept down Fugo's spine.
"Pretty woman," the foreigner said, voice sickeningly sweet.
Sabbatini's expression grew even more murderous, if that was possible. Her fangs were bared in a snarl. "Try it, and I will castrate you with my bare hands."
Eötvös took a step forward.
Terminal Frost slammed her fist on the ground. Fugo got to his feet, watching as the man's motions became frozen. The enemy glared at the teenagers and their newfound ally. "What are you?"
Narancia smirked, training Aerosmith on him. "What are we? Think of us as your worst nightmare, asshole."
Mista approached, cornering him. As was the case with Sabbatini, there was a murderous expression on his face, but his was mixed with something else. Memory?
I don't know if it's my place to ask. But now is certainly not the time.
"It's over!" Fugo snarled, pointing the man's own pistol at him. "You're outnumbered and outgunned. Call off your Stand."
The enemy's lips curled. "Only if you call off yours."
Fugo gave a short nod. Sex Pistols, Aerosmith, and Terminal Frost dismissed themselves.
Eötvös put his hands above his head and knelt on the concrete, Bat Out of Hell fading out of existence.
That's something. Now maybe we can find out what the fuck is going on here.
And I'm not going to be nice about it.
"All right, jackass, we've got a few questions for you," Fugo said coldly, approaching until he was less than a metre in front of him. "What do you mean by this quote-unquote 'man who can replay the past', and what do you want with him?"
"Man who can replay past," Eötvös responded. "I was paid in advance."
"To do what?" Narancia hissed.
The foreigner smirked. "What do you think, child?"
Narancia's face contorted into an expression of rage. He swiftly drew his switchblade, holding the weapon under Eötvös' throat. "DO. NOT. CALL ME. A. KID."
The man's smirk grew wider. "I hit nerve."
Narancia looked as though he was going to go ballistic.
"Yeah, no shit," Sabbatini retorted, verbally intervening before Narancia could lash out any further. "Answer his question, bounty hunter."
"I was hired to remove him," the enemy said simply after a moment.
Mista's eyes narrowed. "And by that you mean 'kill.'"
"Obviously."
"So, who sent you?" Narancia asked. "Don't waste our time, stronzo!"
The look Eötvös sent him was venomous. "Basszon agyon a kénköves istennyila."
Narancia gripped the man's hair and pulled his head backwards, pressing the tip of the switchblade into his chin. "What was that?"
The man groaned. "Why should I answer to you? I owe you nothing."
Mista spun the barrel of his revolver. "Guess again, pal. Know that you are currently dealing with the Italian mafia. I suggest you talk. NOW."
Eötvös paled. Narancia stepped back, giving the man some breathing room. Fugo took a step forward.
Now he's scared.
"Well?" Mista asked, impatient. "Come on, we haven't got all night!"
The man spat on the ground. "Menj a halál faszára!"
Mista trained the revolver on him. "Strike two. Strike three, and you're sleeping at the bottom of the Navigli."
Eötvös gave him a fulminating look.
Fugo looked the man square in the eye, clenching his fists. My turn.
"Who hired you?" Fugo snarled. "Give us a fucking name!"
Eötvös's lips curled into a sneer. "Nyald ki a seggem."
Fugo glanced at the others, each of whom had blank looks on their faces. Okay. So, probably not a name. But whatever that guy said, it probably wasn't anything pleasant or of use. And this is the third time he's pulled this crap, too.
Fugo sighed. This isn't going anywhere. He turned to Mista, switching back to Italian. "Shoot him."
The gunslinger nodded, filling the enemy Stand user with three bullets in the head. Eötvös crumpled to the ground. Sabbatini approached the body, phasing her fingers through his neck and draining him of blood.
"Yech...What are you doing?" Mista asked, tone indicating that he was grossed out by this sight.
"Making sure this jackass stays dead, if he wasn't already," Sabbatini muttered. Her wounds healed completely now, and it took everything Fugo had not to stare at her now-unblemished nudity. "Do any of you guys have a watch on you?"
"I do," Fugo responded, handing Eötvös' pistol to Mista.
"Great. Can you tell me what time it is?"
Fugo checked his watch. "20:13."
Sabbatini groaned. "Damn. I have to get to work. And I don't have time to go home and grab a change of clothes..." She trailed off, eyeing the corpse in front of them. "You know what? Screw it."
Fugo could tell where this was going. He gestured for Mista and Narancia to turn around and give her some privacy. The latter covered his eyes again.
"Oi."
Fugo turned back around, seeing Sabbatini give the teenagers a curious look. "You're Bruno Bucciarati's friends, right?"
The ginger stepped forwards, doing everything he could to focus on her face and not on how naked she was. "Yeah. What's it to you?"
She approached, handing him a few items from the enemy's coat pocket, one of them being the guy's passport, another being his wallet, and a third being his mobile. "I don't know how useful this is, especially since I don't speak Hungarian, but it might shed some light on this 'man who can replay the past', whoever the hell he is, and why whoever hired this guy wanted him out of the picture in the first place."
Fugo nodded, meeting her eyes. "We'll get it to him."
Sabbatini relaxed. "Grazie." She put her heels back on, confiscating the dead man's trench coat to cover herself, in addition to his watch, before grabbing her stuff and leaving the premises.
"Narancia, you can uncover your eyes now," Mista said.
Narancia uncovered his eyes. "Oh. She's gone." He glanced at the corpse, and then at Fugo. "What should we do with the body?"
Fugo frowned. "Leave it. It'll look really suspicious if we're seen dumping him into the Navigli at this hour."
"How did she even know that he was Hungarian, anyway?" Mista asked.
"Good question." Fugo opened the passport, seeing the English name for the nationality inside, beside the enemy's photo. He showed that section to the gunslinger. "There's your answer."
Mista nodded. "We should at least hide him somewhere."
"Under that truck?" Narancia asked, gesturing to the parked cab of a tractor-trailer only a few metres away.
Fugo shrugged. "I have no objections." He felt a twinge of pain, and a hand immediately shot to the still-healing wound in his side. This didn't go unnoticed; Mista was now looking at him with concern.
"Stay there," Mista advised sternly. "Narancia and I will take care of this."
Fugo nodded, walking towards a concrete pillar. He leaned against it, attempting to calm his breathing. If anything, that should help with the pain. In theory, anyway.
The other two teenagers returned a moment later. "We hid it," Mista informed him. "I also put his gun on top of him; hopefully that will send a clear message to whoever sicced the assassin on that guy in the first place."
Narancia nodded in agreement, but he looked worried.
Very worried.
That's not like him.
Fugo glanced at Narancia, concerned. "Narancia? What is it?"
Narancia started, shifting so that he was looking both Fugo and Mista in the eye. "You don't think he was talking about Abbacchio, do you?"
"What are you-" Fugo's eyes widened upon realising what it was Narancia was referring to. It made too much sense. But also too little. "Ohhh, shit."
BAT OUT OF HELL
User: Eötvös Győző
Stats
I: Destructive Power: B
II: Speed: B
III: Range: E (1.5m)
IV: Persistence: C
V: Precision: D
VI: Development Potential: E