16 SETTEMBRE 2000, 00:35
MILANO, ITALIA
Sergio and Blue Lamp approached the mouth of the alley, discovering a series of wooden crates stacked against one of the brick walls.
"This should be a good spot," he remarked, opening one of the crates. Blue Lamp dumped the devices inside, and Sergio shut it afterwards. He grabbed his own mobile, going into his messages to draft a text for his informant.
"All right," he mused, checking the clock on his mobile. "16 September 2000, 00:37." He typed the timeframe into the message box, pocketing the phone momentarily.
Does he really need the year, though? He pondered this for a second, straightening. Meh. Given how his Stand can replay past events, it probably couldn't hurt to include it anyway.
Sergio spent the next couple of minutes leaving a message for Legolas and Moody Blues to find, making absolutely certain to warn the goth about Marco's Stand. He walked to Rafael's car afterwards, going inside to check the GPS, taking careful note of the coordinates before finishing his text to Legolas. He pressed "send", once again pocketing his mobile.
The barista walked back outside, locking the doors before opening the trunk. Sergio found Rafael's emergency repair kit, opening it up to find flares and a lighter, amongst other tools.
"That'll be useful," he remarked, closing the container. The barista grabbed the entire kit from the trunk, shutting and locking that particular door before dismissing his Stand. He also armed the sedan's car alarm as an extra precaution. Sergio walked back down the alley. The Ghost of You watched him warily.
"Relax," he reassured the Stand. "This is an emergency repair kit. No guns."
The Ghost of You nodded, letting him pass. Sergio sighed. "Geez, Alessandra," he whispered. "What the hell happened to your brother to get his Stand this riled up?"
Something told the barista that she would probably deck him if he so much as asked the question within earshot.
Sergio returned to the others a couple of minutes later. "I've got a lighter and a bunch of flares."
"That should work," Rafael responded.
Sergio glanced down at Alessandra. "How are you holding up?"
The ginger turned towards him. Her eyes were bloodshot, and it looked like she had obviously been crying. She gave him a small smile. "Better than I was earlier."
"That's good to hear." Sergio opened the kit, glancing back at the others. "Let's give these bastards a proper send-off and get the hell out of here."
"Agreed," Alessandra said darkly.
They got to work, lighting the flares and placing them by the corpses in a process lasting for what had to have been about five minutes or so. Once finished, Rafael grabbed the lighter, chucking it into the fiery mix for good measure. Sergio closed the emergency repair kit, joining his colleagues in their solemn watch.
There was a moment of silence. Alessandra raised her right middle finger in an obscene salute afterwards, venom laced in her voice. "Buona liberazione, stronzi."
The three headed back to the sedan moments later, not even bothering to look back at Marco's Stand and the MacGyvered funeral pyre only metres away from it.
16 SETTEMBRE 2000, 01:29
MILANO, ITALIA
Here we are.
Abbacchio took a quick sip of water before pulling a black, drawstring hooded balaclava over his head and pulling the mask portion up to cover the lower half of his face. Eight small, gold-coloured lines were visible in the mask's centre. Normally, such a disguise wouldn't be necessary in his opinion, but given the fact that he had two assassins come after him already (and more were apparently on the way) he had to take every precaution he could. That included arming himself with twin pistols and extra ammo since Moody Blues left him virtually defenceless when in replay mode. Additionally, he'd decided to ditch his usual outfit for an all-black colour scheme (again, save for the accents on the mask), partly because it was still covered in blood from the shatter-happy Stand incident from earlier, and partly because the disguise was actually warranted. He'd ultimately decided on wearing a turtleneck tank top, black trench coat that went down halfway between his knee and his ankle, dress pants with a flare bottom cut, black leather gloves, and twin holsters that were belted onto his thighs and housed the aforementioned pistols. The usual headpiece was also gone, and his hair was left down to accommodate the balaclava. Abbacchio's goth makeup was still on, and he'd added black eyeshadow and eyeliner to accentuate the creepiness of the guise so people would think twice about going anywhere near him.
Needless to say, if he was attacked in the middle of his replay, he wasn't planning on going down without a fight.
Abbacchio had wondered on the way over if it had been a good idea to come without backup. But Fugo was still healing (albeit almost completely healed, so in theory he should be able to get back to his usual antics by sometime either later today or tomorrow); all three teenagers were sleeping anyway; and Bucciarati was in the middle of filling out some paperwork that Polpo had left for him, so it was best not to disturb any of them.
Then again, he preferred to do these types of jobs solo anyway.
Abbacchio himself had been about to go to bed when his phone had buzzed with De Rosa's text forty-five some-odd minutes earlier. He'd snuck out on his own, and returned to an all-too-familiar alleyway.
It was the one where Helena Sabbatini had wiped out D'Agostino's squad in retaliation for the deaths of three teenagers.
Abbacchio pulled out his mobile, reading the part of De Rosa's text that came after the coordinates.
[Frodo]: [...] 16.9.2000, 00.37
"Moody Blues," Abbacchio whispered.
The Stand materialised, the familiar dial tone sounding off as dozens of replay ghosts assaulted his user's vision for a brief millisecond before vanishing.
Abbacchio had the sinking feeling he was being watched.
Merda.
He'd figured there would probably be assassins lurking about, but this soon?
Abbacchio removed both pistols from their holsters on instinct, whirling around to point them at-
Bucciarati.
The goth's eyes were wide as he met the gaze of his superior. Bucciarati was dressed in what looked to be another set of women's clothes, as evidenced by the outlined presence of a bra underneath a light-grey turtleneck tank top. He also wore black dress pants, in addition to his usual shoes, smokey brown eyeshadow, and a coat of the same colour lipstick used from the Club Galassia adventure. His hair was unbraided and clip-free, and his arms were folded in front of him. Sticky Fingers was out beside his user.
Bucciarati looked livid.
"The hell do you think you're doing?" the squad leader barked.
Abbacchio slowly holstered his guns, glaring at Bucciarati. "Acting on a message sent by an informant."
"At one-thirty in the morning, without backup?" Bucciarati hissed. "Do you have any idea how reckless that was, especially since you already had to deal with this shit only a few hours ago?! Are you out of your fucking mind?"
"I took precautions," Abbacchio retorted.
"Disguises aren't going to do you much good if they can see your Stand, you dumbass!" Bucciarati snarled. "You could have at least told me what the fuck you were doing!"
Abbacchio looked away, chastened.
Bucciarati sighed. "What's done is done. Look at me."
Abbacchio obeyed. Bucciarati withdrew Sticky Fingers, and the livid snarl was gone, replaced by a more neutral, business-like expression. "Have you started the replay yet?"
"I was about to when you snuck up on me," Abbacchio responded. "So, no."
Bucciarati blinked. "Fair enough. Let's see what your informant had to say."
Abbacchio gave his Stand a short nod. Time seemed to rewind around him as Moody Blues transformed into Sergio De Rosa. Replay ghosts appeared in the background.
The ex-cop figured these ghosts were simply a by-product of Moody Blues' abilities. A terrifying one at that, since it allowed Abbacchio to see not just what his Stand was taking on, but also everything else that happened within a several-metre radius of whatever Moody Blues embodied. They had scared the living shit out of him the first time he'd seen them. The echoes were useful at times, as they helped him piece together an event as it happened, but sometimes they were unpleasant enough to give him nightmares, like when Abbacchio's brain decided it would be a good idea to have him revisit the death of his police partner. Those particular echoes had not been pleasant, and he'd avoided the murder site like the plague after the third round of replay-induced nightmares.
No, he told himself.Focus. De Rosa's our priority right now. Don't slip away. Not now.
He'd found out after a few months that the replay echoes were an ability that was completely unique to him. Abbacchio was the only one who could see them. He'd told Bucciarati about the ghosts/echoes a while ago, and the squad leader had been intrigued.
But Abbacchio viewed them as a curse.
Especially since he couldn't really control them the way he could control Moody Blues.
And by that, he meant that he couldn't control them at all.
Abbacchio looked at Moody Blues. "Play."
The replay commenced. "Buonasera, Legolas," De Rosa greeted. His Stand stood behind him as a replay echo, likely having been out as a precaution after the incident from earlier. "I hope the rest of your evening went alright, considering." He frowned. "I don't know if you'd find any of this important or not, but my flatmate and I accompanied one of our coworkers here. She's the one I told you about earlier, the one with the bird colony Stand. Anyway, we just found six corpses. She seems to know who they are, but Rafael and I have no idea. They could likely be the ones who killed her younger brother and his friends a couple of weeks back. But, that's not the most important thing right now. Rafael discovered that they all still had their mobiles on them."
"What?!" Abbacchio started.
"Pause it," Bucciarati ordered.
Moody Blues' replay paused. Abbacchio turned to look at Bucciarati. Both gangsters' eyes were wide. "D'Agostino and his men still had their phones on them when they died," Bucciarati breathed. "Do you know what this means?"
Abbacchio nodded. "We're one step closer to completing our mission."
If we can access the information on their phones, especially their text messages, we might be able to piece together why Carbone had turned traitor.
"I highly doubt those three knew just what they'd found," Bucciarati remarked, an excited look on his face. He took a deep breath, composing himself before ordering Abbacchio to resume the replay.
Abbacchio turned towards Moody Blues. You heard him. Resume.
The replay unpaused itself. "This was honestly unexpected," De Rosa confessed. "We were actually preparing to burn the bodies before my flatmate found them by accident. I hid them here for safekeeping," De Rosa said, gesturing to a crate next to him, "so that you could find them. So, yeah, that's pretty much the gist of it." He straightened. "There is one more thing, though."
Oh? Abbacchio wondered.
The expression on De Rosa's face was a very serious one. "Whatever you do, do not draw a weapon in that alley," he warned. "There's an automatic Stand there that guards this block, and it will not hesitate to go after anyone with a weapon, even going so far as to possess them and turn them into a killing machine." He sighed, suddenly looking somewhat exhausted. "It's not an enemy Stand...It's the Stand of that girl's dead brother. Don't ask me how it ended up here; I have no fucking idea. But she was able to recognise it as his Stand, and she got things somewhat straightened out. It's called, 'The Ghost of You.' Just don't piss it off. Seriously, just don't."
The message ended after that, and De Rosa started to walk forwards, car keys in hand, as his Stand made to follow.
End the replay.
Moody Blues transformed back into his normal form, phasing back into Abbacchio seconds later.
"Is that even possible?" Abbacchio asked, turning to face Bucciarati.
"Yeah, but Dead Stands are pretty rare," the squad leader responded. "I've only heard about them; I've never actually seen one in person." He frowned. "Well, no. Hang on...I take that back. If De Rosa's intel is correct, and given where we are now, I think that Stand was the one that possessed Mista."
Abbacchio considered this. "It does make a lot of sense."
"Indeed." The squad leader walked over to the crate that De Rosa had pointed to, opening it. "Jackpot!"
Abbacchio walked over, sure enough seeing six mobiles inside. "Great," he responded, scooping three of them out. Bucciarati grabbed the others, unzipping a hole in his left leg to store them inside.
"Do you want the others?" Abbacchio asked.
"Sure." Bucciarati zippered the compartment closed before opening a similar hole on his other leg. Abbacchio surrendered the devices to his superior, and they were stored inside the hole before it, too, was zipped shut.
"Looks like we got what we came for," Abbacchio remarked, though this was stating the obvious.
"We got what you came for," Bucciarati corrected, a stern look on his face. "And, just so we're on the same page, I'm still pissed at you for sneaking out like that."
"I kinda figured."
Bucciarati rolled his eyes, walking into the alley. Abbacchio raised an eyebrow. "You know, if you were really that pissed off at me, you could have just taken the van and left me here."
"Yeah," Bucciarati responded, a passive-aggressive tone in his voice. "But I didn't."
Abbacchio followed him down the alley. "Look. This is the most useful intel we've gotten in weeks. Are you seriously going to stay mad at me because of that?"
"Don't talk back to me."
Abbacchio grimaced. Cazzo, he's really pissed. He sighed. "How did you even know?"
Bucciarati still had his back to him as he continued down the alleyway. "I had my door open. You looked like you were getting ready to go to a death metal concert. But, I had a feeling that wasn't the case, particularly since it was almost one a.m., so I got changed and zipped into the van when you weren't looking."
"So you played stowaway," Abbacchio surmised. "Do the brats know about this?"
"Nope."
They continued down the alley in icy silence for another moment. Abbacchio knew he was already on increasingly thin ice, but there was something bothering him about this walk. And it wasn't just Bucciarati being unusually passive-aggressive towards him. "Uhhh...where are we going?"
"I wanted to get a look at that Dead Stand," Bucciarati responded. "Even though we now know for certain that it got to Mista, what we don't know is if it was the same one that went after us in Club Galassia that night. This is one thing that I don't want to be left in the dark in."
Abbacchio didn't think it would be a wise move to respond to that statement, even though he already knew for certain that it wasn't the same Stand, so he just settled for following his superior deeper into the alley.
"Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr..."
Abbacchio halted, hackles raised. He looked ahead, eyes widening in alarm.
A massive, wolflike Stand manifested in front of the gangsters, all twelve of its green eyes trained on them. Its lips curled into a snarl.
Abbacchio took a nervous step backwards. "I guess this is The Ghost of You."
"Seems like it," Bucciarati responded, approaching it.
Abbacchio gulped. "It doesn't look friendly."
"Maybe it just doesn't like you," Bucciarati retorted. Abbacchio glanced down, inwardly cursing as he remembered De Rosa's warning about weapons with regard to this particular Stand.
So long as I don't go for the guns, I'll be fine.
Probably.
Abbacchio looked at the wolf Stand warily. This thing looks like it wants to rip my face off.
But Bucciarati went even closer to it.
"Be careful," Abbacchio cautioned.
Bucciarati ignored him, walking towards The Ghost of You until he was practically nose-to-snout with the Stand. The squad leader perused it, eyeing the wolflike entity thoughtfully.
"Well?" Abbacchio asked.
Bucciarati turned back to face him after a few seconds. "It's not the same Stand."
Abbacchio already had a feeling that was the case; the user for the Stand in Club Galassia was still alive. But he thought it unwise to say, "Oh, by the way, I already knew that" in front of his squad leader when the current tension between the two of them was so thick one could cut it with a knife. "Great," the goth said instead.
Bucciarati walked back towards Abbacchio, grabbing his hand and practically dragging him forwards. "Let's go."
The squad leader waited until the two were next to the SUV before speaking again. "That went better than I expected."
Abbacchio raised an eyebrow. "Well…"
Bucciarati's expression was unreadable.
You'd better find a way to get yourself out of the doghouse, Leone. Fast.
The goth sighed, looking Bucciarati straight in the eye. "Look. You're right. That was a stupid move on my part. I should have told you what I was doing earlier. I'm sorry." He blinked. "Are you happy now?"
Bucciarati brought a hand up to Abbacchio's cheek, stroking it gently with his thumb. Abbacchio leaned into the gesture, taking that answer as a "yes."
He amended that statement as soon as he felt something foreign cause his gag reflex to kick in and make its way up his throat.
Abbacchio pulled down the mask, kneeling down as he practically vomited up-
Bucciarati's lipstick?!
The entire tube, casing and all, was currently on the ground in front of him, covered in Abbacchio's own saliva. Abbacchio cursed inwardly, realising that his superior must have zipped it in there while seducing him with the hand on his cheek.
He understood the message very quickly: Don't do that again.
Abbacchio glanced up in front of him, giving Bucciarati a knowing look. The squad leader relaxed. "Yeah. I'm happy now."
Abbacchio nodded, gesturing to the lipstick. "Do you still want this?"
"Yep," Bucciarati responded, removing a handkerchief from his pants pocket (an actual pocket, not one made by Sticky Fingers) and scooping up the cosmetic. "Come on."
Abbacchio got in the driver's seat, while Bucciarati took shotgun. The goth took off the balaclava, tossing it behind him. He started the engine, hearing Il Banchetto by Premiata Forneria Marconi come on over the radio. Bucciarati glanced down at the bottle of water Abbacchio had brought with him. "Do you mind at all?" he asked. "I'm kind of thirsty."
"Go for it," the goth responded, switching the gear from "park" to "drive" as the two got underway.
The only sounds in the van for a good few minutes were the engines, Bucciarati putting the water bottle back into the cup holder, traffic outside, and Italian prog rock playing over the radio. Abbacchio stopped the vehicle at a red light, admittedly somewhat surprised at the large amount of traffic for two-something in the morning.
It's probably people just getting off the night shift or something.
"Hey, can you stop the car for a sec?" Bucciarati asked out of the blue.
Abbacchio raised an eyebrow. "We've been stopped for about a minute or so now; we're at a red light." He glanced over at his superior, alarmed to find that he had gone as white as a sheet. "You don't look so good."
Bucciarati groaned. "I think there was something in the water."
Seriously? It was fine earlier!
"Cazzo." Abbacchio glanced down at the dashboard, finding yet another thing to worry about. "I have to pull over somewhere anyway; the idiot light for the tyre pressure just came on."
"Just hurry it up. I think I'm gonna be sick."
"Save the puking for until after you exit the vehicle," Abbacchio said sternly. "With respect, of course." He still felt the need to be polite, given that the person he was scolding happened to be his superior.
The light turned green. Abbacchio drove for a short distance before turning left onto the first side street he could find.
Shit, this is bad. Poison?
It almost certainly had to be, from the way Bucciarati was reacting.
The enemy must have broken into the vehicle, laced the water with whatever the hell that stuff is while the two of us were arguing, and snuck back out before we realised what they'd done.
Abbacchio parallel-parked next to a sidewalk, shutting down the engines. "Can you see anything that might give us a clue?" Bucciarati asked.
Abbacchio leaned over, seeing a small container behind the shotgun seat. "Maybe. Give me a sec." The goth unbuckled his seat belt, reaching over to pluck the container from the floor. A closer look revealed that it was a bottle marked, "flunitrazepam".
"I think I found our culprit," Abbacchio said, handing it to Bucciarati.
Bucciarati glanced down at the bottle, eyes wide. "It's a trap."