As Mista turned his back on two of his closest friends, he felt something akin to guilt. All he wanted to do was mourn but there was no time for that. It didn't matter that he knew this logically, Narancia deserved more than that and Mista couldn't help the swell of pain in his chest as he realized he couldn't give his best friend that.

"We have to go after Chariot," Bucciarati was saying to the others, who had gathered a few meters away from where Fugo was clutching Narancia. "There's no time to waste here."

"Indeed," Polnareff said, sounding guilty. "But for that, we should have everyone. To maximize the chance of success. I understand that he's grieving but…"

The turtle gaze flicked to Fugo, and Mista could see the hesitance in Bucciarati's eyes as he followed Polnareff's gaze. The blond was in no condition to fight; they all knew that. He might never be again.

"No," Mista interjected before the capo could say anything. "We don't.

"Mista-"

"No really," he insisted, cutting off Bucciarati. "We didn't have all of us for pretty much every single fight we've gone through up until now. One person won't make the difference, especially not with Haze. It won't help us kick the Boss's ass. Let Fugo grieve… I think he deserves at least that much."

"…I know what it's like to lose a friend," Polnareff replied hesitantly and something in his voice made Mista hold back from refuting that. There was something wistful and sad in it that sounded all too familiar. "But to not have everyone would be to not have every possible chance either. There's no telling who can-"

"He won't be any help."

Four heads turned to stare at Abbacchio in surprise when the man spoke up for the first time since they'd begun to discuss what to do next. He was honestly the last one Mista had expected to take his side on this, there had to be something more to it.

"What do you mean by that, Leone."

Uh oh. If Bucciarati was using first names, then something was definitely wrong. The shifty look in Abbacchio's violet eyes was enough to confirm Mista's suspicions and his apprehension bubbled in his chest as the man sighed defeatedly.

"Look, my body… it's suffering side effects. From being dead," Abbacchio clarified, rubbing the back of his neck as he steadfastly avoided eye contact with everyone. "I'm honestly surprised Fugo's even been able to move around normally up until this point; I think it's the disconnect of the soul and body, seeing as I was hardly able to walk a few meters after… after everything. Or maybe it's just adrenaline. Either way, it's not in any condition to fight."

"...Even so, wouldn't more eyes be-"

"He can't even see us." Abbacchio's words stopped Polnareff's rebuttal before it even got going. "Not clearly. We're just colored blobs. A guy like that can't even be on watch, let alone fight."

A heavy silence fell upon the group at the man's words, and Mista couldn't help but sneak a glance at Giorno, who had gone over to Fugo after Mista said they should let him mourn. The two blonds were talking quietly between themselves and Mista knew Giorno must not have heard Abbacchio's confession. But he'd know, it was inevitable, and Mista feared that the blond wouldn't take it well. Just see it as another failure.

"…Then we leave him here. Both of them." Bucciarati's words were firm but Mista could see the expression in the man's eyes as he stared at Abbacchio. "And you as well, Leone."

Abbacchio looked like he was gonna protest but before he could, Bucciarati quickly said, "You said yourself your body is suffering side effects. It explains why you've seemed so off since switching bodies. You aren't getting used to Fugo's body, are you?"

"…No," Abbacchio muttered. "I was hoping it'd get better but… I guess the damage crossed over with me to some degree. This body feels wrong, it doesn't listen to me. Like it's all just a prosthetic."

Mista couldn't imagine how off-putting that must feel, based on what Abbacchio was describing. He once knew a man with a prosthetic foot and remembered the man saying that he still felt like he could wiggle his toes, like the pins and needles feeling of knowing the limb was there but not feeling it. Not feeling your entire body…? That just sounded like hell.

"Then you'll stay as well. I should've…" Bucciarati s words trailed off as the capo shook his head abruptly. "No, never mind. The rest of us, we need to go. We've wasted too much time as it-"

The sound of Stands behind them all drew their attention and Mista's mouth dropped open in shock when he saw Purple Haze and Gold Experience just centimeters apart from each other. Bucciarati was shouting something beside Mista, but all Mista could focus on was Giorno, whose face had that same determined look on it when the boy had shattered his arm during the White Album fight.

Mista swallowed back his own fear at seeing Haze so close to the two just in time to grab Bucciarati before he could run towards the two, holding the capo back as the boys' Stands seemed to… punch? Narancia's corpse one after the other.

"What are you both doing?!" Bucciarati cried in shock, jerking in Mista's arms until the gunman let go and stepped back. It was okay, judging by the look Giorno and Fugo exchanged, the pair had accomplished their goal. As Giorno got to his feet and approached them, Bucciarati shot Mista a furious glare.

Before he could try to defend himself, Giorno had already opened his mouth. "It doesn't matter; I'll explain later," the blond told them, glancing back to say, "Fugo, do what you can," before pushing past them both, headed towards where Chariot Requiem had vanished.

Bucciarati had spared Mista a final glance before rushing after Giorno, seething furiously.

Mista prayed to God that whatever their plan was, that it would work.

Trish followed after Bucciarati and Giorno, carrying Polnareff in her arms, but Mista hesitated to follow.

Abbacchio had walked off at some point during their shock at seeing Purple Haze, and Mista now saw him in the center of the Colosseum, knelt beside Bucciarati's body. A part of Mista wanted to call the man back but he just didn't have the heart. He knew; he'd have to be a fool not to. Seven had made it very clear to him and the other Pistols that Bucciarati's body was dying. If not already dead. And Mista hadn't told the others.

Giorno probably knew, Bucciarati definitely did, and Abbacchio had to by now. Better to let the man grieve alone before he was forced to bury his own lover in front of their friends.

Fugo was still beside Narancia, and for a second, Mista wanted nothing more than to join them both, to sit beside Fugo and cry and remember Narancia for all the joy the boy had brought to his life. Nothing would ever be the same without him.

But Mista had a mission to complete, and he had people he wanted to protect. People that were still alive, as callous a thought as it was. The fear he'd felt when he'd seen Giorno's impaled body, despite knowing that it wasn't Giorno inside it. The pretty golden hair, those emerald green eyes, the soft smiles and warm laughs, the times that Giorno reached out to him that Mista knew he did unconsciously that Mista adored so much, Mista wanted to protect all of that. He needed to.

It felt like there was nothing else he could do right now.

It was insane outside of the Colosseum.

There was no better way to describe it, the soul-switching of dogs and their owners, babies and their mothers like some kind of psychedelic nightmare come to life. Mista tried not to focus on it too much as he handcuffed some handsy police officer to a lamp post, jabbing one of the ends through the man's cheek maybe a little too violently. Whatever, it provided a bit of an outlet for his frustration at the moment.

Mista had approached Giorno after planting Trish's leather boot in the man's face, the blond having knelt beside the arrow in the center of the street, tossing a small stone at the thing. Mista reached Giorno just in time to grab the rock out of the air before it shot itself into Giorno's skull, wincing at the force the tiny thing had accrued.

As Giorno told the others his hypothesis of the repellant power the arrow held, Mista plucked the stone out of his hand, a small, bloody outline dug into the flesh of his palm.

"But what if someone who's not a Stand user tried to pick up the arrow?" That was Polnareff, standing beside Mista, but just as he started to voice his confusion, Mista watched as the turtle just… picked the arrow up.

After that happened, everything seemed to kick off.

Mista knew that it was perfectly reasonable for Polnareff to have tried to get the arrow since his Stand had left him, but the knowledge that they could be hurt because of it, could lose themselves, could turn into one of those… those things was terrifying.

It was a different kind of fear, watching as foreign masses of flesh sprang from what were once normal humans, skin peeling away as creatures attempted to escape from the meat shells surrounding entirely new beings. Mista couldn't even call them souls anymore because they didn't seem like them. Not anymore.

Was this the fate that awaited them all if they failed? Would he turn into one of those as well?

Would Giorno?

Beautiful, perfect Giorno, whom Mista might not ever get to take out on that date after all. It was laughable, how that was one of the first things crossing his mind as he bore witness to a lovecraftian horror come to life before his very eyes. Even as he watched his own skin peel back to reveal a strange, gray, metallic bone beneath it, his concern for his own body played second fiddle to what he imagined Giorno could become.

It was one thing to lose their bodies to something else, he was already in a different body he supposed, but their minds? While leaving so much unsaid? While having done nothing at all in the end? It was terrifying, and even though Mista knew that fear would only increase the evolution, he couldn't hold it back.

Even so, that fear paled in comparison to the way Giorno looked at him when he revealed that Mista's gun had been forcibly broken.

Mista had known, deep down, that it wasn't really metal fatigue. If there was anything he knew, it was guns, and he'd known how old that pistol was. Just a few months, and with his constant care, it still looked and worked like brand new. But he hadn't mentioned it, had he? Mista could say that it was because he hadn't had time but… but that wasn't it, was it?

"I know I keep saying this, but stay away from me, Mista!" Giorno cried, stepping back when Mista stepped forwards. It broke Mista's heart, even as Giorno insisted it was to keep Mista out of the Boss's range.

"M-My gun was destroyed!" Mista protested, but it sounded like a weak argument even to him.

"You're the one closest to the gun," Giorno pointed out, his voice like ice.

Mista felt cold dread in his veins, even as he stammered, "I-It's… It's not me!"

And then he thought about Naranica, and who was close to the boy. How it couldn't possibly be Fugo who had broken the gun when he was back in the Colosseum. So who was it? Fuck, why hadn't he been paying closer attention?! But it hadn't seemed like it'd matter-

"He's hiding inside one of us."

Giorno's words were hard and his green eyes were narrowed in suspicion and the blond continued with his theory of uncovering who the traitor was- no, that wasn't right, no one was betraying the others. They didn't know the Boss was in them, they had to not know, right? So then how could Mista prove it wasn't him?

When he hadn't even argued about the gun all because he was too damn cowardly?

"It's definitely not me," Mista insisted, trying to use Giorno's own logic. "I was farthest away when Narancia was attacked!"

"Then I'll check you first so we can be at ease."

No. No, Giorno couldn't do that. Giorno needed to stay away from Mista, because if Mista was wrong, because if it was really him that the Boss was possessing, what if he- if he killed-

"D-Don't come any closer!" Mista shrieked, yanking his gun from his skirt, pointing it at Giorno, and oh thank God, the blond stopped. "What if you're the one possessed?! If you get close to me, I'm dead!"

There was no way it was Giorno, Mista knew that and clearly Giorno did when he refuted Mista's argument with perfect logic. Fuck, why did the guy have to be so smart?! Mista could see from the corners of his eyes the way Trish and Bucciarati were staring at them both, could see the doubts on their faces, and Mista knew he didn't really have any other choice than to go with plan B. Even if he had to hurt Giorno in the process. Mista could fix emotional wounds… right?

"That's just what you're saying." Mista's words stopped Giorno in his tracks, the blond's green eyes flicking from the barrel of Mista's gun to meet his steady gaze, confusion laced through them. "I have no way of confirming your ability."

Mista pretended he didn't see the flicker of hurt in Giorno's eyes.

"Not to mention, Giorno, do you have a way to prove that you only have one soul?" Here it was, Mista had to say it if he wanted to keep Giorno away from him. He knew it wasn't him, surely it wasn't, but, but he was the one in Trish's body and Diavolo was Trish's dad and surely it was more likely, right? Mista wasn't stupid, wouldn't this body be the best choice here? And if he was, if Diavolo was in him, then the second Giorno was in range, he'd be killed.

And Trish needed to take revenge and Bucciarati needed to achieve his final goal and Giorno needed to do so much still, change so many lives, and the only thing Mista could do was protect them, even if it meant from himself.

Giorno had confessed to Mista during the car ride to Roma that Gold Experience had never worked quite right on him. That he'd seen the others use their Stands on themselves, like Bucciarati unzipping his arm and Abbacchio merging with Moody Blues, and that he'd tried with Gold Experience to do more than just heal himself but had felt nothing. Giorno could feel life from everything and everyone, but touching himself was just an empty void. He'd said Gold Experience had just made him feel empty. Soulless.

It was just another insecurity Mista had tried assuage Giorno of at the time, hadn't given it too much thought, but it was true, wasn't it? If Giorno couldn't feel anything from himself, then…

"You can't check yourself with your own ability, can you?!"

Giorno's expression shifted to one of shock for the barest of seconds before neutral determination fell across his features and fuck if it didn't hurt to see Giorno look at him like that again. Like the relationship they built meant nothing. And it was Mista's fault for tearing that down, picking at a fear that Giorno had trusted him enough to display.

And even so, it wasn't enough as Giorno persisted regardless; "Mista, we can't go after the arrow unless we know!"

Fuck, fuck, fuck-

"C-Come any closer and I'll blow your limbs off!"

Giorno's green eyes creased in sadness, his eyebrows furrowed, Mista's trembling hands cocked the pistol and aimed at Giorno's left forearm, and then Bucciarati's voice cut through the tension between them.

Mista nearly dropped his gun when he jerked around to stare at the capo in shock, having been fully ready to shoot Giorno to stop him, keep him away from what to be certain death.

"Check me first, Giorno," Bucciarati's steady voice instructed and Mista wanted to argue, to stop them, but he couldn't.

They had no time, Bucciarati reminded them all of that.

Mista was letting his feelings cloud the mission, letting his heart get the better of him, and he struggled with that as Giorno began to approach their capo. There's no way the Boss could be inside his own body, if souls had to switch then they'd go somewhere else, but Mista could make up excuses for why it couldn't be any of them all he liked; it wouldn't be true. Not for one of them.

At the very least, he'd kept Giorno away from him, had gotten the blond to go to someone who Mista was almost certain wasn't possessed, and that at least kept the distance between Giorno and the Boss.

If Diavolo came out of him, Mista had already given Pistols instructions to land their next bullet into his own skull.

Everything seemed to slow down as Giorno neared Bucciarati, crimson red droplets dripping onto the top of the blond's hand as the other three stared fixated on the pair.

And then Mista felt something behind him, a rush of wind and suddenly there was a massive, red and white Stand between him and Giorno. All he could do was reach out and then Giorno was on the ground, his right arm landing with a thud a meter away.

Mista fired his gun.

Watching King Crimson control his own body was horrifying. As Trish's Stand faded and her(his) dark eyes glazed over, it was like watching himself disappear. Just like he would if they couldn't defeat Chariot Requiem.

With a final glance at Giorno, mutilated behind him, Mista raised his gun, pointed it at himself, but then his body was gone, racing down the street towards the arrow and he shot again.

An overwhelming sense of defeat coursed through Mista, even as Bucciarati cried beside him, "There's no time to hesitate because it's your own body, Mista!"

"That's not it, Bucciarati… I already fired." So this was the power of the Boss. It was a wonder they hadn't all died already. "He predicted the course of the bullets."

How? How could they possibly defeat this man if they couldn't even harm him? As he rushed after Chariot Requiem, close on Bucciarati's heels, Mista forced himself to shift his mindset from 'beating the Boss' back to 'beating Chariot' but the doubts at the back of his mind were getting louder and louder. He didn't even understand what was going on half the time; this wasn't Mista's type of fight. He couldn't beat this man with pure force and he didn't have the brains to fight any other way.

What was he even doing here?

And then Mista watched as Chariot exploded and the arrow fell into King Crimson's hand and he felt so useless-

The arrow split in half and Mista had no clue why until he noticed a small bug on the cobblestone street and realized it had to be Giorno. There was no one else it could be. To know the boy was alright and still fighting, it gave Mista a bit of his confidence back as he fired Pistols towards the arrow, having had the time to reload his gun as they ran.

He wasn't sure if it would work, but maybe if the bullets were only trying to move the arrow instead of attacking it, then they wouldn't bounce back at him. And it seemed to work, King Crimson thinking that the bullets were meant for him when Mista had secretly directed them towards the arrow-

A man fell out of the air, knocking the arrow away as Pistols kicked their bullets deep into the civilian, killing him instantly.

"The trash ability of an underling…" Mista heard King Crimson say, Diavolo himself addressing Mista for the first time ever. He'd never met the Boss before, barely even seen the guy, but now, as the man tore him down from what little self assurance he'd mustered, he wondered why he'd ever been stupid enough to believe in the Boss in the first place.

"There's no way your weak mind can surpass King Crimson's predictions," Diavolo's voice continued. "You will not be able to get through. You're still just trash."

Mista's teeth ground so hard that he could hear them grate against each other as the Boss moved on to address Bucciarati. It didn't matter what this man thought, Mista knew that, but it hurt to hear all the same. He knew Pistols didn't have any special abilities like the others' Stands did, that they were just glorified bullets, but he'd never thought they needed them, always liking his Stand just as it was. And if his Stand was lacking, it was only because he was lacking, it wasn't a reflection on Sex Pistols at all but rather himself. And Mista could feel that the comment hurt Pistols more than it hurt him and that, that was infuriating.

"Pistols, I need more ammo!" he cried desperately, even as his Stand protested that there wasn't time. Fuck, he wanted to shoot that asshole, who cared if it was his own body, tearing the Boss a new one was worth dying for, but his gun wasn't loaded and Pistols wasn't ready and he wasn't close enough to Diavolo and what did he do-

The arrow was launched through the air and once again, Mista didn't understand what was going on until he heard his own voice, higher pitched as Trish spoke through his body.

"I'm going to overcome this," she said, voice steadfast as Spice Girl glowered at King Crimson and Mista felt renewed strength course through him.

When had it started; when had Mista started feeling inadequate? Or had he always felt that way but never noticed it until now, until it was so obvious, the disparity between him and the other members, that he simply couldn't ignore it any longer? Or maybe he'd never felt like enough from the start, if he was able to leave his family so certain that they'd be fine without him.

The emotional highs and lows of the day had weakened him, had made him doubt himself as they fought the fight of their lives and watched as their friends died around them. So much had happened in the last week and a half that Mista wondered if this new self-doubt was because he'd grown so much so fast. If a boy as wonderful as Giorno doubted himself, then what did that say about Mista? And Mista had allowed those thoughts to grow and fester in an environment that it didn't belong in, and in a person that it didn't belong in.

Because everyone, every single one of them, had proven their worth a million different times a million different ways and Mista knew that included himself. He wasn't like this, he wasn't depressed, wasn't self-loathing, was nothing but a happy-go-lucky optimist from Napoli with a penchant for the finer things in life. But he also didn't have to be anything else.

The others had all overcome their own walls during this journey. This was just the first one Mista needed to climb over himself.

"The arrow's flying toward me!" Mista cried, eyes fixed on the wood-and-metal weapon as he took a step back. "I'm the closest! He can't get past me! Even if he predicts where it falls and erases time, I'm still closer to it!"

Mista could hear something going on in front of him Diavolo saying something, but he was too fixed on the arrow, reaching out towards the sky, it was there, right there-

The faint light of the sun obscured by rain clouds vanished above him as something flew above Mista's head and he couldn't help but scream in shock. His own body, blood streaking out of it into the air as if drawn by a paintbrush, was moving closer and closer to the arrow.

"What?" Mista heard Giorno say behind him, wondering when Giorno had gotten there just as he realized what the other thing above his body was.

"I guess I don't need this body anymore…" Diavolo said coldly as Spice Girl was ripped fully out of Mista, a massive hole in her chest. "Or you."

"H-Her soul-!" Bucciarati yelled as Trish appeared next to Spice Girl, green eyes vacant as her soul laid there, motionless in the air.

"It's moving away!" Giorno cried and Mista reached out towards the girl. No, they were going to lose yet another person, it hadn't been enough again, they hadn't been able to save her.

"T-Trish!"

One's sharp cry of, "the arrow!" drew Mista's attention back to his own body, to King Crimson, but it didn't matter because when he went to try to grab the arrow, it was already within the hands of the Stand.

And then it wasn't.

Mista didn't understand it but wasn't going to let the chance go to waste, he reached up, was getting closer and closer but… but something felt different. He looked down to see that he could see himself again, but it wasn't himself, was it? Trish's body was beneath him, his shadowy translucent form was drifting upwards, this was…

"My soul is leaving her body…" Mista murmured numbly. But how?

He heard Giorno's exclamation of surprise and looked to see that Chariot Requiem was crumpled on the ground, this same strange wind carrying him towards his own body escaping from the Stand.

"Could it be that all you can predict, Boss, are the movements of the arrow and the bullets? You couldn't seem to predict what I was going to do." That was Bucciarati, Bucciarati's actual voice and Mista saw that the man was in the same state as him, the pink-haired body of the Boss collapsing onto the ground behind him as the capo's soul continued.

As Bucciarati explained his plot, out of the corner of his eyes, now that he was looking, Mista could see the faint hint of a glowing golden orb behind him and gasped.

"It just needs to be destroyed."

Mista was confused, but that orb must have something to do with Chariot, something he hadn't noticed but that both Diavolo and Bucciarati had. He could get them to explain it later, once this was all over, the arrow, they needed the arrow.

But wait, if Bucciarati destroyed the orb… destroyed Chariot Requiem… what would happen to Bucciarati?

Mista knew it was dead, had been the one to really finish off their capo's body, he'd just never considered this possibility until now, hadn't had to come face to face with the recognition that defeating Requiem would mean… would mean…

Mista heard Giorno come to the same conclusion at the same time, his stammered cry of, "Bucciarati… y-you're…" drowned out by Diavolo's frantic shrieks.

"Who is the king worthy of possessing this arrow?!" King Crimson roared, glaring at Bucciarati for a moment before diving for the arrow, yelling, "Bucciarati! The weak are not worthy to possess this arrow!"

Bucciarati's voice was cold, unwavering in its resolution, and Mista had never respected his capo more than what was surely the very end.

"All the souls that have been swapped… will return to their original bodies!"

And with a final cry from Sticky Fingers, something snapped behind Diavolo's body, Chariot Requiem imploded into a cloud of blood and wind, and Mista was yanked violently into the air.