Ch. 2
Doble Filo

NOVEMBER 4TH, 1988
12:14
ROCHDALE, QUEENS, NY

Back when she was little, Della Brown had always wanted to become a writer. It was at the top of her own personal bucket list, right above marriage, learning martial arts, and traveling the world. Her goal in life was to put her name on the map as a best-selling fiction author whose work would be talked about for years to come. And she already had a pretty decent head-start. Della was already working on two stories, and she was confident that by the end of next year, she would have at least one complete work.

If only she could expand from her notes and drafts.

As it turned out, Della hadn't even begun writing any story. Most of her work had been written down in a notebook; simple notes here and there about plots and characters that she had yet to fully flesh out. There were several, carefully drawn sketches of the characters she wanted to use as protagonists for each one. One notebook had what looked like a beautiful blonde with an array of makeup and a deadly smile. The other had a blue humanoid with a cracked face and blades for arms.

She was certain that the stories about an assassin who could seamlessly transform into any woman she desired and a young boy turned bio-weapon escaping from his experimenters would catch the attention of readers, but she just had no idea how to properly convey what she wanted to write. She couldn't properly express her characters or carry a scene properly. The plots seemed to go nowhere. They lacked substance. And for several long weeks, she had been working hard to improve on this.

Which was why she had brought her work to… well, work. On her downtime, she would sit behind the counter of the antique store she worked in and write. Amongst the knick-knacks, paintings, figurines and other assorted items, she would find inspiration for her stories. Or at least try to. Writer's block was no fun. Especially since she had been stuck on the same synopsis of a chapter for her assassin story for weeks: a murdered tailor's son hiring the protagonist to save the city from a killer dominatrix.

"Damnit," cursed Della, leaning back in her chair and looking at the very rough draft of her story she was holding. Everything felt wrong with it. Too cliche. Too bland. And she didn't know what Irene, the main protagonist of this story, would do when she confronted the killer. Obviously, kill her in the end, but how would she do so? What crazy powers would she use against her? And when it was over, how would she end the chapter? Just thinking about all this made Della want to stab through the paper with her pencil and rip it up. She just felt too frustrated to think.

I need something, she thought as she put her work away, or someone, to help take my mind off slow on business.

It was a quiet day for Della. The store was usually slow on business. Most people who would come in during the holidays were there to buy little inexpensive gifts for their family members. But today passed slower than usual. It was already noon and nobody had stopped by. Not even to browse the store's wares. And sadly, she didn't expect anyone to come, no matter how much she prayed. Things were only going to get more boring, and that made Della feel worse.

As if God decided to bless her with a miracle, the bell over the door rang. Her head shot up to see who came in, but all she saw was a mess of dark hair peeking inside. And then it turned, and Della immediately perked up. She recognized those blue eyes.

"Hey, there you are," greeted Joaquín as he walked in, wearing that same smile she remembered from the day prior. "It looked so empty in here. Where is everyone?

"Joaquín," said Della, now smiling at the sight of her new acquaintance. She stepped out from behind the counter to greet him. "You came on one of our slower days. We haven't had a customer all day. My boss is in the back taking a nap. Didn't get much sleep last night."

"I see. So what've you been up to since you've got no customers?"

"Writing," she looked away, her smile fading as she was reminded of her work. "I'm getting nowhere with it. I mean, I've been stuck with the same notes and the same synopsis, and it just doesn't grow from that." She saw him approach the desk and curiously open the notebook filled with said notes. His eyes darted almost faster than she could see, though she could tell they were filled with interest. When he was done and closed the book, she said hastily. "I-I mean, a lot of that stuff might change. It's not set in-"

"I love it," he interrupted. Della froze. She had never shown anyone her work, mainly out of fear of their opinions. But here was someone she had just met yesterday, a complete stranger, actually liking what she had currently. And these were just notes. "I may not look like it, but I like reading. And this looks like something I could read. You got a nice little story. And your character, Irene… Those are some awesome powers. I don't think Hollywood would have ever thought of something like this."

There's no way it could be that good, she thought to disbelief. How many stories or movies have a powerful gangster corrupting the streets, only for someone to topple them? It's unoriginal. So how would it even be appealing? Is he just trying to make me feel better? Or does he really like it? Joaquín certainly was a weird man.

"I think it should be episodic, though," he turned to her, closing the notebook. "Like, it shouldn't end with just this Roba chick. You should have her be hired to kill other gangsters and villains. I mean, this is an assassin, right? It only makes sense. Just going after one person the entire story would just make it feel uninteresting. And it wouldn't give your Irene any room to grow. Cause I'm sure you don't want her to just be some one-dimensional protagonist."

Apparently, he liked it. Della didn't know what to say. So she settled on a simple, "Thank you."

"No problem." Joaquín took a small look around the quiet store and then said, "So, what made you wanna work in a place like this."

Snapping out of her shock, Della answered. "Adam's an old family friend. Before this, I was working at a grocery store. But he came to my parents and offered me a job here. He was looking for a new clerk since the old one left. I said yes immediately. I mean, who doesn't wanna work at a place like this? All these wonderful creations from years long forgotten given a second chance at life? It's really calming and beautiful, in a nostalgic and melancholic way."

"I feel you. It's like that whenever I see the paintings back home. They were all made by this guy named Cajiga. You saw them, right?" Of course she did. There were multiple paintings around the Trejo household of beautiful and vibrant countrysides. In almost every one of them, there was a tree whose leaves were dominated by red flowers. "That's part of why I came here, too. I was gonna check if you have one that Abuelita doesn't have yet."

"I don't know if we have any, but feel free to look around." As Joaquín walked around the store and looked through the paintings, her thoughts wandered back to the night before. About how open he was and how big his heart really is. She never would have guessed when she first saw him in that alley. Sure, he looked and sort of acted cocky, but he was a man who wore his heart on his sleeve. He placed his trust in people he had never met, like her. And you rarely see that these days.

Deep down, this made Della trust him more.

"Thanks for having me over, by the way," said Della as she tore herself from her thoughts. Joaquín, in turn, tore himself from a painting of a cow and smiled over her way. "See anything you like?"

"Not yet," he declared, returning to his search. "I'm looking for something that doesn't have a flamboyán in it."

"Flamboyant?" Did she hear right?

"Yeah, it's called a flamboyán in Puerto Rico. It's those red-flowered trees in the paintings." That made sense now. "Beautiful trees. It's a shame there aren't any here in New York. The neighborhood would look more beautiful with a few growing around." He continued to look through the paintings before he exclaimed in joy. Sure enough, he had found what he was looking for; a painting of an old man with a guitar. There were no flamboyán in it.

As he proceeded to take it, the bell rang again. Della turned to see who came in and had to stifle a gasp.

Walking in was a man in a long white overcoat, where he kept his hands hidden in. The man's pants and his sneakers matched, as did his wide-brimmed hat cocked to one side. He wore shades upon a handsome, beaky nose. His black hair was curly, and his mustache was thin. He looked around among the assortment of antiques (at least she assumed so, because his head didn't move). And then he smiled. A golden tooth shone in the dim of the store. Della knew who he was.

T-That's Peter, she thought fearfully. Peter the Blade.

Peter was a notorious pimp many respected and feared all at once. He made a name of himself in the Lower East Side when he began taking over everyone else's prostitution rings. Almost every woman in Manhattan belonged to him. Those who opposed him was mysteriously found dead the next morning with no evidence that he had done anything. They knew he was at fault, but he went unquestioned and untried. With his strong ties to the police and the criminal underground as a whole, Peter was untouchable.

Della had only felt absolute fear once in her life. And now that she was facing death a second time, she felt it again, and it caused her to hide pitifully behind the register. Peter walked in with a swagger only people like him would have and approached Joaquín. The Spanish youth, who was carefully removing the painting from the wall, hadn't registered his entry until he turned around. And it became very obvious to her he did not know who he was, for he recklessly said to him, "Hey buddy. Looking for a bigger hat?"

The air grew uncomfortably quiet for a second. Della tried to catch his gaze, shaking her head frantically and hoping he would understand the danger they were in. She went unnoticed. In response to the quip, Peter chuckled. "No, my friend," Peter said in a silky, yet chilling voice. You could barely tell he was Spanish as well by how he sounded. "But I am looking for someone, and I require some assistance. Perhaps you can help me?

"Sure," said Joaquín, though he sounded rather cautious. He must have felt something wicked like she did.

"You see, friend, an acquaintance of mine came crying into my club about losing a fight."

"A fight?" Joaquín handed the painting to Della, who nervously rang the item. "I only fought three people yesterday, which one was yours?"

"Juanito Alimaña," Peter said without hesitation. And immediately, Joaquín's expression grew stony. "He said you humiliated him in combat and unceremoniously knocked him unconscious in front of thirty spectators.

"Thirty-one," corrected Joaquín, his voice now firm. "I guess he forgot to tell you how he pulled a knife on me after I helped him up. I did what I had to do. He was a sore loser and I taught him a lesson.

"So rather than taking his knife like a man, you chose to strike him. And with some bizarre power, from what he told me. Like a complete coward."

"How does that make me a coward," snarled Joaquín. "You can't vouch for him if you weren't there, you clueless bum!"

"You should really consider who it is you're talking to, boy. You have no idea who I am, or what I could do to you." Peter's tone didn't change.

"I don't give two shits if you're John Paul II, you came here and began interrogating me with false accusations! I'll talk to you however I want!"

At this point, Joaquín was right in his face, his eyes flaring into the obscured lens of Peter. And while Della's friend's face was now filled with annoyance, the intruder's was still calm and smiling. His tooth still shone brilliantly, brightening the antiques around them in a sickening glow. Oh God, please don't let them fight in here, please don't let them fight in here. Can't these guys take it outside?

"Listen, you overgrown rat," Joaquín began, "I don't care who you are, but you're scaring the living daylights out of my friend here. Now if you don't want me to knock that ugly-ass tooth out of your stupid smirk, I suggest you turn around, make like Michael Jackson, and beat it! Because I won't hesitate to do what I did to Juanito to you!"

And then, something eerie happened. Something emerged from both men at the same time. Something that faded into existence, like ghost. Della wasn't sure whether to scream or run. Or both. But she was certain of one thing:

Whatever was going on, she wasn't supposed to see it.

Coiling around Peter was a black, thorny and overgrown flying fish. It looked monstrous with its sharp scales, its blade-like wing-shaped fins, and its jagged, smiling mouth filled with two rows of devilish teeth. One of them was gold. And its eyes were blacker than its scales, unblinking yet fixed upon Joaquín. It looked more like a shark than a fish, but above all else, it looked like it should not exist.

Appearing behind Joaquín was a taller man with a similar build as him, but his exposed upper torso was a pale gold. He had dark gold hair that seemed to transition down to his nose. He looked like a human boxer, with his golden pants, tapped limbs and fingerless gloves. But with the black, filmy goggles covering his blazing eyes, the sac-like ears, shiny body, and his three toes and four fingers, he looked rather frog-like. Della also noticed how there was a raised, star-shaped outline on its paler pecs, which was also upon his black deltoids, belt-buckle, and gloves.

No words were wasted. The fish darted through the air, chomping at Joaquín. But he fluidly dodged, the fish getting grabbed by the frogman instead. As he was about to crush it to death, he let go of it immediately. There was blood on both the man and Joaquín's hands. The shark-like skin had dug into his palm. Della assumed that whatever happened to this ghost happened to him. It was like some spiritual connection.

"What's wrong," laughed Peter. "Is his skin too sharp for you to handle?" The fish swam back to Pete and rested on his shoulder, allowing him to run a ringed hand along its back. He didn't bleed. "This is Doble Filo. The perfect killer. If I wanted anyone dead, my friend here can do it without getting my hands dirty. All it has to do is swim through whoever I want, and their insides will be sliced and diced. But, of course, they're left intact. They can never trace it back to me. And if they did, so what? They can never touch me."

The fish swam in the air again, and this time, it phased through the frogman's chest. Both Joaquín and the spirit doubled over in pain. And then again he was hurt when it flew right back. Peter wasn't lying. It really did hurt from the inside. But that didn't stop the spirit from grabbing ahold of the fish again before it returned to its master. He made no move to let go, even as his hand bled from it. As it squirmed and thrashed, Peter was rooted and struggled to move.

"S-Sueltame," he growled, the smile now replaced with a grimace. "¡Sueltame ahora!"

"Nah," said Joaquín. It was his turn to crack a grin. "Not yet. Not until you apologize to us."

"¿Para qué?"

"You came in here to interrogate me under false claims and you scared my friend. This is a place of business. You had no right to waltz in here and make a scene. Now apologize."

Peter chuckled at first, but he was cut off when Doble Filo was squeezed in the hand. He was choking, desperately trying to reach up to his throat. But he couldn't move his arms. When it looked like he was being crushed harder, he let out a strangled, "Okay, okay, I'm sorry!"

Joaquín cupped his ear with an undamaged hand to him and teasingly said, "¿Que? I'm sorry, you're gonna have to say it again. Slowly. Because depending on what you said, I just might kick your ass."

"¡D-Dije que lo siento! ¡Ahora, sueltame!"

It looked like Joaquín was taking his time considering what he wanted. Then, he smiled and said, "Sure thing. But you forgot to say please. So I guess this means you're getting that ass-kicking after all!" He let go of the fish. And upon doing so, the spirit unleashed a loud "¡TOMA!" and punched the fish in the stomach. This caused Peter to collapsed to his knees, clutching his gut from the sudden punch.

But it didn't stop there. The frogman suddenly unleashed a barrage of punches. They were so fast that Della thought the fists were disembodied from his arms. It was like a hurricane's downpour mixed with the worst hailstorm ever. Each blow pummeled the fish, all while he yelled a rapid stream of " ¡TOMATOMATOMA!" And each strike caused Peter's body to jerk wherever they landed on the fish, blood bursting from his wounds and his mouth.

When the fish looked like a broken, crumpled mess with its fins cracked and its teeth missing, both Joaquín and the figure cried out "¡TOMA E'TO!" and delivered one last powerful blow. Doble Filo and Peter were sent flying through the door, sending it off its hinges. All three landed on the other side of the street. Della ran from her counter and saw that a crowd of people had moved out of the way when he crashed out. They still kept their distance from the twitching mess of broken limbs, knowing who he was.

Oh man… This is gonna come out of my paycheck…

~+JO*JO+~

Clean up took roughly an hour. An ambulance came right away and took Peter on a stretcher. Policemen questioned Joaquín, naturally, and he told them the entire truth. Well, except for whatever that frog she saw being involved. He attributed the broken door to its age and his strength. Della told the same story, but stupidly added that he tried to knife him. She knew they would believe it because Peter almost always had his hands in his pocket. And one of them was holding a knife.

Turned out she was right. The one hand he didn't take out before had a knife in it.

Adam had slept through the brief confrontation and wasn't bothered by it at all. When the two had told him the story, he simply laughed it off. "Oh, that must have been quite a disappointment for him," he said as he looked at the doorless entrance. "Poor ol' fisherman. Thought he could catch a sardine and ended up hookin' a shark. Quite unlucky."

"We're lucky I was here to kick him out," said Joaquín with a smile, his hand now wrapped up and being nursed. "Sorry about the door. I promise I'll pay it off."

"Bah, no need to. I can easily replace it. I'm surprised you had the strength to do that."

"I know. It just came out of nowhere." He looked at Della, hoping she could join in on the subtle joke. But she couldn't find the energy to laugh. Her mind was running wild from the whole situation. One thought blared in her head. Just who are you, Joaquín Trejo? She wanted to know what it was she saw. What was that spirit? How was he able to make it magically appear to kick ass. It was impossible, just like the sparks. And yet there they were an hour later after the fight.

When Adam returned to his office, Della turned her attention to Joaquín, who decided to take a seat in a wooden rocking chair to relax and nurse his wounded hand. The spirit had long since faded. Taking in a deep breath to compose herself, she said, "Okay, Joaquín. You have some explaining to do. What exactly did I just see? What was that… that thing… that you both had."

"Don't be silly," he said nonchalantly. "You got one too."

"No, I don't."

"You don't?"

"No, I don't!" Della's face grew red as she almost yelled.

"So how could you see it, then," Joaquín asked in between his chuckling.

"I don't know!" She yelled this time.

Joaquín stood up and scratched his head. He clearly wasn't expecting her answer. "That's weird. Usually, nobody else could see him. I'm the only one that could. Oh, and anyone else who has something like him. Like Peter."

"But what is it," she asked.

"His name's Preciosa. He's called that cause he almost looks like my dad. It's the pet name my abuelita gave him growing up."

"But what is it, "Della repeated. Joaquín's response was just a shrug. She personally didn't know how to take this. She was torn between shock, fear, and admiration all at once. Della knew, after seeing his sparking hands the other day, that Joaquín wasn't an ordinary man. Today proved that even more when he just... summoned another body behind him and decimated a killer fish. It was strong. And while her heart trembled in fear of his strength, she also felt amazed that he could procure such a thing.

"All I know is that he appeared after my dad died." As if on cue, the figure known as Preciosa manifested before them, clear as day. His presence was still a shock to her. "It was the day after his funeral. I felt sick to my stomach from the grief, and I was running a mild fever. Plus I had a fight to go to that night, one I couldn't back down from. During that fight, my opponent mocked me so badly for my lack of motivation. Then he insulted my father. Before I knew it, Preciosa appeared and kicked his ass.

"I didn't know what happened, and neither did anyone else. They were scared as I was. So I just ran home. I went to the bathroom, looked in the mirror and when I saw him, I almost cried. I thought my dad came back. But it wasn't him. When I told my abuelita all about it, she said he came back as a guardian angel. To protect me from danger. That's why she gave him that name. Because he was a precious part of our lives, and he would continue to live on in spirit.

"I got over my sickness that day. Since then, I started to study him. See what he could do. I trained day in and day out on my downtime, learning everything he could do. I learned he could punch really fast, can stick to walls, jump extremely high, and he can see and hear things way better than I could. Oh, and apparently he's got this slime he can make on his skin that acts as a conductor to my sparks. It's really cool."

Whoa. That's actually pretty cool, now that he mentions it, she thought, bewildered by the spirit. With everything explained to her as it was, Della finally started to calm down. "And you really don't know what he is?"

"Sadly no. But I met others like him. Like this dog I met who could use sand. He's a feisty one, but I managed to make friends with him. Haven't seen him in months… But there are also dangerous ones. I can tell you right now that punk earlier was far from the first I've met in New York. And from all my encounters, I've learned that they all like to keep their powers a secret from one another. Probably to avoid letting others know about their weaknesses."

"So… when Peter told you how his worked…"

"He was probably doing it because he thought he could kill me," he said, crossing his arms. "Proved him wrong."

Della took a seat beside him in a dusty recliner and looked at her hands for a long while. He's not the only one. There are others just like him. And not all of them are humans, either… Maybe one of them has an idea as to what these things truly are… and maybe… maybe they can tell me why I can see one so clearly… Do I really have one? It doesn't feel like it… I would have known. It would be a lie to say it didn't trouble her.

Joaquín's voice, concerned, broke her thoughts. "Hey, you okay, Della? You look like something's bugging you."

"No, I'm not," she said with hesitation. "Just trying to take this all in. It's… kind of a bit of information overload."

"I hope you're not scared. Cause guess what. As long as I'm here, I promise they won't come after you." She looked up at him, and her heart gave a funny turn. He would do that for her? The question must have shown on her face, because he said, with a warm smile, "Yes. I will. I can guarantee it." Della didn't quite know what to say. She really felt thankful that she had a friend like Joaquín. Not many of her friends would selflessly do something like this for her. It made her rethink who she had as friends.

And boy, did that feel uncomfortable.

Preciosa soon faded back into Joaquín, who stretched and shook his sore hand. "Hey, sorry to cut this short, but I ought to get home. Abuelita might be worried about me. I'll see you another time, okay?" Della nodded, going back to her thoughts. Looking back at earlier, she was partially reminded of the event that tore her life apart. In the midst of bloodshed and pain, she was saved by a childhood friend. A boy who she barely knew, yet came to trust. It was funny how fate worked.

Just like that boy, she felt completely safe around Joaquín. She believed him when he made that little promise. Joaquín did not seem like the type of person who would go back on his word. Della knew he would protect her, both he and Preciosa. They were both powerhouses with incredible, unimaginable powers. They would risk their lives to make sure she, or anyone else he knew, was safe.

She turned to him as he was putting money on the counter for his almost forgotten painting and said, "Hey, Joaquín?"

"What's up," he asked.

Della hesitated for a second, thinking of how to best phrase her next words, before she replied, "I think your grandmother was right in naming him that."

That got a smile from him. One that she knew would never be forgotten to her dying day.

~PETER THE BLADE: INCAPACITATED~

STAND TIME

STAND USER: PETER THE BLADE (ピーター・ザ・ブレイド)

STAND NAME: DOBLE FILO (両刃 (ダブル・フィロ))

POWER: D, SPEED: A, RANGE: C, DURABILITY: C, PRECISION: D, POTENTIAL: E

ABILITY: A Stand taking the form of a flying fish, it is able to swim through its prey, tearing apart insides with its razor-sharp fins and sharkskin-like hide. It leaves behind no evidence, leaving pathologists confused. Its skin prevents weaker Stands from grabbing it, and can easily cut apart hands with ease. Its only weakness (not exploited), is its sensitive eyes. While it cannot stand bright light, it can function at its peak in the dark. This makes the night the perfect opportunity for Peter to strike.