Cautiously, a shadowy figure took the woman's extended hand. "Get me out of here, please."

"Lyn Aizumi," the redhead introduced herself.

"I'm Bren—"

"Lyn?" Boss seemed startled by the entrance of his redheaded friend. "You haven't shown up here in a while. The kid was starting to worry."

"Sorry," Lyn apologized as she sat on a barstool across from Boss, who was already preparing her a cup of his best brew, "Dio's been on high alert lately… He's convinced the Joestars are going to come after him any day now… The Hierophant Green, Silver Chariot, and Dark Blue Moon users were dispatched from the mansion recently… and I heard Dio hired a few other assassins—two guys named Gray Fly and Rubber Soul and some Native American shaman—for insurance… but honestly I think they're just supposed to slow the Joestars…" Lyn trailed off with a yawn, "down…"

"Sounds rough," Boss sighed as he placed a cup on the bar.

"Tell me about it… Don't even get me started on this mess with the Garner girl…"

"What's going on with her?" Boss asked.

"I don't wanna talk about it…" Lyn complained as she planted her face on the bar next to her coffee. "Every day it's the same: dig a tunnel, build a bomb, murder this innocent subject with another failed Stand Transplant… How am I supposed to sleep with that monster sniffing for trouble at every turn… and I can't stop dreaming about those subjects' faces…"

"The coffee can't help if you don't drink it, you know," Boss urged as he nudged the steaming cup closer to the troubled woman.

"You know I can't afford it…" Lyn whined.

"Nonsense, it's coming out of his tab," Boss assured her as he pointed his thumb over his shoulder at his fluffy-haired part-timer, Brent, who was cleaning a plate in the nearby sink.

"Huh?" Brent wondered aloud as he stopped washing a plate. "What the hell, Boss!"

"Don't think I didn't notice that half-hour break you took without clocking out yesterday!" Boss retorted. Brent simply groaned and returned to his chores.

"I'm glad things seem normal here…" Lyn yawned as she sat up and took a drink of her coffee. "Dio still hasn't found this place?"

"Two can play at his little game of hiding in plain sight," Boss chuckled. "Besides, even if your intel was right, and he was interested in the kid and me at some point, I'm sure he has more important things to concern himself with now."

"You two should leave…" Lyn suggested between sips. "Cairo's going to turn into a warzone if the Joestars make it this far… It won't be safe…"

"These Joestars," Boss mused, "what are they like?"

"Aside from their blood relation to Jonathan Joestar, Dio's adopted brother, they don't seem to be anything special…" Lyn admitted. "The older one, Joseph Joestar, Jonathan's grandson—he has a clairvoyance-type Stand… It's like a weaker version of Fleetwood's Silver Springs, that scrying Stand I told you about last time… The younger one is Joseph's grandson, Jotaro Kujo… His Stand is a combat-type… but it's relatively straightforward… It isn't much to write home about aside from its physical prowess, so you could maybe think of it as a close-ranged, durability-type variant of Ellelle's Mama SKYO… They have a friend, Mohammed Abdul, who uses a Stand that controls fire… but Dio just laughed at the mention of his name… so I doubt he poses much real threat…"

"In that case, we can't leave," Boss grunted.

"I still haven't gotten an Egyptian trench coat!" Brent called through his soap-covered hands.

"That isn't why, you dunce!" Boss scolded. "To be honest," he sighed as he returned his attention to Lyn, "I considered joining up with those Joestars when I heard they were going to take on Dio, but it doesn't sound like we should put our faith in them from what you've said. In that case, we need to devise our own plan to deal with that monster, and we should take advantage of the chaos and his thinning ranks to do it."

"Well, the ranks are thinning…" Lyn admitted. "Some more Stand users are being deployed along the Joestars' predicted route today… That means less security around the mansion…"

"Do you know who's being deployed?" Boss asked. "I've been trying to keep up with all the Stand users you've reported about."

"I don't…" Lyn admitted. "I guess I'll find out tomorrow when they aren't here…"

"I'll go check!" Brent offered as he dried his hands off and suddenly vanished into thin air.

"Not on the clock, you won't!" Boss shouted as a nearby window briefly opened before closing again.

"Why doesn't he just take the door?" Lyn asked.

"He's more likely to get spotted," Boss sighed. "That Stand of his is a real hassle. It doesn't help he keeps lying to me about it."

"Well, he isn't flesh-budded anymore, right? Then he's at least the enemy of our enemy…" Lyn assured herself.

"Speaking of which," Boss segued, "where's the copy?"

"He's under closer watch than I am…" Lyn yawned. "I think I can get him out for a bit tomorrow, though…"

"Good, he'll want to hear what I found out," Boss assured her.

"Did you find something?" Lyn asked, perking up immediately.

"Yeah, I have a friend who works for the government, and I pulled a favor," Boss bragged. "After some convincing, I found someone who matches your vision: Suki Kanao, eighteen years old, daughter of Yui Kanao and Steve Wonder. Her mother's Japanese, and her dad's English, but she was born here in Egypt, oddly enough. Get this, though. She's also one-sixteenth Chinese. Her great-grandfather is Wang Chan, that old lackey of Dio's that Brando told us about, so there's already a connection between her and Dio—albeit a thin one."

"Were you able to get her address?" Lyn implored.

"No, my contact was too stingy for that, so we'll need to find another way to locate her. I've had the part-timer digging through phonebooks, but that takes time," Boss sighed.

"I'll see if I can dig anything up," Lyn offered.

That's enough eavesdropping for now.

After leaving Café Sinatra, Brent made his way to the Almaza Air Base. The aerodrome offered the fastest way out of Cairo, and despite the fact that it was under the control of the Egyptian Air Force, a handful of carefully-chosen, flesh-budded operatives gave Dio's minions full use of the base's resources whenever Dio willed it. Sneaking into the base was, of course, no problem for Brent. His Stand, Death of a Bachelor, allowed him to completely conceal his presence. He had been in and out of the place several times before Boss removed his own flesh bud.

An eerie muscle memory carried him to the preferred hangar for Dio's minions. Therein, he saw a group of henchmen. One was a muscular American with luscious, black hair; he was half-naked but wore polka-dot boxer-briefs, heavy combat boots, and a thick, golden belt. His toned chest featured a familiar tattoo of two boxing gloves crossed over one another. He also wore a cross-stitched baby carrier around his torso, in which he carried an Arabian baby sporting a malicious grin. Nearby, a lanky Egyptian man with short, black hair and a handsome Pakistani man with flowing, dark hair exchanged a low five while ogling a nearby stewardess.

Brent moved closer to listen in on their conversation. However, he regretted his choice almost instantly when another tall, muscular man descended from a nearby airplane. The man had wavy, shoulder-length hair, and he wore a long-sleeved leotard as well as heart-shaped earrings and a gold circlet. Goddammit, what is he doing here?

"These are the iridescent words of Lord Dio himself: 'Ellelle Cool Jay, Mannish Boy, Bim Cash, Steely Dan—the four of you are to disperse along the path designated by the map on the plane. When you cross paths with the Joestars, kill them as well as any allies they may have acquired. Failure will not be tolerated.' So sayeth our heavenly lord," preached Dio's faithful disciple.

"Yo, Ice," Dan replied, "I thought Hierophant Green and Dark Blue Moon had this covered. If we're all going after the Joestars, shouldn't we just gang up on them and take them out at once?"

"Tower of Gray will deter the Joestars' modes of transport and ensure they are forced onto the predicted route," Ice explained. "Beyond that, I insist that you not question Lord Dio's orders or tactics, unless, of course, there is a problem with that."

The hangar fell silent.

"And the crowd goes… silent?" Ellelle narrated. "Let's have a word from our reigning champ about this exciting turn of events!"

Ellelle took a microphone from the baby, who had been sucking on it like a bottle, and changed his style of speech before continuing, "Well, Ellelle, if that Joestar and his crew think they got what it takes to challenge Lord Dio, I only got one thing to say to 'em." Ellelle paused for emphasis and turned his head to an imaginary crowd. "They'd better ask their doctor before taking Cialis, because they're about to get Major Sprung!" Ellelle dropped the mic.

The room returned to silence for a moment before the baby reached down toward the device and began to cry in protest. Ellelle withstood the high-pitched whine for as long as he could before he squatted down and allowed the baby to reach the microphone and return to suckling on it.

"What about the tramp?" Dan asked with a smirk as he gestured toward the stewardess.

"I have implanted both her and the pilot with Lord Dio's flesh buds as per his request," Ice explained. "They will be disposed of after the voyage, so you may use them as you see fit in the meantime."

"Hahaha, that's what I'm talking about," the short-haired man chortled. "Talk about inflight entertainment!"

"Hey, Cash, save some for me," Dan cackled as he playfully slapped the lanky man on the back.

They're disgusting.

"You are… absolutely certain that you were not followed?" Ice asked the group of Stand users before him.

That's my cue to leave.

The ringing of the bell above the door signaled Brent's return to Café Sinatra that evening. Boss was warming a cup of milk while his adopted daughter yawned sleepily nearby. "What'd you bother coming back for?" Boss asked his part-timer.

"I came to clock out," Brent chuckled.

"Don't waste your time. I took you off the clock the minute you bolted," Boss scoffed.

"What? Come on! You can at least pay me for helping you and Goggles with your little resistance. I'm sticking my neck out for you guys," Brent protested.

"If you don't want to be in danger, get out of Egypt," Boss retorted. "Unlike Lyn, Dio wouldn't come looking for you if you left Egypt. Even if he did, I doubt even he could find you with that Stand of yours."

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Brent protested. "My Stand is so weak! I can barely maintain it for more than a few minutes!"

"You're full of shit. You told us you didn't even have a Stand when we found you," Boss sighed.

"Hey, what can I say?" Brent defended. "Knowledge is power. I don't like it when people connected to Dio have power over me, even if they seem to have betrayed him."

"That paranoia is going to bite you in the ass," Boss scolded.

"W-Watch your language…" the little girl muttered.

Boss sighed, "Go up to bed, Sweetie." He patted the girl on the back, and she went up the stairs to her dusty bedroom.

"What's the real reason you won't leave?" Boss asked. "You want Dio gone too, right?"

"I'm just killing time 'til Barony Souls III comes out," Brent yawned. "Besides, I can't leave Cairo 'til I get a trench coat made from deluxe Egyptian fibers. I told you that already."

"Fine, don't tell me," Boss groaned. "Anyway, get out of here. Be back at six o'clock sharp."

The following afternoon, Brent found his way to a small tailor shop in the suburbs of Cairo. "In the Closet," as it was called, was a local, family-owned business with a surprisingly bright and colorful interior, contrasting its plain and inconspicuous exterior. This must be the place. Brent stepped inside and found a young woman whose hair lay in long, dark curls somberly repairing the skirt of an old wedding dress.

"Welcome!" she said with a feigned smile as she looked up from the dress in response to the ringing of the bell hung above the door.

"Are you who I should talk to about a commission?" Brent asked.

"Well, normally, that'd be my grandmother," the woman admitted, "but she's unfortunately feeling unwell today, so I'm filling in for her."

"Fantastic," Brent replied, "rather, it's fantastic that I can make the commission, not that your grandmother is—"

"It's fine," the woman interrupted with a chuckle as she stood up and walked to a clipboard on a nearby countertop. "What can we do for you?"

"I need a trench coat, a black one with red accents," Brent explained. "I want it fitted to my exact measurements and made purely from the finest Egyptian cotton you can access."

"Sure, um, we can do that," the woman agreed. "It just won't be cheap, and we'll need at least half the price upfront to cover the cost of materials."

"Money is no object," Brent replied with a smile. He dropped an envelope stuffed with cash on the countertop in front of the woman.

She hesitantly inspected its contents before widening her eyes. "Sir, this is far too much!" she protested.

"Nonsense," Brent chuckled, "just consider it a testament to the standard of quality I'll be holding you to."

"O-Of course," she replied as she hesitantly accepted the payment, "what name should I use for the order?"

"Brent Wilson," Brent answered, "can I ask who you are?"

"Oh, um, my name's Michel Jackson," the young woman replied sheepishly.

"Interesting, are you American, if you don't mind my asking?" Brent inquired.

"I'm half-European," she explained, "though I know I don't look it. If it's alright," she continued, "I'd like to go ahead and get your measurements."

Brent followed Michel to a nearby fitting room where she measured his various body parts and noted the results on her clipboard. "What about you?" asked the woman, seeming nervous to maintain conversation. "You don't look or sound Egyptian."

"I'm Canadian, actually," Brent replied. "I graduated from the University of Toronto last year, majoring in hydrology and minoring in psychology."

"What brings you to Egypt, then?" Michel asked as she squatted down and wrapped her measuring tape around his waist.

"This, pretty much," Brent chuckled, "I want a trench coat made from Egyptian cotton."

"That's a lot of effort for a coat," Michel giggled back.

"Well, I'm a simple guy," Brent admitted. "Once I get my mind set on something, I can't really think about anything else until I accomplish it. Besides, our aesthetics are how we share ourselves with the world around us. I want how I look to be representative of who I am."

"And who you are is a messy-haired Canadian in an Egyptian trench coat?" Michel chuckled.

"That's one way to put it."

Michel noted the last of his measurements and stood up to look him in the eyes. Her midnight blue eyes seemed to have forgotten her hesitation from moments earlier. They carried a wanderlust and determination that Brent recognized. He had seen the same look in the mirror. "Can you tell me something? What's it like outside of Egypt?"

"It's… not all that great, to be honest," Brent admitted. "I mean, U. of T. had some cool stuff, to be honest, but Canada's so cold that you're practically living in Hell most of the year. Egypt's weather is much more to my taste."

"It's hardly the kind of climate for a cotton coat," Michel chuckled.

"Well, it's not like I'm going to be staying in Egypt forever," Brent affirmed. "I'll probably leave after I get my coat. Maybe I'll try Italy or Greece next."

"You could always go to Japan!" Michel suggested.

"No thanks," Brent denied, "I'm terrified of the ocean, so being surrounded by it like that sounds like the worst," he admitted with a chuckle.

"I love the ocean," Michel mused as her eyes wandered to a sketchbook resting on the nearby countertop. "I've always wanted to travel across it in a cruise ship… or, no, a submarine!" she enthused. "Holy crap, traveling in a submarine would be so cool!"

"Nope! Nope-nope-nope!" Brent waved his hands emphatically in front of his face as he shook his head fervently from side to side. When he finished, his gaze returned to the sketchbook. She's an artist.

Next to the book, there was an old photograph stored in a cracked frame. The photo featured five children: four girls and a boy. One of the girls had short, black ringlets and deep, blue eyes; that was Michel. Another was shorter with short brown hair cut into a childish bob, and the third was even shorter but otherwise resembled the second apart from wearing her hair in a long braid. The final girl was about the height of the second, a little shorter than Michel, but she had black hair and a hooked nose. At the center of the girls, the black-haired, blue-eyed boy stood triumphant. He was about the height of the young Michel, whose hand he held in his own. Around his other arm, however, was the bob-haired girl, who was blushing and kissing him on the cheek. The hook-nosed girl smiled widely and held two fingers over the boy's head like a rabbit's ears; with her other hand, she held two fingers over her left eye in a pose that seemed to imitate some Japanese pop idol. The smallest girl sat in front of the boy's feet and pouted at the camera, evidently unamused by having her picture taken.

After a moment, a detail in the photo stood out to Brent: a single bee rested harmlessly on the boy's shoulder. Brent's mouth curved into a grimace at the sight of the creature. That's him…

After a long pause, Michel continued, "To be honest, it's been my dream to leave and travel somewhere. I'm not sure where I'd go or what I'd do, but…"

Brent regained his composure and returned his attention to Michel. "You want to come with me?" he offered as she trailed off.

"Huh? What? I mean, well, I hardly know you, and, well…" Michel stammered.

"Well, we have plenty of time to get to know each other," Brent replied with a friendly smile, "so you can think over my offer in the meantime."

"I appreciate it," Michel sighed as the sullen look returned to her face, "but no matter what I want, I can't just leave my grandma here. I'm sorry."

"No, it's fine," Brent assured her as he scratched at his hair. "I was out of line dropping that on a stranger like that. I should get going."

"Oh, one more thing!" Michel called as Brent moved toward the door. "We'll send you a letter when your commission is complete, but we need a mailing address."

"Send it to Café Sinatra in Cairo," Brent instructed. "I'm part-timer there. If you need me for anything else, you can reach me at this number," he added as he wrote down his telephone number on a nearby piece of paper.

As Brent left the shop, Michel looked behind her desk at the stack of cash he had given her for the coat. "He works part-time at a café?" she wondered under her breath.

Brent returned for work the following evening. He entered the café to find Boss serving their usual customer, Lyn, and her friend Brando, a defective clone of Dio who had recently gone rogue. However, they were accompanied by another girl, a young, tannish woman with green eyes and curly, blonde hair. "You're late," Boss scolded his part-timer.

"Isn't it quarter 'til six?" Brent asked. "I thought I was early."

"I wanted you to come at six in the morning. You're nearly twelve hours late," Boss groaned.

"Oops, my bad," Brent chuckled, "who's the newcomer? I assume she's a Stand user since she's with Brandy, and you've gone to the trouble of changing the store's sign to closed."

"Nice to meet you!" the newcomer sang as she spun around in her barstool and extended a hand toward Brent. "Name's Fleetwood!"

"Brent Wilson," Brent introduced with a wink as he shook her hand, "you can call me Willy."

"Alright, keep your dick in your pants," Boss chided. "We don't have time for your shenanigans."

"Miss Mac here has for a not-inconsiderable number of months found herself in the rather unfortunate and unseemly predicament of enduring the proverbial—and occasionally literal—clutches of Lord—I mean—of Dio," Brando explained.

"Let me guess. She got the doctor's treatment," Brent assumed as he moved behind the counter and slipped on his coffee-stained apron.

"Yeah, I feel a lot better now." Fleetwood smiled down at the countertop while rubbing her fingertips on her forehead. "It's amazing that a Stand that can remove flesh buds is so close to the mansion."

"We're happy to help…" Lyn yawned, "…as long as you keep your end of the deal."

"Sure!" Fleetwood cheered, instantly regaining her excited demeanor. "This is all I'm doing for you, though. I won't tell Dio about you, but I'm not joining your cause either. I like my head attached to my shoulders, thank you very much."

"That's fine…" Lyn assured her.

"I assure you that this instance of your assistance, singular as it may be, is pivotal to our own plans as well as Dio's downfall and, it is no exaggeration to say, the good of the entire universe itself." Brando repeated Lyn's sentiment in a more loquacious manner.

"Whatever you say, Brando," Fleetwood giggled as she spun around in her stool a few times, "I've got to say. You're the last person I expected to go rogue—or I guess I should say the second-to-last."

"Surprising as it may be, Miss Mac, it is very much real, and my reasons are my own," Brando answered. "However, I'm afraid I must implore you to continue with your end of the bargain posthaste as time is very much of the essence."

"Of course!" Fleetwood agreed. "Silver Springs! Show me Suki Kanao!" The blonde woman clapped her hands together and then slowly pulled them apart. A small waterfall materialized between her palms, and an image appeared therein like a reflection.

To the group's collective horror, the picture displayed against the water was a familiar sight: the shadowy interior of Dio's private chamber. A teenage brunette with a dark complexion and a childlike face knelt before the vampiric aristocrat. "That's her…" Lyn confirmed.

"This situation appears to be far worse than we had initially anticipated…" Brando observed.

"Can we listen to what they're saying?" Brent asked.

"Not unless I make them aware of the sensor," Fleetwood replied.

"Let's not…" Lyn advised.

"Hang on," Boss instructed. "I can't really see the girls' face, but I can see part of Dio's in the candlelight. I think I can read his lips."

"What's he saying?" Brent asked.

"He said, 'You'll get to see your brother in due time, my pet.' Who's that?" Boss asked.

"I find it nigh unbelievable that she is already in the mansion," Brando gawked. "How long has she been present there? Why has Dio not spoken to me about her even once? I had been under the impression that I was aware of all of the residence's inhabitants."

"Never mind that," Brent dismissed. "What's this about her brother?"

"Actually, I think I know who it is," Fleetwood admitted. "I didn't know at the time, but I've actually spied on this girl before. I saw her when Dio had me spy on another Stand user named Yui Kanao…"

"That's apparently her mom," Boss shared.

"Well, from what I remember, Dio wanted to recruit Yui," Fleetwood disclosed, "but he ended up settling for her son Kyuu instead."

"Then…" Lyn slowly deduced, "this girl is meeting with Dio… because she wants to see…"

"That bastard!" Brent shouted.

"Mr. Wilson," Brando interjected, "I understand any frustration you may be harboring toward Dio, but we must remain calm if we are to assess—"

"I'm not talking about Dio!" Brent replied. "I'm talking about that fucking beekeeper."

"Don't tell me you're scared of bees too…" Lyn sighed.

"It's not just that!" Brent defended. "That Kyuu guy's a freak. I was partnered with him for a bit back when I was still flesh-budded. I hated every second of it. He talked like he was better than me at every turn. On top of that, he went on and on about his 'beloved sister,' who he claimed was also his fiancée. Just remembering that look on his face whenever he mentioned her… pisses me off!"

"Frustrations aside," Brando interjected, "she appears to be bartering with Dio for the sake of her apparently-beloved brother."

"Maybe we should just politely ask Dio to send Kyuu home with her…" Lyn suggested.

"I sincerely doubt that such an endeavor would yield anything even vaguely resembling a success, Miss Lyn," Brando corrected.

"Sarcasm, Brando, we talked about this…" Lyn sighed.

"Oh, right, yes, in that case, I agree that we should, perhaps, ask L—I mean Dio—to return Mr. Kanao to his family posthaste," Brando conceded.

"Never mind…" Lyn sighed again.

"Thank you, you've done more than enough, young lady," Boss assured the newcomer as he placed a hand on her exposed shoulder. "To be Frank, which I am, you're putting yourself and us in danger the longer you linger here."

"Nonsense, it's the least I can do," Fleetwood enthused as she dismissed her Stand and stood from her stool. "Anyway, I wish you luck with your little insurrection!" With that, the energetic woman left the shop.

Boss moved away from the counter and turned the sign on his door from closed to open. "Well, since you're here, you may as well work the evening shift," he sighed at Brent.

Suki departed from Dio's room with instructions to return promptly to her own. A minute later, the door was held open by the mansion's resident butler, Telence T. D'Arby. "Lord Dio," D'Arby began, "forgive my intrusion, but I have brought another guest."

"Enter," Dio instructed.

D'Arby escorted Enyaba, the diminutive hag responsible for teaching Dio about Stands, into the room. "My lord," the hag's voice creaked, "I have come to inform you that our agents have located another Stand user: Arabia Fats, whose Stand suggests the Sun."

"Does he have any prior allegiances?" Dio wondered aloud as D'Arby exited the room and closed the door behind him.

"None to speak of, I believe," Enyaba answered.

"Perfect," Dio smirked, "have him brought here. I have been quite curious to meet the user of the Sun. I wonder if his power is one that could threaten my immortal body."

"Surely, he is no match for you, regardless of what his power may hold," Enyaba flattered with a sinister grin.

"Should he prove insignificant, he can be used as another subject for the Stand Transplant experiments," Dio scoffed. "Otherwise, he can be employed to deter the Joestars."

"My lord, with all due respect, do you not believe the forces I have dispatched thus far to be sufficient?" Enyaba wondered. "In addition to the Stand users I have located for you, you decided to send Ellelle Cool Jay and Bim Cash, who had been scheduled to be the subjects of today's experiment. Most of the subjects we've collected do not survive being shot with the arrow, you know. There may be a correlation between surviving the arrow and surviving a Stand Transplant. We've already successfully transplanted a Stand from an arrow survivor to a non-user, but we have not yet attempted a transplant from one arrow survivor to another. If one survived having the other's Stand transplanted onto them, that would imply—"

"Leave such speculation to Lyn Aizumi," Dio dismissed, "and leave the discarding of pawns to me. Whether they sacrifice themselves through research or against the Joestars, it is all the same," the vampire mused.

"Of course," Enyaba agreed.

"More importantly," Dio continued, "you should focus on locating the remaining Stand users. You did well to bring me Strength and Lovers. However, you have still not located Judgement, Wheel of Fortune, Empress, or The Fool, correct?"

"We are currently following leads on the whereabouts of Wheel of Fortune and Empress," Enyaba assured her master. "The others will surely follow soon after."

"I expect nothing less."

"I met someone today you might want to hear about," Brent informed his coworkers as he finished throwing away a pile of dust he'd swept from the floor. "Michel Jackson, about my age, maybe a little younger, she works as a seamstress at a shop called In the Closet. I feel like we really hit it off."

"Good for you," Boss sighed as he changed the filter on one of his coffee makers.

"We don't need to hear about your love life, Willy…" Lyn yawned.

"No, no, get this. Before I got shot with that arrow, my luck with women was terrible," Brent explained. "Since then, I've had some real chemistry with a few women, but here's the thing: most of them have been Stand users."

"So? Some broad bats her eyelashes at you, and you think she's a Stand user?" Boss inquired.

"I could point out a number of logical holes in that deduction," Brando added. "For instance—"

"There's no need for that…" Lyn interrupted as she placed a hand over Brando's mouth.

"It's not just that!" Brent defended. "There was a photo she kept by her sketchbook. It was from her childhood, and some of her friends were in the picture with her. I wasn't sure at first, but after spying on that Suki girl, I think she's probably one of them. I'm pretty sure that Kyuu guy was in the photo as well."

"They probably just went to school together…" Lyn replied sleepily while resting her head on the bar. One bourbon too many had rendered her even less awake than usual.

"The matter is one that might warrant at least a certain degree of investigation," Brando added. "I have heard no mention of her throughout the many whispers of the mansion, so I doubt Dio or his henchman have caught wind of her if she is, in fact, a Stand user, as you surmise. If that is indeed the case, she could prove a valuable ally to our cause should she choose to aid us, and should she not, she should at the very least be encouraged to leave Cairo, lest her status as unknown to the likes of Dio become compromised."

"Oh, shit, the time!" Brent yelled as he looked up at the clock, which was about to strike ten. "Sorry, Boss, I gotta clock out early! I have plans!"

"Plans? You don't make plans!" Boss objected. "You stay put and help me finish closing!"

"I'll have you know I have a date tonight!" Brent argued before sticking out his tongue.

"It'd better not be that closeted chick!" Boss retorted.

"It's not! We met a bit ago and have been keeping in touch through phone calls," Brent explained. "She's supposed to pick me up from here at ten. I'll clock in early tomorrow to make it up to you!"

"Like hell you will!" Boss shouted.

Then, despite the shop's closure, a ringing of the bell signaled the entrance of a customer. She was an Egyptian woman of average height and slim build with long, flowing black hair. Her simple dress accentuated her noticeable curves, and she accessorized with a few gold bracelets and a pair of plain, pointed shoes. "Rose!" Brent exclaimed as he quickly threw off his stained apron. "Sorry, work ran a little late. I'll be right outside!"

"So, this is where you've been skulking off to," the woman chided, glaring past Brent toward Lyn, Brando, and Boss.

"Miss Midler…" Brando replied as he glared back at the woman, "or has your preferred noun of address changed to Miss 'Rose' since we last carried out conversational discourse?"

"Good to see you, Brando," Rose (or perhaps Miss Midler) replied, "isn't that geezer one of Dio's targets for Stand Transplant research? Don't tell me you and that mole have been harboring him."

"Fucking hell…" Brent sighed.

"Well, I guess you really do hit it off with Stand users," Boss chuckled as he reached under the bar for something.

"Please sojourn!" Brando urged the shop owner. "Causing harm to her will only attract more Stand users!"

"How dare you show your face on my turf…" Lyn hiccupped as she staggered to her feet. "What do you think you're… doin' here, tramp?"

"I have a date," Midler smirked.

"Sorry, I suddenly realized you're not really my type," Brent added nervously. "I can't stand hooking up with a woman whose heart belongs to another man."

"Speaking from experience, are we?" Midler teased.

"Well, I had to pass the time in that accursed manor somehow," Brent sassed.

"Get out," Boss ordered the woman. "You and yours aren't welcome here."

"Fine, I know when I'm not wanted," Midler taunted. "I'll see you around." She winked at Brando before swaggering out of the café.

"Well, ain't that a fine kick in the sack…" Boss sighed once the woman was out of earshot.

"I can't believe… you led one of Dio's minions here…" Lyn groaned.

"On the bright side, she didn't find the kid," Brent pointed out.

"Yes, we can be grateful for that fortunate turn of events, at least," Brando sighed. "I believe it is what Miss Lyn told me would be referred to as a 'silver lining' of sorts."

"How long do we have 'til more come?" Boss asked Lyn and Brando.

"Lord—I mean Dio—Dio placed himself in isolation this evening," Brando explained. "He is preparing himself for the possible arrival of the Joestars and refuses to be disturbed."

"We… probably have at least a week or two before he comes out…" Lyn agreed.

"Then what's the worst-case scenario?" Boss continued.

"Vanilla Ice," Brent deadpanned as he leaned against a wall.

"Midler won't tell him…" Lyn assured the men, "not yet, at least. She's hopelessly in love with Dio… If Vanilla Ice comes… he'll get all the credit for taking Boss to Dio… She wants that credit for herself…"

"Since she did not elect to engage with us tonight," Brando thought aloud, "despite Miss Lyn's state of intoxication, then she most likely does not believe she would be able to defeat all of us at once under these conditions. She will most likely find a partner or assemble a small team to help do her, as you would call it, 'dirty work,' and then she will steal the glory for herself in the aftermath. I believe that would be the most pragmatic course of action for one whose goals align with her own."

"Should we ditch town?" Brent wondered.

"Leaving town would give us a greater defensive advantage," Brando admitted, "but our current offensive vantagepoint is rather ideal with regards to proximity to Dio…" The blond clone seemed perplexed for the first time in a while.

"Splitting up… would only put Margret in greater danger…" Lyn admitted.

"I have a plan…" Brando added. "I have an idea for how we could defeat Dio. If we can execute this strategy in the near future, and as long as we are able to hold our ground until then, I believe a retreat will not be in order."

"What's this plan of yours?" Boss asked. "It'd better be good if you're telling me to keep my girls in harm's way just to bet on it."

"Brando, hold on…" Lyn protested. "We talked this over… That plan is too risky…"

"I believe that we do not have any other viable options at our disposal at this time," Brando argued.

"Out with it, what's the plan?" Boss insisted.

"Mr. Joseph Hahn is a Stand user, part of a mercenary group under Dio's employment," Brando explained. "His Stand is known as Mirror Mirror, and it is capable of materializing numerous reflective surfaces in midair across a large radius. Using those surfaces, we could reflect sunlight throughout a large portion of the mansion's interior. Miss Lyn, meanwhile, could strategically collapse portions of her underground tunnels and detonate explosives planted throughout the mansion to demolish walls and other structures that would inhibit the distribution of sunlight. By, um, how does one say this? By flooding the belly of the beast with kryptonite, we can cut the head off the snake by eradicating Dio and any other vampires therein."

"I've never met this Mr. Hahn," Brent admitted, "but how are we going to get him to help us take out Dio? Are you planning to just bribe him?"

"Mr. Hahn would almost certainly not be willing to help us under any circumstance," Brando confessed. "Thus, we must implore the aid of his Stand apart from him. To this end, I will have Miss Lyn transplant his Stand onto me."

"Brando… that plan is still too risky… No Stand user has survived having a second Stand transplanted onto them as of yet…" Lyn argued. "On top of that, if we flood the mansion with sunlit mirrors… we might as well be asking that hag's son to slaughter us…"

"Are you capable of positing a suitable alternative within our timeframe?" Brando inquired.

The room fell silent. Then Boss continued, "Well, whatever you do, you have two weeks. Then I'm taking the kids and leaving Cairo, maybe even Egypt. I'm not taking any risks."

"We'll come back tomorrow to hold down the fort in case Midler tries anything…" Lyn promised.

"You're working full-time from now on," Boss instructed Brent. "Otherwise, you're fired. Take it or leave it."

"Aye-aye, Captain!" Brent saluted as he agreed.

"Ugh, I thought we were done with that nickname…" Boss groaned.

Brando helped Lyn out of the café, and Brent followed soon after.

Brent arrived at Café Sinatra early the next morning. To his surprise, Brando was already at the café, and he was wearing a fresh, spotless apron. The establishment was the cleanest Brent had ever seen it. Flabbergasted, Brent turned to his boss, who emerged from the employee restroom with a yawn. "What is he doing?" Brent asked.

"Oh, Brando here is our new part-timer," Boss chuckled. "There was an opening after your recent promotion, you know."

"You're fucking kidding me…" Brent sighed.

"As you can see, I am taking my new position very seriously," Brando explained. "In fact, I have seen the difference in our year-to-date earnings, and I feel it would only be fair to warn you that I now have my eye on your current position as a result."

"I quit," Brent deadpanned.

"Nope, your contract requires you to give two weeks' notice," Boss objected. "Unfortunately for you, we're closing shop around then."

"Can I speak to human resources?" Brent asked.

"Sure," Boss replied as he moved behind the bar. From under the counter, he retrieved his adopted daughter, and he carried her over to Brent. Boss held the child under her armpits and lifted her to eye level with Brent. The girl scowled and blew a raspberry at Brent. "There you have it," Boss snickered.

"Senpai," Brando said as he turned to Brent, "Miss Lyn is upstairs suffering from what she calls a 'hangover.' Would you mind assuring that she is not uncomfortable?"

"What did you just call me?" Brent's expression changed from exasperated to quizzical.

"You are my senpai," Brando elaborated. "It is a Japanese term I learned from Miss Lyn."

"Please never call me that again," Brent sighed.

"As you wish, Wilson-kun," Brando agreed.

Brent groaned audibly and made his way upstairs. There, he found the attic bedroom's light was off, but the usual smell of dust was absent. Brent closed the door behind him before turning on the light. Once he did, he was shocked to see the goggled redhead sprawled atop the covers wearing only a tiny, yellow bikini covered in red polka dots. "Oh, there you are, Willy…" she moaned. "I'm afraid… I'm a bit flustered… Would you mind… helping me out?"

Brent stood motionless. He debated locking the door behind him. No, hang on. This room isn't soundproof. He started to speak, but then, the flash of light startled him out of his thoughts.

Laughter erupted from under the bed as Boss's adopted daughter emerged with a polaroid camera. Thereafter, Lyn's body melted away, and underneath it lay a second girl, identical to the first, wearing black overalls and a pink undershirt. "Hahaha, oopsie! Was the big bad Willy all flustered? I guess you're all talk after all!" the camera-toting girl cackled. "Oh my god! You should've seen the look on your stupid face!"

"I did what you said," the girl's twin muttered as she climbed down from the bed. "I still don't get what that was about…"

"You'll understand when you're older," the mischievous twin snorted.

"But… you're only three minutes older…" the shier twin mumbled.

"Then I'll tell you in three minutes," the prankster promised.

"Don't you two have anyone better to terrorize?" Brent scolded as he crossed his arms threateningly.

"Hahaha, you really think Uncle Frank or Brando would be dumb enough to fall for something like that?" the older twin teased.

"Anne! Margret!" Boss shouted from downstairs. "I saw your clone dissolve! Get your asses down here!"

"Coming!" the twins called in unison before sprinting downstairs.

"Where the hell is Lyn?" Brent wondered as he looked around the room.

Failing to find her, Brent returned downstairs. As he descended, he heard the bell of the front door ring. When he reached the base of the stairs, he saw two muscular men had entered the café. One was an American with flowing, blonde hair. He wore a tan cowboy hat and a matching tunic over a darker, skin-tight undershirt. The other man had a darker complexion and hair that had been dyed violet with green bangs. He wore a long-sleeve mesh top under a series of belts wrapped diagonally around his torso, and his crimson, skin-tight shorts barely covered the tops of his thigh-high, high-heel boots. Most noticeably, he wore a studded ball gag that was halfway enclosed by his electric blue lips. The blond man inhaled deeply through his cigarette and looked around. "Not a bad place you got here," he remarked with a grin.

"No smoking, please," Boss requested as he approached the pair.

"Sure thing," the American agreed as he blew a puff of smoke in the shop owner's face before smothering its lit end on Boss's apron. "I'll take a cappuccino, double espresso," he continued.

"Pretty sure that's just a cappuccino…" Boss retorted as he reached into his apron.

Suddenly, the violet-haired man had a pistol pointed at Boss's head. Boss froze. With his free hand, the violet-haired man pulled his ball gag away from his mouth. "I wouldn't if I were you…" he hissed.

The American reached into Boss's apron and retrieved a small revolver. "Oh, hey, nice eye there, Boot Daddy!"

"Codenames," Boot replied.

"Oh, right, B-52, my bad!" the American laughed.

"Uncle Frank!" Anne cried as she started to rush toward them from the base of the stairs. Instinctively, Brent reached forward and grabbed the child by the back of her shirt to hold her back.

"Go upstairs," Boss ordered.

"I'd stay put if I was you," the American warned.

"Where's Lyn?" Boss asked plainly.

"I don't think you're in the position to be askin' questions," the American mocked.

This timing is too convenient. There's no way these two are just common thugs. They must be Stand users, but that one's using conventional weapons… On top of that, I don't recognize either of them. Are they new recruits? Not to mention, where are Lyn and—

Brent's train of thought was interrupted when Brando suddenly appeared between Boss and his aggressors. The blond clone had Lyn, who was bleeding profusely from her right thigh, draped over his shoulders. In that instant, he had somehow acquired both guns, and the barrel of each firearm had been shoved down one of the assailant's mouths. Boss caught Lyn as she fell from Brando's shoulders, and the blond clone shoved his two targets against the wall of the café, holding each attacker suspended against the wall by the roof of his mouth. "Brando, don't!" Lyn cried as she jolted awake. "If you kill them, you'll just attract more attention!"

The two men struggled helplessly as they desperately gripped Brando's forearms. "Leave," he ordered. That was the briefest sentence Brent had ever heard him utter. The clone turned to B-52 and growled, "If you ever point a gun at one of my friends again, I will kill you before you even have a chance to realize your mistake."

Brando dropped the men, who quickly scampered back out the door. "Y-You'll regret this!" the cowboy cried as he retreated toward the horizon.

Café Sinatra remained closed that day. Boss had spent the better part of the afternoon repairing the bullet wound in Lyn's leg with the help of his microscopic Stand, Under My Skin. Brando had vanished as soon has Lyn was walking again. The latter worried he was going to try something drastic, but Boss had kept her confined the to the café—insisting she was not well enough to leave yet. The hours passed slowly, and the uneventful boredom only made the day more stressful.

Brando returned later that evening. He appeared in the center of the center of the café with Fleetwood, the curly-haired clairvoyant, in tow. Lyn practically jumped out of her seat and shouted, "Brando! Did you kidnap—"

"No time! Under attack!" Brando interrupted as he shoved Fleetwood into Brent.

"Margret! Come with me upstairs!" Boss shouted as he grabbed the child's hand and dragged her to the attic.

"Who's—" Lyn started before Brando teleported behind her and jerked her head backward by her hair. A bullet flew through the wall and whizzed past where the side of her head had been.

"I sincerely apologize for the rough treatment, Miss Lyn, but time is of the essence!" Brando proclaimed.

"Hold onto me!" Brent cried as he wrapped his arms around Fleetwood and summoned his Stand. "Death of a Bachelor!" he cried as a midnight-colored, humanoid wraith materialized behind him. The wraith had bright yellow, insectoid eyes and scraggly antennae, and it wore a flowing, pitch-black scarf around its neck. Fleetwood muffled a scream as the Stand's scarf wrapped around her face before the wraith itself surrounded Brent. Suddenly, both Fleetwood and Brent disappeared from view. "Quiet!" Brent whispered. "My Stand's power cloaked us, but it won't mask the sound of your voice." Fleetwood nodded understandingly. "I'm sorry that jerk dragged you into this. Do you have any clue who's attacking us?"

"It's Team Horseshoe," Fleetwood explained in a low voice, "Hol Horse and Boot Daddy. Midler came with them too."

"One of them has the café under sniper fire," Brent observed. "Can you find them?"

The blonde clairvoyant nodded silently in assent before whispering, "Silver Springs, please show me Boot Daddy." Fleetwood parted her hands, and the miniature waterfall therein depicted the violet-haired gunman who had harassed them that morning. He was perched on a nearby rooftop that Brent immediately recognized.

"Brando!" Brent exclaimed, "The sniper is on a rooftop 336 meters from the shop, 37 degrees east of north from our current position!"

"Understood!" Brando acquiesced before vanishing just as another bullet whizzed through where he had stood.

As soon as Brando teleported, the café's overhead light fritzed out. "What was that?" Lyn asked as she looked up at the light, but as soon as she did, the bulb unscrewed itself and morphed into a small, hideous creature. The beast was essentially a blob of amorphous fur, roughly the size of a basketball, with a vicious face resembling a tribal mask protruding from its center between two muscular arms with clawed fingernails. The creature screamed ferociously and fell toward the goggled woman.

Without a moment of hesitation, Lyn flicked a switch on her goggles with one hand, drew a flashbang from her pocket, and tossed it into the creature. "Bachelor!" Brent shouted as his wraithlike Stand left his side and wrapped itself around the creature and the flashbang. Brent sacrificed his own invisibility as a result, but cloaking the creature and the bomb kept the light and sound of the stun grenade from blinding himself and Fleetwood. The concussive force of the flashbang still knocked Lyn off her feet, but when Brent dropped his cloak the creature that fell to the ground was considerably more disoriented. "What is that thing?" Brent asked.

"High Priestess, Midler's Stand…" Lyn explained as she flicked the same switch on her goggles again, "it's a long-ranged Stand that can transform into inorganic matter like metal or glass…"

"Silver Springs, show me Rose Midler, please," Brent heard Fleetwood mutter. After a moment, she exclaimed, "She's in an outdoor basketball court!" from thin air.

"I know the place!" Lyn affirmed. Suddenly, High Priestess transformed into some sort of spring-loaded rapier and thrust itself toward Lyn's face. "Last Surprise!" the redhead called as her Stand—a rose-colored automaton whose singular leg resembled a unicycle with a sawblade for a wheel—materialized at her side; the Stand whirred excitedly as the floor suddenly collapsed beneath her user. By falling into a newly-opened hole in the ground, Lyn avoided High Priestess's lunge. Then, the sword-shaped Stand transformed into an anvil.

"Bachelor!" Brent called as his Stand squirmed from his shadow and caught the anvil before it could fall after Lyn. "Go for the user! I'll hold off her Stand!"

"Gee, Willikers!" Lyn echoed from within her hole, "I hadn't thought of that, thanks. Your ingenious guidance is truly the backbone of our—"

"Just do it!" Brent groaned as his Stand struggled to hold the anvil aloft. Brent tumbled to the side as High Priestess changed from an anvil to its true form and pounced at him. Recalling Death of a Bachelor, Brent surrounded himself with his Stand's invisible shroud, and he vanished from view. Well, at least I have her attention.

High Priestess growled frustratedly before beginning to sniff around. "Aw, come out, Willy. I won't kill you," Midler's voice telepathically contacted Brent through her Stand. "I'm just going to take the old man and the kid, and then I'm going to tell Lord Dio about Frankenstein and his bride's little betrayal. Those two are too close to my darling Dio for my liking. I don't have any problem with you, though. In fact, you were nice enough to lead me to them. Tell you what, I'll even rock your world as a consolation."

She seems awfully fixated on finding me for someone who's supposedly after the others… Brent grimaced. "You know, that doesn't sound too great coming from that hideous Stand of yours," he telepathically replied through Death of a Bachelor.

"Have it your way!" Midler's voice seemed to shout in his mind as High Priestess changed into a metal detector attached to what looked like a push mower.

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

The metal detector rolled over the floor for about a minute, after which it made an excited beeping noise. "I found you!" Midler's telepathic voice exclaimed.

"Not quite!" Brent gloated as he dropped his cloak, and his Stand punched the end of the floorboard beneath his feet. The other end of the plank was underneath High Priestess, and the strike sent the floorboard seesawing upward into the transmogrified Stand, which was launched into the ceiling as a result. "I thought you might find that eventually," Brent sighed as he sauntered toward the hollow space under the floorboards revealed by his attack. He reached into the crevice and produced a sheathed katana with a black hilt and scabbard. The weapon's ornate hilt was adorned with three crimson gemstones separated by a tiny snake carved from gold. The golden cross-guard was decorated with a mirrored set of quillons and featured a fourth red jewel at its center. "Sorry, my Stand isn't really cut out for combat, so I'm going to be using this souvenir instead."

High Priestess screamed ferociously and transformed into a chainsaw before revving itself up and spiraling down toward Brent. Without unsheathing the sword, Brent blocked the incoming weapon with his so-called "souvenir."

Is that… Anubis? Fleetwood thought to herself as she marveled at the battle from under Bachelor's cloak.

After a brief clash with the chainsaw, Brent forced High Priestess away from him. The Stand hovered in midair for a moment before transforming into a mannequin with a broadsword. Brent assumed a fencing stance "En garde!" he cried as he parried a forward thrust from the puppet swordsman. Brent returned with a diagonal slash, but the mannequin blocked and pushed forward for another attack. Brent ducked under a horizontal slice before springing backward to dodge a downward stab.

"You! You're the one who stole Anubis?" Midler wondered telepathically through her Stand. "I thought you had just run from Lord Dio because you were a coward, but I was wrong. You're a full-blown traitor. I underestimated you!"

"Everyone does," Brent chuckled before vanishing into thin air. High Priestess returned to its true form and landed on the ground. The Stand started to sniff around again before Brent suddenly reappeared to its left. "Fore!" he shouted as he swung Anubis down at the enemy Stand like a golf club. With a clean hit, High Priestess was sent rocketing across the shop and through the café's window. Brent paused for a moment to assess the damage. "Oh, I am so getting fired for this."

"What the hell was that?" Fleetwood asked from beneath Death of a Bachelor's cloak.

"What? I played golf in undergrad," Brent defended.

"And fenced?" the invisible clairvoyant pressed.

"I'm well-rounded," Brent snickered.

After departing from Café Sinatra, Brando appeared before the violet-haired sniper. "You should consider yourself to be most fortunate that you missed my associate," Brando chided as he stomped down on the perched sniper's rifle, breaking the barrel of the gun under the force of his heel. B-52 lurched to his feet and quickly drew a pair of pistols, which he fired at Brando in quick succession. Brandon vanished again and instantly reappeared behind the gunman. With a chop aimed at the back of the neck, he hoped to instantly incapacitate his foe, but B-52's reflexes prevailed, and the gunner ducked under the attack.

Without turning around, B-52 pointed his guns behind him and fired at Brando again. The clone teleported in front of his opponent with his leg raised and his heel descending toward the gunman's face. B-52 leaned backward and sprang back to his feet to dodge. Discarding his pistols, he drew an assault rifle from his back and pointed it at his blond foe, but Brando appeared to the side of the weapon before the gunner could pull its trigger. Snatching the weapon by its barrel, Brando seized the firearm and promptly bent it over his knee. Then, he instantly roundhouse-kicked B-52 in the abdomen. The blow sent the violet-haired marksman hurtling off the roof of the house. After crashing through a flimsy awning, B-52 landed on his stomach in the dirt around a small garden. His ball gag fell from his mouth when he hit the ground, and it rolled into a crevice that had been made in preparation for some flower. Brando appeared on B-52's back and planted the sole of his shoe on his opponent's spine. "Do not force me to permanently paralyze you," the clone warned.

"Heh, that's funny. I wonder if you'll still have that smug look in a second," B-52 mumbled.

"I am unaware of any circumstance that could cause such an alteration to my demeanor in the brief amount of time you have described," Brando rebutted.

"This house is the home of a family of six," B-52 chuckled painfully. "I planted a bomb that'll go off any second now. I wonder… can you get all of them out in time, or do you not care enough? I mean, you could just let them die. That's exactly what Dio would do…" Brando's eyes widened, and he immediately vanished. "Idiot…" B-52 growled.

A second later, B-52 rolled over and covered his ears in preparation for the impending explosion. He heard a boom, but to his surprise, it was much more distant than he had anticipated. Brando reappeared in the garden in an instant. "Your logic was flawed. I did not need to evacuate the house's denizens. I simply had to remove the bomb."

"You still gave me plenty of time to activate my Stand Transplant," B-52 chortled. "Rock Lobster!" Following his boast, dozens of ethereal, cyan chains exploded from the studs on his ball gag and wove their way through the garden's soil. Anticipating an attack, Brando teleported to the street next to the house as the chains pulled together a stony, earthen goliath around B-52. The monster was twice as tall as Brando and was relatively humanoid in shape, aside from its crustaceous head. Its feet were shaped like stumps, and its hands were replaced with stony, crablike claws.

Without giving the beast time to attack, Brando appeared atop its head and dropped a grenade before teleporting back to the ground. The explosive detonated before it even fell onto the stony monster, but the detonation caused no visible damage. "Damn…" Brando found himself involuntarily muttering.

"Give it up!" B-52's voice called telepathically through his Stand Transplant. "My Stand is the hardest there is! Once it's fully hardened, not even Emperor can penetrate its thick flesh!"

"Somehow, your boasting only serves to make me doubt its durability with respect to other Stands…" Brando mused. Then, the clone caught a glimpse of a child in the window of the nearby house. The boy was staring awestruck at Rock Lobster's back, but the monster and its user hadn't seemed to notice him. Trying not to stare for a noticeable amount of time, Brando instead teleported into a nearby, uninhabited alley. "That durability is no good if you are unable to keep pace with the likes of me!" he taunted.

"Why you!" B-52 growled telepathically. "Get back here!" The earthen juggernaut abandoned the garden and rushed across the street toward Brando. A pair of cars screeched to a halt to avoid crashing into the mobile monolith.

I cannot produce enough firepower to deter him in this heavily-populated area… Brando thought. I must lure him elsewhere.

Midler bit her thumb on a bench overseeing a local basketball court. Four teenagers played nearby while she struggled to maintain concentration on High Priestess. That punk… I can't believe he asked me on a date… He's not even my type, and now it turns out he has Anubis. Lord Dio was using that sword as a model for Stand Transplants, and if that mole is a traitor too, it's no wonder our research has practically screeched to a halt.

Her head jerked violently to the side as High Priestess was suddenly bashed through the window of Café Sinatra. The sudden movement attracted the attention of the basketball players, who stopped their game and seemed to consider approaching her before she gave them a deathly glare that prompted them to backpedal. A moment later, however, a hole opened up in the ground beneath her. Midler screamed as both she and the bench were swallowed by the circular fissure. The woman landed on a pile of soft dirt, but she still sprained her leg by landing improperly on the bench. "You fucking half-faced mole!" she screamed in pain as she used the rugged wall of the hole to pull herself to her feet.

After looking around, Midler immediately deduced that whatever tunnel Lyn had used to dig this trap had been collapsed. It was just a hole now. "Yeah, that insult hurt a lot worse than the accident that caused this," Lyn bellowed sarcastically, gesturing toward her goggles as she loomed over the edge of the hole.

"As soon as High Priestess gets back here, you're dead meat!" Midler sneered from the bottom of the pit.

"Honestly, I'm just hoping it gets back here before you're dead meat…" Lyn yawned as dozens of small, red lights lit up the circular hole. "I was hoping not to kill anyone, but I kind of set the C4 in a hurry, so I'm not totally sure when it'll go off…"

"Bitch!" Midler screamed.

"Oh, that reminds me… Hey, kids! You want to see something cool?" the goggled demolitionist called to the nearby basketball players. "Take these…" she instructed as she handed each of them a pair of sunglasses. The teenagers put on the darkened spectacles but exchanged looks of confusion. "Now, you may want to cover your ears because—"

A geyser of flame momentarily erupted from the hole in the pavement adjacent to the basketball court. "Holy shit!" one of the teenagers screamed as they all gazed in awe.

"Pretty bitchin', right?" Lyn chuckled. "Stay in school kids. Science isn't all textbooks and graphs, you know… Now, there's a good chance that didn't kill her, and, boy, is she going to be pissed, so you may want to skedaddle while there's still ground beneath your feet…"

Unsure of whether to take her seriously, the teenagers decided to play it safe and leave the basketball court. Lyn swaggered back to her pit trap and peered down at her opponent. At the bottom of the pit, the earth had formed into a massive, hideous visage—identical to the face of High Priestess. "You idiot!" Midler screamed telepathically through her Stand. "My Stand's teeth are as hard as diamonds! Your puny explosions barely tickled me!"

"Your teeth, huh?" Lyn analyzed as she stared down at the smiling mound of stone. "Then what are you going to do about the bombs I planted beneath you?" Another explosion sounded within the grinning face. A few moments later, its smiling mouth opened, and a pillar of smoke floated out of it before the face crumbled back into dirt and rocks. Underneath, Midler lay unconscious. She was covered in burns, but she was still breathing… barely. That should keep her out of commission for a while.

"I guess Lyn got to Midler…" Brent sighed when he realized High Priestess wasn't returning from outside the café. "Brando's been gone for too long, though. Fleetwood, would you mind checking on him?"

"Silver Springs!" the invisible clairvoyant called, "Show me Brando!" Brent waited a moment for her answer before she said, "He's heading this way! There's another Stand following him! It's some kind of stone giant!"

"Christ, what the hell's he leading it here for?" Brent wondered aloud.

"It looks like he's luring it away from the civilians," Fleetwood observed.

"Alright, you should bolt," Brent advised. "I'm sorry Brando roped you into this, but this'll get messy if we can't keep that thing away from the café. I'll keep you invisible for as long as you're in range. We'll call it even if you keep this whole mess a secret, alright?"

"Fine by me!" the invisible woman chuckled before Brent sensed her hurrying out of the café.

Brent gripped the hilt of his cursed sword and took a deep breath before exiting the café and moving toward the roof where Fleetwood had reported seeing the sniper earlier. Sooner than he expected, Brando teleported in front of him. "Is the phrase, 'tap out'?" he asked as he high-fived Brent.

"It's 'tag out,' but keep trying," Brent chuckled as Rock Lobster burst through the wall of a nearby abandoned building.

"Affirmative, I shall see to Miss Lyn while you keep that creature from destroying our workplace. I will be counting on you, Senpai!" Brando called.

"I told you not to call me—and he's already gone, of course," Brent groaned at no one.

"Get out of my way, punk," Rock Lobster telepathically demanded.

"Hey, tell me something, Big Guy," Brent requested as he blew his bangs out of his face. "How many innocent people did you clobber on your way here?"

"Why would I bother keeping count?" the Stand's user telepathically responded as it pinched its stone claws together for emphasis.

"Dammit, Brando, you had one job," Brent sighed. "Well, in that case, I can't forgive you. I love humans more than anything, after all."

"Please," his opponent chided, "those lowly beings can hardly be considered valuable to the likes of us."

"You talk awfully big for a 'lowly being' with a stolen power," Brent taunted. "Then again, I can't say I'm too different."

"How dare you lecture me!" the Stand telepathically roared before rushing toward Brent in a heavy sprint. "I have ascended beyond those pitiful creatures!" he shouted as Brent rolled sideways to avoid a crushing claw. "With this power from Dio, I've become a higher life form!"

He didn't say Lord…

"Oh, I get it," Brent chuckled as Death of a Bachelor stretched from his shadow. The wraithlike Stand grabbed a nearby post and Brent's shadow yanked him by his feet to pull him away from another downward strike. "You're the type who'll use anyone for power, even a scumbag like Dio."

"Dio is a means to an end. With this power and the witch's payment, I'll be able to leave and do whatever I want!" Rock Lobster thundered before charging at his shifty foe.

"Well, you heard him, Anubis," Brent snickered as he pointed the sheathed sword forward. "Dio's just a means to an end. What do you think of that?"

Rock Lobster leapt forward to tackle Brent, but this time, the lanky swordsman held his ground. As the stony goliath rushed him, Brent slashed Anubis sideways. Without leaving its scabbard, the cursed sword tore through Rock Lobster's clawed arm and torso. Cyan chains retreated into B-52's ball gag, now tied around the marksman's neck. B-52 himself was exposed within the goliath's torso, and a deep gash appeared across his chest. As the stone warrior collapsed around him, its heavy head fell down onto B-52's skull, and the impact instantly rendered the gunman unconscious.

"Huh, he still has his arm," Brent thought aloud as he approached his unconscious foe. "I guess the Stand's true form is those chains." Brent smashed the incapacitated sniper's ball gag with the tip of his sheathed weapon. Blue sparks flickered out of the crushed bobble before dissipating into the ether. "Guess I should take his guns too."

Those idiots left the building unguarded—exactly as planned, Hol Horse thought to himself as he swaggered into Café Sinatra's unoccupied lobby. He noted the signs of the struggle with High Priestess, and he stopped momentarily to examine the hole in the floor as well as the hollow space beneath a misplaced floorboard before making his way up the stairs. If they went underground with Lyn, Midler can handle them.

Hol Horse knocked on the door to the upstairs bedroom. When he didn't receive an answer, he kicked the door down with an enthusiastic shout. "Yee-haw!" In the room, he found exactly what he was looking for: the old man and the girl, who was hiding behind her guardian's legs. "Bullseye!" he shouted before summoning his Stand, the handgun Emperor.

"Wait!" the old man shouted before Hol Horse fired his gun. Not a moment later, his bullet connected with the elder's upper torso, and his target fell to the ground.

The girl looked horrified for a moment before trying to run away, but Hol Horse caught her by the collar of her shirt and lifted her into the air. "Huh, that's not what I expected," Hol Horse admitted. "I heard your Stand lets you copy or disguise yourself, so I honestly thought the old man was you, and this was just a clone," Hol Horse chuckled. "That's why I aimed so high, you know. If it were just you in a clone, the bullet would have gone over your little head."

"Let me go, asshole!" the girl protested.

Hol Horse grimaced before pistol-whipping the girl in the stomach with his Stand. The girl cried as the air left her lungs, and she vomited from the force of the blow. "Nope, I guess this isn't a clone either. Well, I won't complain about an easy catch. I'll just say the old man put up a fight, and I didn't have a choice."

"Hey!" another voice shouted as B-52 rushed into the room. "Midler's in critical condition! Forget the girl! We need to get her back to the mansion!"

"What?" Hol Horse complained to his partner. "What happened with that Brando guy?"

"I took care of him, but Midler's still in danger!" B-52 urged. "We need to leave now!"

"Alright, sure, whatever," Hol Horse sighed as he threw the girl onto the floor. The cocky cowboy stepped past his partner as he continued toward the stairs. Once his back was turned to B-52, however, the gunner suddenly burst into a group of ten small girls—all identical to the one Hol Horse had beaten. "What the hell!" the cowboy shouted as the girls all tackled him to the ground. "But! Our intel said you couldn't disguise your clones!"

"She can't…" the battered girl muttered with a satisfied smirk. Her twin sister, meanwhile, continued to restrain the cowboy alongside her squad of doppelgängers.

"Why you! Emperor!" Hol Horse shouted as he pulled the trigger of his Stand, but nothing fired.

"Are you looking for this?" the old man asked as he rose to his feet. He grinned confidently at his younger opponent while holding the bullet that had shot him between his thumb and forefinger.

"Th-That's not—" Hol Horse stuttered. "I shot you!"

"Yeah, it hurt like a bitch too," Boss sighed, "but I caught it with Under My Skin. I know what you're thinking, but even though you can't see it, it's a lot stronger than it looks. In fact, it's holding this bullet in my hand for me right now."

"Shit…" Hol Horse muttered before Margret stuffed a dirty sock into his mouth to gag him.

"Actually," Boss continued, "I noticed you curved the bullet upward after firing it. That means this ammunition is also part of your Stand, right? Now, your Stand isn't humanoid, so it's kind of hard to tell, but I can't help but wonder what'll happen if I do this…"

Suddenly, a tiny dent appeared in the side of the bullet, and Hol Horse began writhing and shrieking in muffled pain. "Doesn't feel so good, does it?" Anne chuckled as she clutched her stomach and struggled to her feet.

"Oh, come on, Horse. Why the long face? Oh, sorry, was that your appendix I burst?" Boss asked. "Don't worry. You don't need it. You should probably still get to a hospital, though."

"What should we do with him?" Margret asked lowly.

"Let him go," Boss instructed. "I'll be holding this piece of his Stand as insurance until he's out of range."

Hesitantly, Margret and her clones stepped off Hol Horse, who pulled himself to his feet with the nearby doorframe and clutched his side in agony as the dirty sock fell from his mouth. "You'll… pay…" he breathed heavily.

"No, you will," Boss asserted, "for all the damages you and your buddies caused to my café. Just mail me the check. If you don't, or if you ever show that face of yours around here again without my say-so, well, let's just say next time you'll be leaving in a Hol Hearse."

"I feel like I'm forgetting something," Brent muttered to himself as Death of a Bachelor wrapped his clawed hands around the head of the unconscious B-52.

"What're you doing?" a familiar voice asked. To Brent's surprise, Fleetwood had approached him from behind and was curiously eyeing him and his defeated foe.

"Didn't I tell you to—"

"I do what I want," Fleetwood chuckled in response.

"Yeah, sure," Brent sighed, "well, if you must know, my Stand, Death of a Bachelor, is pretty peculiar. It doesn't really turn people invisible. Well, to be precise, that isn't exactly what it's doing. It's a Stand with the ability to alter perception. By surrounding someone, it can alter others' perception of that person to something like, 'There's no one here.' The target isn't really invisible. Everyone just fails to cognate that they're there, and their minds fill in the blanks automatically."

"Huh, what are you doing to him then?" Fleetwood inquired.

"I'm altering his perception of the past forty-eight hours," Brent explained. "It takes time, and my target has to be unconscious for it to work, but I'm basically altering his memories so he won't know that this ever happened. That way, he can't report this to Dio or anyone else."

"That's a pretty insane ability," Fleetwood acknowledged as she stepped back out of concern.

"Well, there are limits," Brent continued. "For some reason, I'm not able to alter the memories of Stand users. I can only affect their perceptions of the present, not the past. Thankfully, this guy isn't a Stand user anymore." Fleetwood looked down at the broken ball gag.

"Glad to know I'm safe," she chuckled, "anyway, I'm actually leaving now. I just wanted to see how this played out. That kind of curiosity is a weakness of mine."

"Closed, huh?" Brent remarked as he stood at the door of Café Sinatra. Some tarp had been placed over the broken window, but anyone who looked inside could see the establishment still looked like shit. A broken floorboard, a hole in the floor—signs of yesterday's battle were more than obvious to anyone who bothered to look.

Brent had been scheduled for a shift today. He apparently worked from morning to evening now that he was a full-time employee. He was certain Boss would be on his case for being late, but the geezer was nowhere to be seen. Guess I've got the day off…

Brent used most of his newly-found free time to sneak into a nearby hospital using Death of a Bachelor. He knew from experience that Dio had flesh-budded doctors working there who could tend to his servants' wounds. It didn't take long to learn that Hol Horse, B-52, and Midler had all been admitted. He had modified B-52's memory to suggest that Hol Horse had mistakenly fired his Stand, Emperor, near a gas tank and caused an explosion. The fire caused Midler's burns, and the shrapnel caused B-52's laceration. Brent was relieved to find the hospital records corroborated his counterfeit memories. Hol Horse, however, was having his appendix (or what was left of it) removed in what was being treated as an unrelated—albeit uncannily coincidental—case of severe appendicitis.

Sneaking through hospital records ate most of his afternoon, after which he returned to the deluxe hotel he called home for the time being. His leisurely room included every accommodation, including a state-of-the-art telephone with a patented Voicemail box imported from the United States. Traditionally, the box only contained messages from Boss or one of the twins, who would scold him for his tardiness or absence from work, but today an unfamiliar voice left a message: "Hi, is this Mr. Brent Wilson? This is Michel from In the Closet. Please call me back when you can. The number is…"

Brent listened curiously as the machine repeated Michel's phone number to him. Is she finished with the coat already?

He dialed the number back into his phone, and a few rings later, Michel's voice answered, "Hi, you've reached In the Closet tailoring. This is Miss Jackson speaking. How may I help you?"

"Michel? Hey, this is Brent," he replied. "I'm returning your call. Are you done with the—"

"Oh!" Michel exclaimed before a faint voice shouted something in the background. "Nothing, Grandma!" she assured the voice before continuing at a lower volume, "Hi, no, sorry, the coat's not done yet. We're still working on it. Um, I actually called about something else. Well, it's about the offer you made me."

"You want to leave Egypt after all?" Brent wondered aloud.

"Yes, well, um, no, well, I mean…" Michel trailed off after stuttering for a few seconds. She took a deep breath to regain her composure. "I'm not saying I'll go, but, um, well, if you want, we could try to get to know each other better. I can't leave the country with a stranger, but you don't seem like a bad guy, so…"

"Are you free tomorrow?" Brent asked plainly.

"I close up shop around six," Michel answered, "so we could meet up somewhere about seven."

"Perfect," Brent agreed, "meet me outside the Museum of Cairo then."

"It's a date," Michel confirmed.

The café was closed again the following day. Brent spent most of the morning people-watching throughout the suburbs of Cairo and most of the afternoon in his hotel room reading about simulating ideal living environments for a number of exotic species of fish. When the time for his date approached, he changed clothes and attempted to style his messy hair to the side.

Brent wore black skinny jeans and a leather coat whose sleeves had been removed to accommodate Egypt's heat. He had considered trying a bit harder before he ultimately decided not to overdress. Hopefully this goes a bit better than the last date… Brent rolled his shoulders to iron out some of the leftover soreness from his fights with High Priestess and Rock Lobster. I've gotten out of shape since I started at the café.

"Hey there!" a feminine voice called to him outside the museum. Michel navigated through a crowd of passersby and approached her date with an odd sense of urgency. She wore a low-cut, knee-length dress that was expertly handmade from fine, red fabric. The ringlets of her dark hair curled downward under the wide brim of her beige sunhat, which protected her face from the searing sun on the horizon.

"Hi," Brent replied shortly after stalling from how much more form-fitting this dress was than her outfit from the shop.

"So, I meant to ask," Michel started as she looked up at him from under her hat, "why you chose this place. The museum isn't exactly open to the public."

"I'll be upfront," Brent replied before looking from side to side to examine the faces in the crowd around them. "Does the word Stand mean anything to you?"

"Um…" Michel hesitated as her midnight-blue eyes became quizzical. "My English may not be the best. Doesn't that just mean, uh, being on your legs like we are now? I know English has some words that mean two different things based on context, but…"

"Sorry, that was a weird question," Brent withdrew. "Anyway, I actually got a private tour of the museum before. I had a friend in a high place in Cairo who managed to get me in. I was hoping to get in again so I could show you the exhibits, but I wasn't so lucky this time." Sorry, Bachelor, if she can't see you, we can't sneak in with her. She wouldn't understand why no one could see us.

"Well, what's the backup plan?" Michel chuckled.

"Uh…" Brent trailed off.

"You could've been a little more thoughtful than that," she giggled. "In that case, follow me. I know a great ta'meyaplace nearby."

"Alright, I haven't eaten yet, so that sounds perfect," Brent agreed.

Brent followed his date to a quaint restaurant a few blocks away. Michel introduced Brent to the owner in Arabic and helped him order from the menu when they were seated. "I can't believe you came to Egypt barely knowing any Arabic," Michel sighed in English once the owner was out of earshot.

"Well, I can't learn every language," Brent defended, "and I plan on visiting a lot more countries. It wouldn't have made sense to put all that time into learning every modern language when I'm only going to be in each place for a few months."

"How long have you been in Egypt?" Michel asked.

"A little longer than I'd planned," Brent admitted as a server placed their drinks on the table.

"I take it traveling is your main hobby then," Michel inferred.

"Pretty much," Brent admitted, "I like to read a lot too—no fiction though, just academic stuff."

"You're pretty studious then," Michel confirmed. She seemed to brighten up a little.

"Well, I was summa cum laude at U. of T.," Brent bragged with a smirk.

"Oh, now you're just showing off," Michel chuckled.

"What about you, then? What are your hobbies?" Brent asked. "I noticed you had a sketchbook by that photo at the shop."

"Oh, you noticed?" Michel wondered. "I actually brought it." Michel took the book from her handmade purse and placed it on the table between them. "If I'm honest, the sewing thing is just kind of my work. This… This is my dream."

Brent reached down for the book, but Michel gave him a look that told him to back off. "Sorry," he apologized as he retracted his hand.

"No, it's just…" Michel staggered. She didn't seem to realize how she had looked at him.

"You don't know me. I get it," Brent smiled back. "Would you mind showing me some of your work?"

Michel turned the sketchbook around and opened it. She flipped through the pages for a few minutes while they waited for their food. Most of the works were portraits with abstract color schemes intertwined with vibrant images. He noticed an older man colored with dark blues and shadowy purples who was chained to the ground and kept a disproportionately small birdcage tied around his neck with a black-and-white butterfly inside. Another image depicted a girl who looked like Suki Kanao; she was colored like a sunlit seaside with waves roaring through her arms and a whirlpool stirring in her hollow chest while prismatic bubbles floated throughout the navy backdrop.

The last artwork to catch Brent's attention was one that portrayed Suki's incestuous older brother, Kyuu Kanao. Curiously, the whole page seemed like it had been blacked out first, and then the young man's outline had been drawn over it in a painfully bright yellow. Jagged golden stripes decorated his limbs, torso, and cheeks, and each of his eyes contained more than a dozen tiny pupils. "Are you okay?" Michel asked. Brent blinked himself back into reality. He noticed his hand was shaking while gripping his glass of water a little too tightly.

Placing his free hand on his shaking wrist, Brent steadied himself and smiled, "Sorry, I have low blood sugar."

"Oh, sorry," Michel apologized, fearing she had brought up an uncomfortable topic.

"No, it's fine," Brent assured her. "Tell me. Are these based on real people? I notice some of them look like the children in the photograph you had next to this book in the shop."

"Wow, you really are observant," Michel admired. "Yeah," she explained, "I try to represent people in their truest form, not just their physical appearance, but I want to capture the essence of them as well. It's only natural my friends would make good subjects since I've known them for so long."

"You keep in touch then?" Brent asked.

"I see some less often than others," Michel confessed. "I haven't seen him a while," she mused as she traced her fingers listlessly over the black-and-yellow portrait. Brent fell a knot well up in his throat.

"Is he someone you like?" Brent asked. "I saw you holding hands in the photograph."

"Are you jealous already?" Michel chuckled. She stalled for a moment when she saw Brent wasn't smiling. Then she continued with a sigh, "It's complicated. I was head over heels for him when we were kids, but he was always so distant. He took on everything himself, and he thought his way was the only way to get something done. He never relied on anyone. Plus, he was so popular with all the girls that his sister had to beat them off—sometimes literally—to spend any time with him."

"It sounds like you've got some unresolved feelings," Brent observed, "especially for someone asking a customer on a date."

"Is it wrong to try to branch out?" Michel defended. "I'm not really used to this whole dating thing, but I can't obsess over the past forever, you know? Like, I hope he's doing well; he's still important to me, but I can't stand the thought of waiting In the Closet forever for him to come back when he probably doesn't even care that I'm here."

I always hate being the rebound.

A long silence ensued as the server brought them their meal. "Sorry," Michel apologized as she stared down into her ta'meya, "I'm making this first date pretty horrible."

"I've had worse," Brent chuckled as he recollected the disturbing image of High Priestess leaping toward him with claws bared.

"Well, there, I spilled my guts," Michel sighed. "Now it's your turn. Why'd you ask me to leave the country with you all of a sudden?"

"You looked sad," Brent answered after taking a bite of his food and giving his answer some thought. "I can't stand seeing pretty girls look so sad."

"You're a playboy then," Michel chuckled as she seemed to brighten up a little.

"That depends who you ask," Brent defended with his mouth full. "My luck with women sucked before I came to Egypt."

"You're into foreign girls then?" Michel teased.

"What about you?" Brent asked as he swallowed. "You into foreign guys?"

"I'm still deciding," Michel snickered before starting her meal as well, "but you didn't run off when I started talking about my problems with another guy, so I guess that's a good sign."

"I mean I haven't paid the check yet," Brent smirked in reply.

"You're definitely hiding something," Michel observed with a grin. "You give such dumb reasons for these crazy things you do: flying to a foreign country, running away with a stranger… The stuff you say sounds impossible to me, but you say it so simply like it's the most natural thing in the world."

"Impossible is just a matter of perspective," Brent replied. "Everything is impossible until you do it."

"You're unbelievable," Michel sighed as she took another bite.

"Is that a bad thing?" Brent asked after taking another drink of his water.

"No," Michel replied, "I actually kind of like it."

"This place is incredible," Michel marveled at the hotel where Brent had been staying. She had offered to walk him home after dinner since she was more familiar with the area, and now she found herself awestruck at the size of the resort before her. "Where do you get your money?"

"My gramps was a bit of a tycoon," Brent told her. "My dad was an only child, and my gramps hated his guts, so when he passed, I got all the inheritance. How do you think I paid for school?"

"You're just one fairytale after another," Michel chuckled.

"You want to see the inside?" Brent offered.

"No, I couldn't…" Michel declined. "I mean, well, I'd love to, but my grandma's expecting me back before too much longer, and—"

"So?" Brent interrupted.

"I don't want her to worry…" Michel muttered.

"Call her," Brent suggested. "I have a phone. You're an adult. She can't tell you what to do."

"Maybe it's like that in Canada," Michel replied, "but things here are more…"

"More?" Brent asked after she trailed off.

"I don't know," Michel huffed.

"Well, I won't force you," Brent chuckled. "I just want you to do what you want for a change, not what your grandma wants. What do you want?"

"I told you I don't want her to w—"

Brent interrupted Michel by holding his forefinger over her mouth. "I didn't ask what you don't want. I asked what you want."

Dumbfounded, she gazed at him for a long moment as if she had never been asked that question before now. "I…" she hesitated before swallowing a lump in her throat. "I want to go with you…" She paused before appending, "Into the hotel, I mean."

Michel took Brent's forefinger and pulled it away from her face. Brent smiled at her silently as she shyly lowered her head to hide her blushing face behind the brim of her hat. Without letting go of his finger, Michel followed Brent into the hotel. He tried to show her the gorgeous chandelier in the foyer, but she wouldn't look up from his hand. After a few other tries, he gave up and attempted to bid her goodnight.

"U-Um, y-you can…" she stammered in reply, "take me up to your room…"

Brent waited a long moment before asking, "Are you sure? You seem nervous."

"I-I can go home if it's any trouble!" Michel replied as she looked up from under her hat for the first time since they entered.

"No, you're no trouble," Brent assured her. "I just don't want you to force—"

"I want to trust you," she interrupted.

Brent experimentally intertwined the rest of his fingers with the hand that gripped his forefinger. Michel reciprocated the gesture, and he nodded down at her. He led her to the elevator and up to the ninth floor, where his room stood at one of the hall's corners. They entered, and Brent took a moment to show her the accommodations of the luxury suite. Michel just quietly held his hand as he pointed her to the telephone, fully-stocked fridge, outdoor balcony, and other features. Now what? Is she expecting me to make a move?

"Is it alright," Michel asked when Brent finished, "if I stay here for tonight? I don't want to get yelled at by my grandma… quite yet."

"Yeah, I only have one bed, though," Brent replied.

"That's fine," Michel answered.

"Well, to be blunt, um, I don't really want to have sex with you right now," Brent admitted. "I'm not really comfortable since you have all those unresolved feelings for—"

"No!" Michel shouted in protest. Her face was redder than the sun setting on the Nile. "I don't want—I mean we don't have to—I just don't want to go—"

"Okay! Okay! Chill," Brent tried to calm her down. "I've got neighbors, you know. These walls aren't soundproof."

Michel quieted down with a huff. "I don't love him, not anymore," she asserted as she stared out the window to the balcony. "I wouldn't be here if I did."

"I'm not saying you do," Brent assured her. "I just don't want to be a rebound."

"That's not what this is," Michel retorted. "I'm not trying to replace Kyuu. I'm not trying to fall for you. I just want to get to know you better, and I don't want to go home tonight. That's all."

"That's fine," Brent assured her as he gripped her hand tighter. Michel's face gradually loosened up.

Brent sat on the edge of his bed in his charcoal-gray pajamas. He had taken some time to shower and change while Michel waited, and now she was in the bathroom changing into a spare set of Brent's pajamas. Brent sighed into his hands as he wondered how he had let the date become this. I want to help her, but I don't think I can. She needs to decide to leave for herself… to leave her grandma… to leave him behind…

Brent looked up from the space between his palms and noticed a small bee crawling on the outside of his balcony window. In the blink of an eye, Brent had stretched his shadow under the sliding glass door, and Death of a Bachelor had emerged to impale the insect with his sharpened middle finger. A small crack in the glass evidenced the shadowy Stand's lack of control in the attack. You're like a bad dream that I just can't wake up from.

As Brent stared at his reflection in the glass, a ghastly figure suddenly appeared in the reflection behind him. The stone-colored, humanoid apparition had wrappings like a mummy's covering most of its head and parts of its shoulders and arms, and a quarter of its head opened to expose something akin to a mechanical brain within its creepy skull. The creature had two right hands, and a knife emerged from one of its wrists as it seemed to threaten the neck of Brent's reflection. "Ooh, you brought a girl home? That's a first. I'm happy for you, but if you ask me, she'd look much better if her neck matched that red dress of hers."

"Leave her alone, Hanged Man. We had a deal," Brent groaned.

"I won't touch her," the Stand cackled within the reflection. "I prefer younger girls anyway."

"Go eviscerate someone else's girlfriend," Brent scoffed. "She'll think I'm crazy if she comes out while I'm talking to you."

"I only dropped by to investigate a little rumor I heard," Hanged Man chortled. "From what Boot Daddy and Hol Horse said, it sounds like your date with Midler was a blast."

"Didn't we agree not to meddle in each other's personal lives?" Brent retorted. "I stay out of your love life. You stay out of mine."

"Now, now, I don't care about what happened to them or about that adorable café you've been working at," Hanged Man assured him. "The more of you rise up against Lord Dio, the more of you I get to kill later. That's how I see it, at least."

"Then what do you want?" Brent asked.

"Boot Daddy's most prominent injuries are a concussion and a laceration across the chest. The wound wasn't deep enough to be fatal, but he lost quite a bit of blood. Now, here's the curious part: he says the gash came from shrapnel from a gas explosion, but his shirt wasn't cut at all. You wouldn't be hiding anything important from me, would you?" the mummified Stand questioned as it moved its knife a little closer.

"What if I am?" Brent deadpanned.

Hanged Man slid its knife through the space next to Brent's neck in the reflection. After moving the knife past his head, the Stand sighed, "This is what I hate about you, Brent. Your Stand even lets you distort my Stand's perception of where your reflection is. How am I supposed to threaten you if I can't even tell where your jugular is?"

"You're not," Brent answered as he stood up. "Get out of my hotel." Brent walked over to his balcony and closed the blackout curtains over the sliding door.

"Did I do something wrong?" Michel asked. Brent turned and saw that she had just emerged from the bathroom. Her face was still damp from washing off her makeup, and his pajamas were just a little too big for her.

"No, sorry, there was a bee," Brent explained.

"Oh…" Michel seemed unsure of whether to believe him.

Brent sighed internally and gestured toward his bed. "Anyway, left side's yours. Right side's mine. Is that okay?"

"Yeah, that's fine," Michel agreed.

Brent turned on a nightlight and then flipped his lights out as Michel crawled into her side of the bed. She lay with her back facing the middle and her knees curled toward her chest. Brent moved under the covers beside her. He shook his head to dispel a handful of invasive thoughts. Then he began to ponder her situation.

She needs help, but her grandma and Kyuu are holding her back. I don't think I can do anything about her grandma, but I wonder… If I alter how she perceives Kyuu in her memories, can I make her forget her feelings? I don't want to mess up her childhood or her other friendships, so I'd need to be careful, but she's only going to get in trouble if she keeps clinging to him. She might go looking for him, and that could lead her to Dio… or worse: him…

Hardening his resolve, Brent gathered his determination and made up his mind. He waited a half-hour or so for her to fall asleep, and then, he turned around and summoned Death of a Bachelor from his shadow. To his surprise, however, he was confronted by another figure: The apparition had a wraithlike form, not unlike his own Stand's, but its body was covered in tiny, prismatic panels that reflected light like stained glass. The creature had spikes on its head where Death of a Bachelor had antennae, and its eyes and mouth were replaced with small indents in its face. The apparition was holding a black glove—the shape of its right hand—in its left; shadowy tendrils suddenly burst from its exposed right hand, which radiated a thick, black miasma into the air around it. The tendrils invaded Brent's mouth, ears, and nostrils as Death of a Bachelor's claws wrapped around Michel's head. Each bedfellow was horrified and surprised at the emergence of the other's wraith. Death of a Bachelor clicked in dismay as he failed to alter Michel's memory. She's a Stand user after all!

As Privacy invaded Brent's mind, Michel's world suddenly vanished around her. As soon as it went dark, a new world appeared before her: a dim, circular room that was featureless aside from a single chair and door. A security camera above the door watched a pair of individuals at the room's center. Bound to the chair by a series of straps was a thin, young woman with long, oaken hair and dull, hazel eyes. Standing before her was another figure in a hazmat suit holding an antique arrow topped with an ornately-designed, golden arrowhead.

Wait. I don't see Brent. Aren't these his memories?

"Subject A-86: Brenda Urie, twenty-two years old, type A blood, ENTP, Scorpio, physically fit, IQ 166, 64.4 kilograms, 175 cm, no known mental disorders or serious health conditions…" The person in the hazmat yawned before continuing, "Odds of survival based on current data are roughly 17.6%."

Whose memories are these?

"Beginning injection…" The scientist stabbed the bound test subject in the abdomen with the arrow. Michel covered her mouth to withhold a gasp as the bound woman screamed in agony. Blood spurted from the wound as the scientist removed the arrowhead a moment later. The scientist waited for several minutes as the subject struggled in vain against her restraints. The wound from the arrow miraculously closed, and after a few more minutes, the subject fell unconscious. "Subject is stable, but Stand A-86 has not visibly manifested. Escort to confinement as a precaution…"

Michel blinked, and the scene changed to the woman alone in a smaller room that was little more than a hole in the ground. "What a shitty way to die…" the woman mused to no one. Moments later, her shadow crawled out of the ground. The silhouette slowly manifested in the form of an umbral wraith identical to the creature that had emerged from Brent's shadow a moment before Privacy invaded his mind.

Is that Brent's Stand? Why does this woman have it?

"Is that you, Death?" the woman asked her creepy shadow as it twitched from side to side. "Have you finally come to set me free? Please, you must be here to take me. You have to be. You're the Death of a Bachelor, right?"

Am I seeing his Stand's memories?

Michel's perspective zoomed forward in time. The brunette woman was locked in a large, dank cell with iron bars in a stone dungeon somewhere underground. Her cellmates included a muscular Westerner with boxing gloves tattooed over his chest; an emaciated elder Egyptian man wrapped in spectral, blue chains that bound his body to the ground; a plain-looking young man with average features and dark hair; and a short, stocky Egyptian man with shaved, black hair and pointy ears.

"What do they want with us?" the brunette woman asked her dreary cellmates.

"That arrow apparently gives people it doesn't kill something called a Stand," the tattooed American replied. "However, that Stand doesn't always appear right away, so they throw us in here until it materializes."

The plain-looking man added, "They target people who won't be missed: tourists," he said as he gestured toward the American, "homeless," toward the elder, "criminals," toward the pointy-eared man, "and orphans." With the last item, he pointed to a cell across from theirs where a young, Egyptian boy was clutching a plastic action figure of a superhero.

"What happens after it materializes?" the brunette woman asked.

"They take you away," the pointy-eared man explained. "After that, who knows? They never come back, so maybe they go free, but they're probably killed."

"Stop scaring her, Kenny," the American scolded as he nudged the pointy-eared man. "Anyway, they won't take you if you don't have a Stand. They keep us fed, so we just have to sit tight 'til we're rescued."

"No one's coming for us," the brunette woman sulked. "Like he said, they took us because we wouldn't be missed."

"Now, that's not true," the American assured her. "I don't know about you, but my family came to Egypt with me, and they're still out there. I'm sure they have the police looking everywhere for me. They'll find us soon enough."

"Why haven't they taken him?" the brunette asked as she nodded to the elder.

"His Stand has him stuck to the floor," the plain-looking man sighed as he gestured toward the elder. "Poor guy can't even eat like that."

"I've heard whispers among the guards about brainwashing," the pointy-eared man chuckled, "or some other experiment called a Stand Transplant. Apparently, the fatality rate for that's even higher than the arrow they shot us with. You'd best hope your Stand never materializes. Why, they took that guy Bim away just yesterday."

The brunette woman stared down at her shadow for a long moment before hugging her legs and burying her face in her knees.

Someone was trying to create Stand users to experiment on them, and what's this about Stand Transplants? Is something like that even possible?

The next scene returned to the room with a single chair. The brunette woman was strapped to the chair again, and a diminutive hag with two right hands sharpened a pair of scissors in front of her. "Since your Stand hasn't materialized for quite some time now, we're going to simulate a sense of urgency in an effort to draw it out…" Without further warning, the hag plunged her scissors into the brunette's stomach. The brunette wailed in pain as the hag twisted the blades before slowly drawing them through her abdomen. The hag removed the weapon, and her victim heaved desperately for air through agonized tears.

"Don't worry. We'll take steps to ensure you aren't killed," the hag assured her as hundreds of tiny bees swarmed into view around her. The creatures buzzed around the wounded girl as her terrorized screaming resumed. The swarm landed around her injury and spread honey over the bleeding wound. Within moments, the laceration had been repaired, but Michel somehow sensed the woman was still in pain. "I can't promise you won't die from the shock, however," the hag added before thrusting her scissors through the woman's forearm.

Again and again, the hag cackled maliciously and incurred another terrible injury, only for it to be repaired by the bees within seconds. "Please stop!" the victim begged. "Please, please, please! Just let me die! Stop it!" she screamed as she bit at the bees swarming around her. "Stop healing me, Goddammit! Let me die! Fuck, please! I can't take it! I can't take it anymore!"

"Dispelling these bees would be child's play if you summoned your Stand!" the hag cackled as she silenced the woman's protests by cutting her throat open. The bees swarmed around her neck and repaired the injury with their medicinal honey.

When the victim's neck was healed, the sadistic hag seemed to ponder for a moment as she glared at her bloodstained victim. "You're being too straightforward," a masculine voice interjected. Michel gawked as someone she recognized entered the room. His tall frame, dark skin, blue eyes, and black ponytail were immediately recognizable: this was Kyuu Kanao. "No matter how much you slash her, she subconsciously knows she's not in any real danger because A Taste of Honey keeps healing her."

"Well, her Stand won't materialize if she dies because you stopped healing her," the hag scoffed.

Kyuu approached the tortured woman and held her chin in his fingers. "Forgive me, but I'm afraid you have to endure this just a little longer. This is the price a normal person has to pay to achieve the power of the chosen."

"Please just kill me already…" the woman begged after violently coughing up the blood that had dripped into her lungs from having her throat cut.

"If you die, you'll have suffered all this for nothing," Kyuu retorted, "and more importantly, I'll have sullied my hands for nothing. I know what I'm doing to you is a sin. Please, don't make me a sinner with no cause. I wouldn't be able to look my fiancée in the eyes."

What am I watching? Kyuu is… He must have been brainwashed like that man mentioned earlier… There's no way he would…

"What do you suggest since you went out of your way to interrupt?" the hag bit at the ponytailed interloper.

"External injuries are obviously a waste of time," Kyuu observed. "You'll only be causing needless pain if you keep butchering her. We've got to change our approach to something different. Yeah, maybe something more internal would be able to trick her subconscious…"

Suddenly, one of the many bees buzzing frantically about the room landed on the victim's earlobe. "No…" the woman pleaded. "No, please, I'm begging you…"

"Please, bear with me," Kyuu implored his victim as he knelt down to look her in the eyes. "You're quite beautiful, and I'm sure you're quite powerful. You survived the arrow, so you have a Stand. It's just a little shy is all, but the most beautiful flowers often bloom latest. My sister has the most beautiful Stand I've ever seen, and hers appeared much later in life than mine. I'm sure yours will be at least half as beautiful. I promise it'll be worth the pain."

The bee began to crawl up the victim's ear, and Michel covered her eyes in horror. Cacophonic shrieking filled the room moments later. Michel kept her eyes closed as tears streamed down her face. The horrific wailing seemed to echo throughout the room for an eternity. When the room eventually fell silent, Michel dared to peek past her fingers into the room. A pair of bees flew away from the victim's ears, and a few others darted out of her mouth. The tiny insects faded from view as Kyuu sighed.

"Useless," the hag insulted, "your methods proved as ineffectual as mine. Next time, just leave this to the professionals."

Kyuu scowled down at his victim with a look that simultaneously carried offense and disgust. "That hurt me more than it hurt you," he chided before storming out of the room.

Michel blinked, and the scene changed again. The tortured brunette had returned to her cell with the others, but the pointy-eared man was nowhere to be seen. "Why didn't you kill me!" she screamed furiously as she held her wraithlike Stand against the stone wall by its neck. "You're Death, right? You came here to kill me, right? Then why wouldn't you let me die!" The silhouetted Stand simply clicked helplessly and waved its hands in front of its face defensively.

"Missy, calm down," the American comforted her as he placed a hand on her shoulder. The tortured woman turned around and slapped the man's hand away as she scowled up at him. "That's not Death. That's your Stand. It probably stayed hidden because it knew they'd kill or brainwash you if they knew you had it. It was trying to protect you."

"You're a piece of shit guardian, you know that!" the woman bit at both her Stand and the American before she moved to the edge of the cell. She gripped the iron bars and pulled her head back as if to slam her forehead forward into them. To her surprise, however, she hit the American's sturdy hand. The impact left a noticeable bruise where the back of his hand hit the bars, but the woman was unharmed.

"You can't keep taking your life for granted," the American sighed at her. "Don't you have a dream or something to live for?"

"Who gives a fuck about dumb shit like dreams?" the woman snapped before moving to the cell's wall. The plain-looking man stepped out of her way as she walked into the wall and slid down it onto the ground.

"You know, I have a dream," the man shared. "I'm actually a boxer, nothing too famous, but I'm trying to work my way up. I want my wife and daughter to hear me on the radio one day and think, 'That's Jay! Oh man! He's so cool!' That's what keeps me going. It's why I haven't given up here yet."

"Keep your sappy bullshit to yourself," the woman scoffed. "Talk to me when an incestuous sociopath turns your skull into a beehive."

The American scratched his cheek as he seemed to be at a loss for words. "She needs time to cope," the plain-looking man told the American. "You're just making her worse right now."

Not long after, a group of men in hazmat suits entered the dungeon and unlocked the cell belonging to the child across from the tortured woman. "Please, come with us," one of the men told the child before grabbing his arm and yanking him to his feet.

"No!" the child protested in Arabic. "No! I don't want to go!"

"Come on, brat. You don't have a choice," the man scolded as he started to drag the child away.

In the struggle, the child dropped his action figure, and the man hoisted the protesting orphan over his shoulder. "Save me, Captain Meteor!" the child cried as he reached toward his damaged toy. "Please, save me!"

Suddenly, an explosion of blinding flame erupted from the child's cell. The tortured brunette and her cellmates jolted to their feet and stared in awe at the cell across from them. In just an instant, the men in hazmat suits had been completely disintegrated. Only ashen shadows remained silhouetted against the floor where they stood. The child's cell's iron bars had melted out of shape, and molten rock dripped from the stone ceiling and across the floor. Only the child remained, and a blinding image stood triumphantly over the bubbling remains of his toy.

The figure was roughly humanoid in size and shape, but looking directly at its luminescent body was comparable in difficultly to staring into the sun. Vague outlines of heroic armor and a gallant cape flowing in nonexistent wind were the figure's most distinguishable features. Small, angelic wings sprouted from its solar helmet, and its thick boots melted the ground on which it stood into puddles of lava. "Captain Meteor!" the child exclaimed. "You really came!"

"It is Ra!" the emaciated elder exclaimed in Arabic. Surprised to hear his voice for the first time, both Michel and the tortured woman suddenly turned to the chained man. "The god of the sun has come to deliver us at long last!"

"Meteor-Ra!" the orphan exclaimed as he hugged the iridescent Stand's shin. "Thank you for saving me from—"

A quiet gunshot echoed through the room. From nowhere, a tall man with blonde hair had appeared behind the child and shot him pointblank in the back of the neck with some kind of tranquilizer. The orphan fell unconscious almost instantly, and his radiant Stand faded from view. Without a word or turning to the others, the blond man picked up the child and disappeared just as suddenly as he had entered, taking the unconscious child with him.

Michel blinked as the next scene played before her eyes. The plain-looking man and the elder in spectral chains were no longer in the cell. Only the tortured woman and the American remained. A blonde woman with curly hair stood in front of their cell. She placed her palms together before averting her eyes and pulling them apart, "Silver Springs, show me Enyaba Geil, please…" she murmured beneath a sullen expression.

A tiny waterfall appeared between her palms, and an image formed therein like a reflection. It was the same room with a single chair and door. The diminutive hag with two right hands held the golden-headed arrow in her rightmost hand, and a group of three people were bound, blindfolded, and gagged on the ground in front of her. "Mama! Estelle! Kay!" the American cried as he wrapped his hands around the bars. "What are you—"

His question was interrupted when the hag stabbed the leftmost victim, an elderly woman, with the arrow. The blonde clairvoyant winced as the American shouted in protest. The elder struggled for a few moments before she became motionless. The hag removed the first victim's blindfold to expose lifeless eyes. She had not survived. The middle captive was next, a woman around the same age as the American. A stab to the neck marked her death after a similarly brief struggle. Tears flowed down the American's face as shouts of objection flooded the dungeon. The third and final victim, a young American girl, was stabbed in the chest with the arrow, and, after struggling for a minute or so, thudded lifelessly against the floor.

"Mama!" the American man cried as he tried to reach through the bars. "Es!" he wailed. The blonde clairvoyant dismissed her aquatic image and stepped away from the bars. Her eyes panged with sympathy as the man roared, "Kay!" After panting heavily, he punched the ground, which cracked under the unnatural power of his punch. "Why?" he asked no one. Tears fell onto the ground around his bloodied fist. He bit his lip until his blood mixed with his tears, but after a few moments, his expression changed as some realization seemed to strike him. "Oh…" he muttered before rising to his feet.

Then, he punched forward, and an ethereal fist attached to a springy arm exploded forward from his fist. The spring-loaded strike socked the blonde clairvoyant squarely across the jaw, and she fell unconsciously to the floor. "Oh, and it looks like a one-hit knockout! That's all for today's match, folks!" the American announced as he looked at the grounded blonde. "But our hero's just experienced quite the turn of events! How will the Major cope after watching his beloved family murdered right before his very eyes? Major! Can the audience have a word?"

The American turned around and spoke as if to himself, "Well, Jay, I've got to say. That was pretty tragic, but I have to endure for the sake of my adoring fans. Without you guys, I'm nothing!"

The tortured woman looked blankly up at her cellmate, "Are you talking to—"

"What a heartwarming response!" the American narrated as he turned back around. "You heard it here first, folks! The Major loves his fans so much that he's going to stay in the ring despite this horrendous tragedy!"

"I'm going to use this pain as motivation to get even stronger," the so-called Major declared after turning to face the wall, "starting by perfecting my new signature move: the Mama SKYO!"

"That's quite a mouthful, Major!" the American replied to himself as he turned to the other wall.

"Well, that's how you know it's serious," he chuckled to himself as he turned back around.

"Um, hello, Earth to 'Major,' you're not talking to—"

"What's that, Missy? Did you want an autograph?" the American offered as he turned around. Tears were still flowing down his face, and he smiled cheerfully down at her through his bloodstained lip.

"I guess there's a beehive in your skull after all," the woman sighed before planting her face in her knees again.

Michel wiped a droplet from her face as the scene changed again. Now, the brunette woman stood amidst a group of others in what appeared to be a museum. The American—who carried an Arabian baby in a cross-stitched carrier over his chest—the blonde woman he had knocked out, a muscular man in a leotard, and the plain-looking man from the cell all stood in a circle with the tortured brunette, who was now wearing a suit and tie in place of the meager rags she had been allotted in captivity.

"Soibhan, Noriaki, how's the surveillance room?" the blonde woman asked the reflective water flowing between her palms.

"Disabled," a masculine voice answered.

"And the guards watching the cameras?" the blonde pressed.

"Child's play, no one can deflect the Emerald Splash," a second voice chuckled from the running water.

"Very well, let us commence," the man in the leotard declared as he turned to a set of double doors. He threw the doors open and sauntered into the next room. The curly-haired blonde stepped back, but the brunette woman and the other two men followed their apparent leader into an exhibition hall.

"Hey, what are you—" a security guard asked before the baby-toting American shot an ethereal, spring-loaded punch into his face from across the hall.

"And the first blow is dealt!" he announced. "The one and only Major Spring strikes first blood yet again!"

"We need backup!" a second security guard called in Arabic through a small radio as he gawked at his unconscious partner. The plain-looking man extended a hand, and a dark collar materialized around the guard's neck. "What the—" electricity surged through the guard's body, and he fell lifelessly to the ground after the shock sent him flying into a nearby glass case.

"Exit 10," the plain-looking man muttered under his breath.

"That's it for round one of this tornado tag no-DQ match!" the American narrated. A moment later, the unconscious man convulsed unnaturally in his sleep, and a huge gash exploded over his face from seemingly nowhere. "Ooh, we're going to need some cleanup over here, ladies and gents!"

"Freeze!" another voice ordered in Arabic as more than a dozen guards flooded into the room with guns drawn.

One the guard's firearms suddenly transformed into a monstrous ball of brown fur that leapt toward its wielder's neck and slashed his throat open. A red dot appeared over a second guard's forehead before a bullet flew through a nearby window and dropped the man to the ground. The baby-toting American and the plain-looking man ducked behind another exhibit as the remaining guards opened fire. Gunfire could be heard emanating from the adjacent rooms as well.

"They've got the Major on the ropes! How's he going to handle this one?" the American narrated before punching a wall with his spring-loaded Stand. The ethereal arm ricocheted off the wall and toward the ceiling before bouncing off the ceiling and striking one of the guards atop the head, knocking him out cold. The plain-looking man cursed under his breath before reaching out from behind his cover and causing collars to appear around three more of the guards' necks before shocking them similarly. In the corner of her eye, Michel caught a glimpse of a mummified apparition standing behind one of the guard's reflections in the exhibit glass. The apparition decapitated the guard's reflection with a knife that emerged from its wrist, and the guard's head correspondingly rolled off his shoulders. The hairball from earlier clawed the eyes out of a different guard's head as the remaining men panicked and began firing almost blindly. One of the guards reached for a fire alarm only to accidentally touch an electrical outlet that had suddenly appeared next to the alarm. He retracted his hand as he was apparently shocked by the outlet, but then he suddenly pressed his own gun to his abdomen and seemed to accidentally fire the weapon before falling down into a puddle of blood seconds later.

"Rejoice!" the leotard-wearing leader bellowed as he walked fearlessly into the midst of the chaos. "For you are being bestowed the immeasurable honor of dying for the sake of our heavenly lord! Carry this joy with you into the afterlife and beyond!"

The tortured brunette silently approached a panicking guard from the side. He paid no mind to her as she drew a knife and plunged the weapon into the side of his throat.

Why aren't they shooting at her?

The guard panicked and fired his gun into open air as blood flowed from his wound. Another bullet flew in from a window to an adjacent room and into the head of a different guard. The projectile exited that guard's head and curved through the air to dispatch the remaining guards in the room before flying through another window into the next room, which fell silent moments later.

As the bloodbath finally subsided, the double doors reopened, and the leotard-wearing leader, the baby-toting American, the plain-looking man, and the tortured woman each knelt before either side of the door to form a walkway. A tall, muscular goliath of a man with blonde hair and piercing, green eyes swaggered into the room through the double doors. "Milord, we have dispatched all nearby nuisances for your leisure," the apparent leader assured the newcomer.

"Very good, you never fail to impress me," the blond lord snickered as he marveled at the carnage strewn throughout the room. As he stepped past his genuflecting subjects, he flourished a beautiful katana with an ornate, golden hilt and held the weapon toward the light in the middle of the ceiling. "With this sword, we have taken one vital step closer… to Heaven."

The lord's subjects dared to return to their feet before following their lord into the museum's courtyard. Looking at the view outside, Michel recognized this place as the Museum of Cairo she had visited just earlier in the day. However, the moonlit courtyard was even more of a slaughterhouse than indoors. Perfectly-curved ditches had been dug in odd patterns throughout the yard, and stray body parts surrounded by blood littered the ground. A bloody hand lay next to one ditch; an arm and a leg were next to another; the upper half of someone's head was all that remained in the middle of a different rut; countless remnants of victims were scattered amidst the catastrophic aftermath of some ungodly power.

Michel covered her mouth to fight the urge to vomit at the gruesome spectacle, and the scene changed before her. The tortured woman stood in a dark hallway. She was being confronted by a redheaded woman with steampunk goggles. "You're the one who hid Anubis, aren't you?"

"I'm not able to defy him…" the tortured woman replied as she gestured toward her forehead. In a swift motion, the redheaded woman grabbed the tortured brunette's forehead. "Let go of me!" the brunette objected as she swatted the redhead's hand away.

"I've just implanted you with a microscopic Stand called Under My Skin," the redhead explained. "It belongs to a friend of mine. It's destroying your flesh bud as we speak. Listen… I'm on your side… If Anubis remains here, they'll use it as a model to perfect the Stand Transplants… You need to leave, and you need to take Anubis with you. I don't know how you're doing it, but your ability to hide the sword is the only thing keeping the Stand Transplant research at a standstill. I know a place you can run to, but you have to follow me…" The redhead extended a hand to punctuate her offer.

The tortured brunette hesitated as she held her hand over her forehead experimentally. "Why would you—"

"Brenda, I'm sorry for what I did to you," the redhead apologized. "You didn't ask for any of this, but this is bigger than you or me. This is about preventing calamity…"

Cautiously, the tortured woman took the redhead's extended hand. "Get me out of here, please."

"Lyn Aizumi," the redhead introduced herself a she shook the brunette's hand.

"I'm Bren—"

The flashback ended midsentence. Brent and Michel were suddenly back in reality. No real-world time had passed as the bedfellows' complementary Stands hovered over the bed. Tears dripped down each of their faces. "Brent, who is…" Michel managed to choke out before gathering her composure. "Who is Brenda?"

"Please don't call me that," Brent sniffled through panicked breaths. "Please don't call me by that name…"

Experimentally, Michel placed her hand under the bottom of Brent's pajama shirt. She traced her fingers slowly up the skin of his abdomen until she came to his chest, where she felt a Spandex binder covering his breast. "Brent, you're a—"

"No, I'm not!" Brent screamed. "Who gave you the right to—"

Before Brent could finish, Michel's lips were pressed firmly against his. She had rolled on top of him and was holding both of his hands tightly in her own. Brent instinctively resisted for a moment before relaxing and allowing her tongue to gently intertwine with his own. "I'm so sorry," Michel apologized between heavy breaths and contrite kisses. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I'm so sorry."

"You saw everything, didn't you?" Brent gawked at the crying artist.

"I'm so sorry," she repeated as her tears fell onto Brent's cheeks.

"You must think I'm—"

"No!" Michel objected. "You're… You're incredible! You're absolutely incredible! You suffered through all of that, but you still—all this time—you've been worried about me! You were worried that I was sad, that I was trapped in my past or my home. You were trying to help me with my baggage when you…"

"Please don't cry…" Brent requested as he wiped a few tears from Michel's eyes. "I can't stand seeing pretty girls look so sad." Brent leaned forward and softly touched his lips to Michel's. She closed her eyes and allowed her body to relax into his embrace.

The lines between them blurred as short and sweet pecks steadily gave way to a series of deep, passionate kisses. Brent pulled away long enough to roll onto his bedfellow, whose abyssal gaze bored into his core. She raised a hand to gently caress his tear-stained cheek. "You're so beautiful," she marveled at his dark, veiled eyes.

A feeling welled inside Brent as the last word left her lips. He hated being called that. He always had, but somehow, there was a sincerity in her voice that had been absent in voices of others. Unlike anyone else, Michel wasn't looking at his body or his hair; she was staring into something different. Brent wasn't sure whether to call it his heart or his soul, but that ethereal part of him urged him to prove his reciprocation.

Brent opened his mouth as if to reply, but he immediately felt that words would not be enough. Instead, he planted his lips on the side of his partner's neck. A muffled hum escaped from Michel's mouth. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, and she gripped the back of his pajama shirt in response to the feeling of his teeth against her skin. Unconsciously, Brent's fingers traced the waistline of his partner's pants and found their way under the bottom of her shirt. His tongue painted desire over her freshly-bruised neck as his hand found its way to the curve at the bottom of her breast. Michel gasped at his fingers' icy touch. The sound pulled Brent's mind back into reality. "Sorry," he apologized as he pulled away and removed his arm from her shirt.

"No," she answered as she took his hand and placed it over her breast, "you don't have to stop." Her partner looked uncertain, so Michel continued. "I know what I want this time. I want you."

Certain of her consent, Brent slowly unbuttoned her dark, cotton top to uncover her bare chest underneath. He paused to admire her newly-exposed curves before Michel leaned upward to pull her arms out of her sleeves and grab the back of Brent's hair. She pulled her partner down into another kiss. After allowing her to nibble on his lower lip for a moment, Brent slid down and apologetically pecked her bruised neck before trailing his tongue down her collarbone and over her breasts. Michel's chest heaved with increasingly intense breaths as Brent kissed more and more of her uncovered skin. His lips moved from her nipples to her ribs and then farther down as Michel gripped the back of his shirt and pulled it off.

Brent experimentally kissed the tip of her pelvic bone before trailing his tongue along her waistline. "Lower…" she breathed as the space between her legs pulsed expectantly. At his partner's behest, Brent carefully pulled her bottoms down past her ankles before kissing his way up her inner thigh. Michel gripped her partner's hair and resisted the urge to pull his head where she wanted it until, finally, his lips landed where she hoped they would. Undulating her hips in rhythm, Michel released an elated moan as her partner's tongue wove tapestries inside her. Brent spread her legs farther apart to reach deeper into her body, and Michel's eyes widened as her breaths became shorter and deeper. "Fuck…" she heard herself whisper after biting her lip in an attempt of courtesy toward Brent's neighbors.

Before long, she looked between her legs to tell her bedfellow she was coming, but at the sight of his steady eyes looking expectantly into hers, she came. Her pelvis lurched into the air, and Brent held her hips in place while rolling his tongue over her clit to perpetuate her orgasm. Michel covered her mouth to muffle a scream of pleasure before her body collapsed back onto the mattress. Gasping for air, she pulled Brent's face down to her own. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to taste his tongue again.

Michel held her partner's body as close to hers as she could for a long while. Part of her was afraid that he would vanish if she let go, that he would return to the horrific memory they had witnessed just minutes ago.

I wanted to help her forget. I want her to live her own life.

I want to make him forget. I want him to be a part of my life.

Michel rolled over on top of her brunet partner. Mimicking his earlier motions, she gently kissed his neck before trailing her tongue down to his collarbone. Cautiously, she moved her hand over his binder. "I don't like them," Brent admitted as he looked away.

"I'll leave this then," Michel smiled as she kissed his abdomen. Tracing her lips across the outline of his subtle musculature, she quickly found the scar the size of an arrowhead. Michel paused for a moment as she suppressed the memory of the scar's origin, and she tenderly kissed the wound as if to bandage it.

"Please don't," Brent requested meekly as he covered the scar with his hand.

He's so fragile…

"What do you need?" she softly asked her wounded bedfellow.

"Anywhere else is fine," he assured her. "It just… still stings sometimes."

"Alright," she answered with the kindest smile she could wear. Determined to return her partner's favor, she grabbed the waistline of his cotton pants. She wasn't sure what she would find therein, and at this point, she didn't care. She didn't know how she would pleasure him or if she even could, but she was sure as hell going to try.

"Oh, you don't have to—" Brent started as he grabbed her hand, but Michel gazed into his eyes with a look of sincerity.

"I want to," she assured him.

"I just don't know if you're into—"

"I'm into you," she promised. "At least, I want to be," she chuckled. That remark put a grin on Brent's face again. "Besides," she continued, "you did the same for me."

Carefully removing his pants, Michel kept a watchful eye for any remaining scars or marks she should be mindful of. Finding none, she moved her head between Brent's legs and trailed her lips and tongue over him. Brent exhaled approvingly as her mouth continued to work "That feels good…" Brent gasped as he traced his hand over her shoulders. Michel continued for some time until she sensed her partner's breath steadying again.

"Just tell me what you want," Michel offered while giving her mouth a break, sensing his pleasure was stagnating after a few minutes. "What gets you off?"

"You sure?" Brent asked.

"Yeah, just… go for it," Michel smiled.

Brent sat up and grabbed Michel's ankle. After turning her body around beneath him, he moved his hips between her legs. Holding one of her legs in the air, he undulated his pelvis into her own. Her wetness betrayed residual desire from his earlier handiwork, and the friction created a sensation that was entirely alien to the closeted artist. She found herself involuntarily moving in time with Brent's rhythm, and she gripped the sheets of the bed as pleasure pulsed through her body in time with the motion. "God, you feel good," Brent exhaled as his grip on her leg tightened. "Your pussy's amazing."

"Brent…" Michel moaned after biting back another scream. "I think—I think I'm coming again…"

"Fuck, I am too…" Brent groaned as his movements became faster and faster.

"That's okay," Michel assured him. "Finish whenever you want, please."

Brent placed a hand between their legs and rubbed his fingers over himself. The motion placed the finishing touches on Michel's ascension as well, and her body convulsed as she came onto him again. Brent moved his hips away for just a moment as his hand finished him off, and his pleasure released onto his partner's abdomen. Several deep breaths later, he collapsed onto his side.

Brent was surprised to find the café open for business again the next morning. "Good morning," a familiar voice called to him as he rang the bell over the door by opening it. To Brent's astonishment, however, the voice belonged not to Boss, but to Brando, who had received a slicked-back haircut since Brent last saw him and was polishing a coffee mug behind the bar.

"You fixed the place up already?" Brent asked as he looked around. The damage to the café had completely vanished since Brent last saw the establishment. "That was fast."

"Six hours is not what I would normally consider fast," Brando admitted.

Brent noticed the nearby clock as it struck ten o'clock in the morning, and he sighed at the thought of when Brando must have woken up. "Where's Boss?" Brent asked.

"Mr. Moon appears to be absent," Brando replied. "However, according to the employee handbook, that makes me acting manager until he returns."

"Since when do we have an employee handbook?" Brent retorted.

"Since I wrote one," Brando deadpanned.

"When the hell did you write an employee handbook?" Brent wondered.

"When Mr. Moon hired me, I asked him for a copy of the employee handbook, and he told me, 'Write it your damn self for all I care,' so I did," Brando nodded confidently, "and the handbook states that in the event of the unexpected absence of the general manager, should said manager in no way explicitly designate an acting manager for the duration of his absence, whichever employee takes the initiative to open the shop next shall be declared acting manager until such time as the general manager returns."

"You are just—I don't even have a word for what you are," Brent marveled.

"Thank you, Mr. Wilson," Brando acknowledged, "now if you would be so kind, I would like for you to show our new hire the ropes."

"You did not hire someone while Boss is—"

"What's up? Willy, right?" an eerie voice greeted as a large hand landed on Brent's shoulders. To Brent's horror and amazement, the gunslinging cowboy Hol Horse stood behind him.

"You didn't," Brent groaned at Brando.

"Rest assured that Mr. Horse is not technically an employee," Brando shared. "He is contract-for-hire as temporary staff since our part-time position is currently vacant. I offered him a signing bonus large enough to cover his most recent hospital bill so he can focus on recovery from the surgery and paying off damages to the establishment."

"He tried to kill us!" Brent protested.

"Geez, don't talk to me like I'm not here, compadre," Hol Horse chuckled as he slapped Brent a little too hard on the back. "I'm just here to do an honest day's work. This is a pretty nice place, after all." Hol Horse stepped behind the counter and slipped on Brent's usual coffee-stained apron. "Don't you think these are a bit small?" he complained as he tugged on its bottom.

"What happens when his partner comes looking for him?" Brent asked. "I don't suppose you're itching for a rematch with that masochistic sniper? I seem to recall you 'tapping out' the other day when he chased you here."

"Nah, Boot 'n' I split," Hol Horse sighed. "Team Horseshoe's a bust. Fer some reason, he seems to think I caused those injuries of his by firing my Emperor near a gas tank. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?" the cowboy asked Brent with a twisted grin.

"I don't reckon I do," Brent smirked.

"You must be pretty used to that there lying business," Hol Horse chuckled as he maintained eye contact with Brent.

He might actually be worse than Geil…

"Brando, you could have hired literally anyone else," Brent growled through his teeth.

"On the contrary," Brando corrected, "Mr. Horse's resumé was the most impressive out of all of the applicants for the position. Furthermore, I thought it best to keep him 'close to home' as Miss Lyn would say since he is significantly more likely to divulge our position than Mr. Daddy or Miss Midler—at present."

"I don't know why I bother arguing anymore," Brent sighed.

Despite the sudden change in staff, Brent's day proceeded largely as normal. He found Brando to shockingly be less bossy than his usual supervisor, and Hol Horse followed Brando's instructions to the letter, despite the occasional complaint. Every so often, Hol Horse would place a cigarette in his mouth and open his lighter, but Brando teleported beside him and confiscated them each time. The growing frustration on Hol Horse's face with each confiscation almost made tolerating him worthwhile.

"I am departing in order to purchase additional provisions," Brando declared after rifling through the cupboards for something that was apparently absent. "I intend to return in precisely one hour, twenty-seven minutes, and sixteen seconds."

"I'll set a timer," Brent sighed sarcastically.

"Excellent," Brando replied, "Brent, you shall be maintaining the position of leadership in my absence."

"I'd hoped that was obvious," Brent responded, only to find Brando had already disappeared.

"Well, in that case, I'm just g—" Hol Horse started as he prepared to light another cigarette, but Brando reappeared, snatched his entire box of cigarettes and the lighter, and vanished again. "Oh, come on! That was my last lighter!" Hol Horse shouted into the air.

"Well, if you want to shoot me, now's the time," Brent sighed as he looked around at the lack of customers following lunch.

"Now what would I do something like that for?" Hol Horse asked.

"I don't know. I guess revenge or some shit?" Brent almost asked back.

"Nah, what happened before was just business. I got no hard feelings." Hol Horse approached the shaggy-haired full-timer and brought his hand toward his face. "Besides, you know as well as I do that blond meercat would kill me in my sleep if I harmed so much as a hair on your pretty little—"

"Don't call me that," Brent leered back at the muscular cowboy.

"My apologies," Hol Horse retracted with a chuckle as he stepped away with his hands raised skyward as if to surrender, "I wasn't aware you were of a more alternative persuasion."

"I'm going to have to reread the handbook's policy on sensitivity," Brent sighed. "You'd better hope your pay doesn't get cut for inappropriate be—"

"Now, come on! I was only pulling your leg!" Hol Horse pleaded as he waved his hands back and forth. Brent almost chuckled at how sincere the cowboy looked for the briefest moment, but the moment was interrupted by the entrance of two customers. "Welcome to Café Sinatra!" Hol Horse greeted them with a tip of his hat.

Brent instinctively tried to look busy for a moment until he saw the customers: Michel and an apparent friend of hers. The friend was a little taller than Michel; she had dark skin, earthen eyes, a hooked nose, and long, black hair. Michel wore a hand-made violet dress, and her friend had sequined bell bottoms and an oversized, bright yellow T-shirt whose collar fell down over one of her shoulders; the shirt featured a jovial, cartoonish tabby from whose mouth emerged a white speech bubble containing the words "GET FVCKED" in English, which caused Brent to inwardly call into question her ability to read the language. Michel's friend also stared down at a handheld cassette player, seemingly mesmerized by the turning parts as music blasted through the headphones draped around her neck at an obnoxious volume.

The young women sat at the barstools across from Brent. "What brings you here?" Brent asked.

"Well, I wanted to see where you worked," Michel admitted as she leaned forward onto the bar.

Brent subconsciously averted his eyes before asking, "What're we having today?"

"I'll have a caramel macchiato," Michel requested before nudging her friend.

The gesture seemed to shock the young woman away from her transfixed state, and she smiled up at Brent while slamming her hands on the bar. "How much caffeine can you legally give me?" she asked.

"Uh…" Brent hesitated.

"I'll have twice that!" she demanded with a wide grin.

"Brent, this is my friend Minaj," Michel introduced. "Minaj, this is Brent. He's the one I told you about."

"So! You've got to tell me! How'd you get the wallflower to leave her house?" Minaj demanded as Brent started preparing their coffee.

"Horse, can you start on that macchiato? I have to take this," Brent sighed.

"That's Hol Horse to you," the cowboy replied as he moved behind the counter to prepare the beverage.

"Weren't you just a part-timer?" Michel asked with a chuckle.

"I got promoted," Brent replied. "Anyway, Minaj, it's nice to meet you."

"You didn't answer my question!" the young woman whined. "I heard you got her to stay the night at a hotel with you, and she's been walking funny all day!" Brent thought he heard Hol Horse snicker for a moment before Minaj continued, "I want all the juicy details. Michel won't tell me anything!"

"Well," Brent started, "if she hasn't told you, she probably doesn't want me to—"

"Juicy!" Minaj interrupted while wiggling her fingers for effect, "Details!"

"Brent, you may just want to get her a decaf," Michel suggested. "Anything else is just going to make her worse."

"Don't tell me how to ruin my health, Mom!" Minaj complained.

"I'm sorry about this," Michel apologized. "Usually, Suki is better about keeping her in line, but she wasn't able to make it today, so…"

"It's no problem," Brent assured her with a smile.

"Order up!" Hol Horse exclaimed as he pushed past Brent and placed three cups of coffee on the bar. "One's for you, Boss," he told Brent with a wink.

Brent almost slammed his hands down over two of the beverages' lids before his customers could grab them. "They're still hot," he warned them while maintaining his smile. A moment later, dark lines slithered out from below the drinks, and he looked down at his shadow below the counter. The silhouette gave him a thumbs-up, and Brent withheld a sigh of relief. "Alright, they should be good now." Brent took a swig of his own coffee as a sign of approval.

"He seems kind of on edge," Minaj whispered to Michel over her headphones.

"Well, he had the past couple days off, so this is kind of like his Monday," Michel whispered back.

"Anyway, don't you think the other guy's kind of cute?" Minaj asked.

Brent choked on his coffee and nearly heaved what he had already imbibed onto the hardwood floor. "Oh my gosh! Are you alright?" Michel asked.

"Fine! I'm just fine!" Brent assured her through pained breaths.

"You have the weirdest taste in men," Minaj muttered under her breath.

Ignoring her, Michel took Brent's free hand and pulled it down onto the bar in front of her. "Hey, Brent, um, I really enjoyed yesterday. I know we had a rough start, but I'd, well, really love to go on another date sometime."

"Yeah," Brent smiled back after swallowing the coffee in his mouth, "that'd be great."

"Michel and Bre-ent, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!" Minaj sang gleefully while spinning around her in stool.

Michel and Brent shared an amused sigh and smiled at each other for a moment. Not long after, Minaj and Michel departed. Michel apparently had to get home before her lunch break ended.

Hol Horse ended his shift just before the dinner rush, leaving Brando and Brent swamped with the busiest part of the day. Lyn arrived at the café at the height of the rush and ordered her usual. Brando made small talk with his redheaded friend as Brent took order after order until, suddenly, the café fell silent. The bell over the door rang, and Boss stepped into the room. "Get out," he ordered no one in particular. A few customers ignored him for a moment. The old man's brow twitched, and he yelled, "I said get the hell out of my shop! We're closed, dammit!" He slammed his fist into a nearby table, and all of the customers except Lyn fled the café a moment later.

"Boss," Brent said, "where the hell have you been?"

"That's none of your business!" Boss retaliated as his adopted daughter emerged from behind his leg.

"What's up your jammies?" Lyn asked the owner.

"Yes, I acknowledge that our encounter the other day was 'too close for comfort,' so to speak," Brando elaborated, "but I thought we had 'dodged the bullet' as Miss Lyn might say."

"Well, maybe you did," Boss groaned.

"Yes, in fact, I dodged multiple bullets," Brando answered. "Why do you ask?"

"Get out. I'm closing shop for good," Boss retorted. "You're both fired, and you're trespassing," he pointedly said to Lyn.

"Hold on… What happened to two weeks?" Lyn asked.

"Plan's changed," Boss grunted.

"Please hold your proverbial horses," Brando requested. "We are mere modicums away from a breakthrough in our plan of action. Mr. Hahn and his companions are currently escorting a Stand user named Mr. Cameo, whose Stand apparently suggests Judgement, to Dio's mansion," Brando reported. "Should all proceed according to schedule, they will return before Miss Midler has recovered from her injuries enough to awaken, and we may obtain Mirror Mirror then. If they do not, we may simply dispose of Miss Midler."

"That's not all…" Lyn added. "I planted a bug on Telence this morning, and thanks to that, I overheard Dio talking with Enyaba about Suki… Apparently, she's asked to be dispatched to intercept the Joestars as a spy for Dio… She's going home to the suburbs to say goodbye to her friends and family this evening, and then she'll be leaving for Singapore tomorrow…"

"That's not good," Brent acknowledged. "Spy or not, traveling with the Joestars will make her a target of every bloodthirsty killer Enyaba and Dio send their way. They're not the type to tell murderers to lay off, and I honestly don't think most of them would anyway. Plus, if she leaves Cairo, she'll be farther from our reach."

"Should I retrieve her and bring her here?" Brando offered.

"Forget it!" Boss rejected. "She's probably running off to get leads on her brother."

"Mr. Kanao has been absent from the mansion for a while," Brando acknowledged.

"If we take her by force, she'll just run off to find him the first chance she gets," Boss sighed.

"Maybe we can convince her to give up on him…" Margret suggested in a hushed voice. "He sounds like a creep anyway…"

"I highly doubt that we would be capable of such a feat," Brando admitted. "She does not know us or have any reason to place any amount of trust in us, after all."

"She's going home, right?" Brent added. "What if we got her mom or someone to convince her? I'm pretty sure her mother wouldn't want her throwing herself at dozens of assassins anyway."

"I am afraid that the elder Miss Kanao also lacks any reason to cooperate with us," Brando sighed.

"Her mom isn't likely to see her…" Lyn noted. "I asked Fleetwood about it since she said she had spied on them before, and apparently Yui Kanao's Stand lets her detect vampiric pheromones. Suki must reek of Dio's stench by now, so she'll bolt as soon as she gets a whiff of her daughter approaching."

"Why don't we just use a substitute then?" Brent suggested. "Boss, you learned all about her family from that guy in the government, right? We dug up her address the other day too, so let's have Margret use Bachelor's Paradise to impersonate Suki's mom; she can convince Suki to stay on our behalf."

"Would she really fall for that?" Lyn asked. "I mean this is her mom we're talking about…"

"You want to put my girl in even more danger!" Boss raised his voice. "If Suki finds out her mom's been replaced, there's no telling if she'll lash out!"

"I'll go with her just to be safe," Brent offered. "If it's just the two of us, I can use Death of a Bachelor to get us to safety if things go wrong."

"Well, Miss Margret, what say you to this suggestion?" Brando asked the shy girl.

After a long pause, the darkly-dressed child sipped her coffee before nodding. "I'll do it."

Brent watched from behind his Stand's cloak as Margret spoke with Suki in her mother's guise. Suki had come to the Kanao household through the open doorway just as they had finished preparing, and Margret emerged from their kitchen to address her. "Welcome home, Suki," she said with a generic smile. They hadn't had time to profile Yui Kanao's personality, so they just had to hope Margret's improvisational skills and the info from their family's registry would be enough to fool the childish girl.

There was a nervous pause before Suki replied, "Hi, Mama."

Hoping to break the awkward silence Margret approached Suki and embraced her tightly. Suki looked suspicious. Margret pulled away and looked up at Suki. "Have you gotten taller?" she asked.

"Oh, well, uhm…" Suki stammered.

"Well come on in, dear! I guess I'll be making dinner for two tonight then," Margret smiled.

Can Margret cook? Brent wondered. Margret urged Suki to enter the house before making her way to the kitchen. Despite her efforts, Margret looked tense. Don't choke now.

"You look well enough," Margret noted. Her tone was dry, despite her attempt to play the part of a concerned parent. "I assume he's been taking good care of you, then?"

"Well, he does need his servants to be in good health to serve him," Suki answered with an awkward grin.

This is a catastrophe.

Margret skillfully chopped a number of vegetables, and Suki commented, "So, did you know I was coming home tonight, or…"

"I was craving sukiyaki," Margret replied with a small smirk, "but I would've made it for you regardless."

Kyuu had mentioned he missed eating sukiyaki with his fiancée… Brent thought to himself. I'm glad I remembered that detail.

"Y-You wouldn't have to do that, Mama…" Suki swallowed a lump in her throat.

Margret turned back to the vegetables before continuing, "I know you're working hard for us, sweetheart. It's the least I could do."

No, Margret, Kyuu left to take their mother's place, not Suki. Keep the story straight.

After swallowing thickly, Suki added, "I'm only staying overnight." Margret abruptly ceased chopping vegetables. This was the moment of truth. "Dio said…" Suki continued, "that Big Bro was just out doing fieldwork, but after he's been gone this long with no word back…" Suki clenched her fist and took a deep breath. "The Joestars are on their way to take Dio down as we speak. I'm going to join them and get the answers I want out of him."

"And what if he doesn't give you those answers?" Margret posited.

Perfect, mother knows best. Listen to reason, Suki.

"Y-You don't know that he won't," Suki stuttered.

"Suki," Margret started as she gave the teenage girl a stern glare, "you remember that story Great Grandma Ellie told you—about her encounter with Dio—and all the other stories she told about him?"

Eleanor Gold is Suki's great grandmother. Brando heard Dio mention her in passing while musing about his past life as a human. Apparently, she had met Dio and had some connection to the Joestars of old. That might dismiss her suspicions, Margret, but you're taking a risk. What happens if she finds out that you don't know Great Grandma Ellie's story either?

"I'm as torn up as you are," Margret continued before Suki could question her point, "about Kyuu leaving with no word back, but sometimes, you just have to accept that people will walk out of your life without looking back."

That's reasonable, Marge, but would a mother really say that about her own son? You've got to be tactful.

"But, Mom," Suki objected, "he wouldn't have left because he wanted to! I know he wouldn't have chosen to leave us because… because he loves us! This is different from when Dad and Aoi left. They wanted to live somewhere else!"

"It… wasn't just that," Margret answered as she lay down the knife. "I… I never told you all of what happened."

Dammit, Margret, quit making assumptions like that.

Margret made eye contact with Suki and continued, "Have you ever thought about why Kyuu looks so different from you and Aoi?"

That's right. Maybe she doesn't know. Kyuu never once talked about his "half-sister," after all. You'd think an incestuous freak would use something like that as an excuse.

"That boy…" Margret explained, "he's your half-brother. He isn't the son of your father."

That much was clear from their family's records, but is distancing her from her brother really the best way to get her to stay?

Margret bit her lip and held back crocodile tears for effect. "Steve left… because I betrayed him… and he took Aoi with him…" The fake tears streamed down Margret's face. "We had tried to work past my mistake," the disguised girl made up. "We had you both, but that was never enough to fix what I'd done. Eventually, he just…" Margret trailed off before continuing, "couldn't live with me anymore. So, he left." She wiped the tears from her face but continued to cry. "I just…" she sniffled, "don't want to be left alone…"

Way to go, Marge, that was risky, but what innocent girl could leave her poor, crying mother alone to risk her life for a deadbeat brother who chose to leave them? Twisting the story like that really paid off.

After a long silence, Suki hardened her resolve. "Mom, I'm going to bring Kyuu back. I'll bring him back, and then we can go back to how we were living before Dio came back. I'm not going to leave you alone. I'm going…" she seemed to hesitate before continuing, "on an errand, and I'll be back."

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

"I don't care what I've said," Margret sniffled. "You shouldn't want to associate with someone who… someone who threw her husband's heart away like it was trash. I don't want anyone else to leave, but I've managed fine on my own."

Shit, Margret, no, keep arguing! Don't choke yet!

"Mama, I know you had sex with another man. You can't change that…" Suki trailed off. "But are you really sorry about what you did?"

"Of course," Margret lied, attempting to stay in character, "I regret what I did every day since it happened."

"Then, I think that's all you can do," Suki encouraged her mother's imposter. "It was an honest mistake, and if you're really sorry about it… then I forgive you."

After a long silence, Margret pulled Suki into another tight hug. "I know you can take care of yourself," she spoke. "You are a mature, young woman. Just promise me you'll come home safe."

"Of course, Mama," Suki promised. "I… I promise."

Lyn was nowhere to be seen the following day, but Brando had teleported into the café in time for his morning shift. Brent arrived at the shop a little late after losing most of his sleep to spying on Suki's house, but he sat down on a barstool next to Margret to report to Boss as soon as he came through the door.

"It was a complete failure," Brent reported. "Why'd you start encouraging her at the end?" he asked the quiet child who had impersonated Suki's mother the night before.

"We'd already failed…" she mumbled as she sipped a warm cup of milk. "I couldn't convince her, so after that, it was more important to not get found out…"

"You did your best," Boss assured his adopted daughter.
"In that case, I shall accompany her to Singapore," Brando declared as he cleaned the café's newly-repaired window. "We must at least ascertain her loyalties and whether she is able to able to integrate herself with the Joestars. We cannot rely on hearsay around the mansion for such an integral matter."

"What about taking down Dio?" Boss asked.

"Once I have properly assessed the situation, I assure you that I shall promptly return here," Brando promised. "I should have no trouble returning before Mr. Hahn and the other mercenaries arrive in Cairo. We may proceed with the plan as soon as they arrive."

"Take me with you," Brent requested. "I'm more suited to spying on Suki anyway. Besides, I have a friend from Canada who works on an oil freighter in the South China Sea near Singapore. I'm sure he'd let me aboard. I've already met the captain, and he thinks I'm an idiot because I can't swim, so I'd just have to play the part, and I'll fit right in."

"Explain to me how that is relevant in any way, shape, or form?" Brando asked.

"None of you knew Suki was in the mansion, right?" Brent explained. "Then it stands to reason she doesn't know most of Dio's minions either. I can link up with her under the guise of being another one of Dio's minions, and we can use the freighter my buddy works on to intercept the Joestars, who've got to be traveling by sea if they're stopping through Singapore on their way to Egypt. Then, I'll just observe and see how things play out. Brando can get us off the boat, and we'll fly back to Cairo in no time."

"Negative," Brando rejected the plan, "Suki is unlikely to be dispatched alone since she is serving as a double-agent and is of questionable loyalty. Furthermore, Dio will already have made arrangements for them to intercept the Joestars at sea. Your solution is suboptimal."

"Christ, fine, be that way," Brent sighed as he donned his stained apron before he started to prepare for work.

Brent snuck out that same morning under the premise of taking a bathroom break. Using Death of a Bachelor, he had taken Anubis and snuck into the Almaza Air Base, where he was sure Brando would be rendezvousing with Suki to take her to Singapore. He waited outside the base until, as expected, he saw Suki approach. Unexpectedly, however, the girl was accompanied by an orangutan, who was carrying a copy of last year's swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated.

Where's Brando? Did Dio send that chimp instead of him?

Brent invisibly stalked after the odd pair as they entered the base. The two awkwardly avoided eye contact and hardly seemed to be friends. Eventually, they came to a small jet. Suki gave a listless look backward and a heavy sigh before returning her attention to the plane. "I was wondering how we were going to get to them fast enough that your Stand would actually be of use." Her simian companion narrowed its eyes in response. "No offense," Suki added.

"My apologies for keeping you waiting," a familiar voice apologized as Brando suddenly appeared behind the pair. His entrance seemed to catch Suki by surprise as the girl whipped around to face him. "I apologize," the blond repeated. He had somehow obtained a pilot's uniform and was grinning creepily at the girl. "I did not mean to startle you." He gripped Suki's hand and shook it firmly. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Kanao. My name is Whit Houston."

I guess he can't call himself, "Brando." She'd never trust him if he introduced himself by Dio's surname, not if her loyalties are as divided as they seem.

"If you'll follow me into the vehicle, please," prompted the so-called "Whit Houston." Brando quickly made his way up the stairs into the plane.

"So, I guess you'll be our pilot for the day?" Suki wondered aloud.

"No," Brando replied bluntly. Suki looked to the orangutan and shrugged before the two of them followed Brando onto the plane.

Brent snuck in behind them. The orangutan immediately made itself comfortable in one of the jet's luxurious seats and began perusing a collection of pornographic magazines that had been placed in a pouch on the back of the seat in front of it. Suki, meanwhile, seemed awed by the plane's ornate interior. This was clearly some millionaire's private jet, not one of the military aircraft from the base.

"Do you have any questions before we take off, Miss Kanao?" Brando asked as he teleported behind her.

Suki nearly jumped out of her skin again before she turned to Brando and nervously asked, "Uhm, well, how did you get this plane under your control?"

"Ah, a very good question indeed," Brando praised. "Well," Brando continued as he teleported to the copilot's seat and held a knife to the pilot's neck. "Anything is possible when you have a Stand like my Look to You," he finished with an eerie smile. His polite mannerisms made him sound more like a twisted customer service representative than whatever amiable façade he was likely attempting. "Please, start the plane," he instructed the pilot. "To the coast of Singapore," he directed, "as we discussed."

The pilot gasped and nodded wordlessly as he loosened his deathly grip on the steering just long enough to start the plane.

"Please, find a seat and buckle up," Brando advised. "We'll be taking off soon. I will let you know as soon as it is safe to walk about the cabin, and please," he instructed, "press the green button next to your seat if you need anything, Miss Kanao."

Suki nodded nervously and began deciding where to sit. She seemed to consider sitting close to her simian companion, but her demeanor changed when the perverted orangutan groped her posterior as she passed. "I don't know what you were planning on accomplishing with that, but stop it," she instructed as she removed the creature's hand. "It feels gross." The rejected simian's expression grew dismal as Suki stepped away to sit near the front of the plane.

After the plane took off, Brent made himself comfortable in the private jet's cargo hold. He planned to stay out of the way until the plane landed to avoid the risk of bumping into anyone. Not long after he got cozy, however, his rest was interrupted by Brando, who descended into the cargo hold and began to sniff the air. "Brent, are you here? I can smell the perfume belonging to the woman from the tailor shop, and I have already ascertained it is not emanating from Miss Kanao or Mr. Forever."

Oh shit…

"Your Death of a Bachelor can mutate what others see and hear," Brando explained, "but its greatest weakness is that it is only able to affect those two senses. You are unable to distort my sense of smell to mask your presence. Why are you here? Were you not supposed to stay at Café Sinatra with the others in case Miss Midler or Mr. Horse leak information to Dio? Please, do not continue to hide. I wish to speak with you about this calmly."

Brent remained hidden. Brando waited a long moment before sighing, "Very well, we shall, as I believe Miss Lyn would say, 'do this the hard way.' I apologize in advance for any discomfort."

Brando approached a glass container with a fire extinguisher on a nearby wall. Using a small hammer chained to the case, he shattered the glass and retrieved the fire extinguisher. Before Brent had time to react, Brando sprayed its foamy contents all over the hold. Brent flinched as the frothy agent covered his body, and he jumped to his feet. "Odd," Brando observed, "I am certain I sprayed the agent on that portion of the hold, yet that space appears to be suspiciously clean."

What the hell, Bachelor? You hid the foam too?

Brando squinted at Brent for a moment as he remained perfectly still. "Ah, yes, there you are." Brando noticed. "Another weakness of your Stand is that if it creates cognitive dissonance within the target, the dissonance will resolve in the favor of reality, not your Stand's illusion."

"Alright, you got me," Brent admitted as he tried in vain to brush the froth off his clothes.

"Shall I repeat my question, or do you intend to explain yourself?" Brando inquired. "As I recall, you have a shift today."

"I seem to remember being fired," Brent snickered.

Brando sighed, "Mr. Wilson, I am afraid I must urge you to depart from the plane immediately and return to the café." Brando took off a backpack that presumably contained a parachute and offered it to the sly illusionist.

"I don't think I will," Brent replied.

"I will remove you by force if necessary," Brando warned.

"I doubt you could," Brent chuckled. "Look to You is incredibly powerful; you can utilize its ability to teleport without even manifesting it, and that allows you to defeat most enemies in an instant by closing the gap between yourself and them before they have time to defend themselves. However, it also has weaknesses: Look to You allows you to change your position and orientation in space, but it also eliminates your momentum. Well, I guess that's not entirely true. Earth is hurtling through space at some ungodly speed, but it's not like you go flying off the planet, so I guess I should say it eliminates any momentum you have with respect to the planet's own. My point is that this plane is moving through the air at hundreds of kilometers per hour. If you teleported and reappeared somewhere else in the plane—say, right behind me—you'd suddenly be moving at zero kilometers per hour. In other words, you'd be struck head-on by a moving aircraft."

"I hardly believe the use of my Stand would be required to remove you from this craft," Brando assured the disobedient stowaway.

"Well, in that case," Brent taunted as he hoisted Anubis over his shoulder, "come try me. I've wanted to have a go at you for a while now, anyway."

"Mr. Wilson, drop your weapon," Brando instructed curtly.

"Hey, Anubis," Brent requested, "do me a solid, and don't kill him, alright? I know he's a traitor, but Dio would still be pretty upset if anything happened to his copy."

"Your ability to bargain with that blade despite its loyalty to Dio is uncanny," Brando acknowledged.

"Well, I'm pretty sure he'd still possess me if I drew him," Brent chuckled, "but maybe we're just compatible. Both of our Stands suggest death, after all. I got along with that baby's Stand in my dreams pretty well too."

"You will experience considerably less injury if you cooperate," Brando offered as a final warning.

"Lali-ho!" Brent cried as he rushed toward Brando and swung his sheathed katana wildly. Brando sidestepped to avoid a downward strike and then leaned backward to dodge a horizontal slash. Again and again, he quickly and carefully evaded each attack. He knows better than to try to block Anubis, so I'll just have to be qui— Brent's thoughts were interrupted when Brando suddenly caught his forearm. Not a moment later, Brando threw Brent headfirst onto the ground. The polite blond held the unruly brunet's arms behind his back with one hand and promptly fastened the backpack to his back with the other. "Bachelor!" Brent called as his Stand emerged from his shadow, dug his claws into the floor, and dragged Brent out from under his attacker by the shadow.

Brent scrambled to his feet and attempted to unfasten his backpack, but the clips were stuck. He looked up from the straps just in time to come face-to-face with the sole of Brando's shoe, which thereafter planted itself firmly against Brent's forehead. The powerful kick sent Brent hurtling back into a wall. "I must apologize for the rough handling," Brando offered as he returned his heel to the ground, "but this was the quickest way to move you to the window."

Window?

Brent looked to his right to a window in the wall of the cargo hold, and as he did, Brando threw his empty fire extinguisher, which shattered the window's glass and flew out of the aircraft. "Fuck!" Brent screamed as his ears violently popped, and the air around him was sucked out of the new opening. Death of a Bachelor rematerialized at his feet and gripped the floor with his claws to keep his user from flying out of the aircraft.

Brando produced an oxygen mask from the interior of his coat and took a moment to don it before holding a second forward. "I suggest you take this!" he cried over the roaring wind. "You will not last long without one!" Brando carefully approached Brent, who was still desperately clinging to the plane's interior.

He's going to throw me out of the plane. Brent bided his time. Anubis was longer than Brando's arms. There would be a brief moment where Brando was within his reach but he was not in Brando's. He would need to strike then. If he could strike one or both of the masks, Brando would be forced to seal the window to keep them from suffocating. There was a chance he had more masks in his coat, but this was still Brent's best shot.

Brent's eyes widened as the moment came. With all his might, he swung Anubis downward. He angled the strike to aim for both the mask Brando was wearing and the mask in his hand. If Brando dodged one, Anubis would still destroy the other. To Brent's surprise, however, Brando did not dodge. Backhanding the same knife with which he had threatened the pilot, Brando blocked the incoming sword. His knife and sleeve remained undamaged, but a new bloodstain on his sleeve indicated that his forearm had been cut. Enduring this, Brando kneed the bottom of Anubis's hilt, and the cursed sword flew out of Brent's hand. Instantly, the blade was sucked through the open window, and the cursed sword fell down somewhere into Egypt.

Brent panicked. In the next instant, Brando was forcing an oxygen mask onto his face. "I took the liberty of installing an oxygen tank into your parachute pack!" he explained over the roaring winds as he attached the mask to a tube that emerged from Brent's backpack. "I highly recommend closing your eyes and using your Stand to see when you're close enough to the ground to deploy your chute!"

Brent struggled against Brando as the blond attempted to fasten the mask before defenestrating him, but the thinning air steadily weakened his muscles. "Brando! Brando, listen to me!" Brent protested. "Brando! Brando!" he called. "Whit Houston!" he finally exclaimed. Something changed in the clone's eyes when he heard that name. He hesitated. "Listen!" Brent continued, and his aggressor actually made eye contact. "I know I was supposed to stay behind," Brent giggled as the lack of oxygen added a sort of artificial humor. "I know Lyn and the others are pretty freaking important to you," he chuckled, "but, dude, it's the universe we're talking about! This thing with Suki is bigger than the café! You can't just decide to change that kind of fate by yourself! Listen! Let me help you!" Brent's chortling slowly devolved into a sort of maniacal laughter as his lungs struggled for air.

"Mr. Wilson, you need to put on your—"

"If you try to put the whole weight of The World on your shoulders," Brent cackled hysterically, "you're no better than Dio!"

Brent awoke sometime later in what he assumed was the airplane's bathroom. Whit leaned against the sink over him. "What happened?" Brent asked as he clutched his forehead to fight a splitting headache.

"Hypoxia," Whit replied bluntly, "you lost consciousness. I was unable to throw you overboard as you would not have been able to deploy your parachute."

"You're one crazy son of a bitch; you know that?"

"I believe my thinking has been significantly more rational than yours," Whit disagreed.

"We still have air in here?" Brent wondered.

"Yes, the cargo hold is sealed off from the rest of the plane," Whit explained. "Our pilot is quite skilled. I doubt Miss Kanao and the others even noticed the breakage. However, she has complained multiple times since I placed an out-of-order sign over the cabin's only bathroom. I am here under the pretense of unclogging the biproduct of Mr. Forever's onboard meal."

"I'm, like, 90% sure you just called me orangutan shit," Brent snickered.

"After a substantial amount of inward deliberation," Whit sighed, "I have decided that you are better suited to the task of observing Miss Kanao. After we land in Singapore, I shall return to Café Sinatra and leave this matter to you…" Whit hesitated before adding, "for the time being."

"Hey, would you do me a favor when you get back?" Brent requested as he pulled himself to his feet.

"That depends on the favor," Whit answered.

"Look after Michel too, alright?" Brent asked. To Whit, his face looked uncharacteristically sincere. "She's tough, but if Dio comes after her, well…"

"Consider Miss Jackson to be in my care," Whit assured his brunet friend.

"Well, don't take too good care of her!" Brent objected.

"Whatever do you mean?" Whit asked. Brent wasn't sure, but he thought he saw the faintest smirk on Whit's face.

Brent sighed and decided against explaining. "Never mind," he sighed.

"In return," Whit continued, "please look after the younger Miss Kanao just as thoroughly."

"Yeah, sure thing," Brent chuckled, "I know a place or two along their way I can stop to check in, and I can use my Stand to observe at other points too."

"Very well," Whit acquiesced, "for the time being, I leave the fate of the universe in your capable hands, Mr. Wilson, or should I say…" Whit offered a toothy smile that carried as much mischief as Brent's own, "Mr. Orangutan Shit."

Brent lunged forward. Prepared to face physical reparation for his remark, Whit remained still, but to his surprise, the brunet illusionist wrapped his arms around him. Whit was motionless for a long moment. He was unsure of how to respond before Brent chuckled, "I hope you know you're a fucking cunt."

"So are you," Whit replied with a smile.

"Did he say where he was going?" Michel asked the hotel's receptionist.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the employee replied. "He checked out in such a hurry. He said he was taking a plane out of the country…"

"Oh…" Michel responded.

Of course he did…

To Be Continued|\|/