On a windy Tuesday in September, the Speedwagon Foundation set up their archeological dig in Slovakia. One of the top researchers of the supernatural department had learned of the Foundation's chilling discovery, via communications with hired archeologists. They knew the man to contact with SPW, and that man was Dr. Callaghan.

He'd arrived with Gaelstrom on site in mid-October upon receiving the call that a strange artifact had been found in an underground cavern. An artifact that raised the dead.

Dr. Callaghan's father served SPW, dating back to just after it was founded in 1910. The Callaghan clan had a history with studying the supernatural; to no surprise, that was his passion and it showed with his work. To his dismay, however, the legacy would soon die with him as his son showed no interest in working for the Speedwagon Foundation. Though he would come to Slovakia with his father only to make sure he wouldn't have another hip-breaking fall.

Everything was fairly quiet, all but the hum of the plane to accompany their preoccupied thoughts. Sitting across from Dr. Callaghan, Gaelstrom sported a red fedora adorning a celtic knot. The trenchcoat he wore matched the hat which seemed much too vibrant according to Dr. Callaghan, but that was always met with a look of annoyance. He watched him slinking a yo-yo up and down from his hand, his gaze fixed to the wing of the plane.

Dr. Callaghan's hands locked together in his lap, one leg over the other as he looked upon his son with a warm expression in his gray eyes. His hands were weathered; wrinkled and spotted. The callouses told the story of a man who didn't mind intensive labor, sun or no sun.

"I'm only curious," he said, "but your mum tells me you been to France again."

Gaelstrom's gaze fell, emotions tugging at his heart, but he dared not show them. Not to his dad of all people. That man would only thrive off of his drama, as he called it. Gaelstrom was sparing the details. He'd let him in, but only up to the crack in the door to anything he wasn't at liberty to share with him. With a sigh, he set the yo-yo beside him and responded.

"He wasn't there, dad."

The warmth in Dr. Callaghan's eyes fell, his gaze meeting the floor of the plane. "You think he moved off?"

"I dunno, maybe."

Dr. Callaghan flinched as Gaelstrom coughed into his hand and examined his palms with a vacant stare. Blood again. For the love of god, not in front of his dad, someone he refused to tell about his diagnosis. He'd definitely run and tell his mother about that.

A thought crossed his mind as he stared at the blood on his palms; what did it matter? People were better off without him.

The sinking of his heart bobbed back up as he realized he'd sat there staring into his hands for far too long to be considered normal behavior. He glanced up with the hope his dad wasn't staring at him. Not at all, as his attention was buried in his field journal where he'd jotted down his notes. He placed a wilted flower between the pages two and three. With a sigh, he shut it.

Relieved, Gaelstrom asked him, "You got one of your napkins handy?"

Dr. Callaghan reached into his jacket. "What happened to the handkerchiefs I gotcha for your birthday? They were pretty nice."

Gaelstrom took the napkin from his father and wiped his hands, hoping he wouldn't catch a glimpse of the color red tinting them. "I lost 'em." he lied.

"Probably wiped your arse."

Gaelstrom chuckled as he wadded up the blood-stained napkin and shoved it into the pocket of his trenchcoat. Dr. Callaghan's nose scrunched up at the sight of it.

"Boyo, you don't have to pocket your trash."

"It's fine, I'll get rid of it when I go take a piss."

Dr. Callaghan shook his head. "Whatever you say, it's your pockets. Fill 'em with sand for all I care."

Gaelstrom's gaze returned to the window. He'd rather be filling them with sand as opposed to bloodied napkins, that was for sure. Perhaps he'd get lucky and his dad would have to walk off for some reason, and he could finally gather his thoughts peacefully without the thought of someone interrupting him with a dull conversation; or god forbid a lecture.

He thought about going back to France again, but what was the use if Polnareff wasn't there? How did someone he used to know so well just fall off the face of the earth? In all honesty, part of him harbored emotions that just flat-out refused to die off.

The way that pompous brat acted last time he stayed for the summer, hell no. He could keep falling off the earth and then some. If only he weren't so torn between those feelings and the want to make things right again. Gaelstrom sighed, knowing there was no one else he wanted to open up to more.

As a kid, he used to tell Polnareff everything...well, almost everything. He was always so patient when he'd listen to him; and they never made it a point to hide anything from one another. How a fun-loving person like him could up and vanish into thin air without a trace made no sense.

Something about it all didn't smell right and he couldn't ignore it. No matter how hard he tried to pull away; no matter how much he wanted to give up, something deep – something incomprehensible – kept gnawing at him. That feeling again. God, he just wanted it to flake off already.

🔸️ 🔸️

The plane landed in Bratislava, where waiting for them at the airport was an SPW chauffeur to drive them to the site. In Banska Stiavnica, however, awaited something else; something beyond their expectations.

At the site, Dr. Callaghan exited the vehicle to behold a hardworking team of archeologists. Gaelstrom stood behind him, sticking out like a sore thumb in his crimson coat. One of the members of the dig approached them with a sincere smile and hand out to shake theirs.

"Dr. Callaghan, I presume." he said in a friendly manner.

"I am. You must be Mr. Zappa."

Zappa nodded his head and they walked onward continuing their conversation about the dig, and the team's research coming along swimmingly. Gaelstrom noted the archeologists toiling away as they walked past, wondering what mysteries slept beneath that place. By the looks of things thus far, not much to run home and tell their mothers about. As disappointing as it seemed, there was one thing he didn't account for.

His mouth came open as his gaze met the mysterious scabbard lying on the table. Opalescent in appearance, but with a sheen in the sunlight that made him think of the colors he'd seen when he blew bubbles as a kid. Zappa leaned over and ushered Dr. Callaghan to take a gander at it. Gaelstrom, however, stood where he was, unable to peel his eyes away from it.

"What era 'boutcha say this is?" asked Dr. Callaghan.

Zappa flattened his lips, a wild guess forming on his face. "Hard to say. Certainly not a sword from any ancient civilization I'm familiar with."

Dr. Callaghan glanced back at his son. "Gael, ye better come see this."

Mr. Zappa moved around the table and to the computer, his mouse clicking as he studied the computer screen. "If you think the sword is fascinating, wait until you hear about what it did to one of my buddies. Yikes."

Gaelstrom tore his eyes away from looking at the sword and honed in on the conversation. Mr. Zappa walked back around the table, standing just over the sword. "Poor bastard. When he retrieved it, he cut himself. That's not the weird part, though, the weirdest part was that after cutting himself this light just poured out of it like someone threw a flash grenade in here."

"A flash grenade?" Gaelstrom chimed in.

"I mean, at the time that's the only thing I could speculate because it was a sudden flash, ya know? Didn't make any damn sense, but it happened. Hell, we tried to rush him to the ER because he started convulsing and vomiting. Didn't take long and…well…he was dead before we could get him in the truck."

Dr. Callaghan hung his head. "By god…"

"Ahh, that's the price you pay for working with Speedwagon," Zappa said with a shrug, "never know what kind of bizarre shit's gonna happen. What's funny, though, is just before all that, I killed a spider around the equipment. After that guy died, it was creepy crawling like it never happened at all."

Dr. Callaghan looked off in deep thought, placing a hand to his chin. "Peculiar…"

Although Dr. Callaghan stood by processing his thoughts calmly, Gaelstrom's mind was having trouble piecing the information together to where he could make sense of the whole thing. A single cut killing a man? Without a doubt, that was bizarre, nevermind the flash of light and resurrected spider. Gaelstrom stepped towards Zappa, with a need for answers, that guy had to know something else.

"Are you tryin' to tell me that this sword brought a spider back to life?"

Zappa shrugged. "I'm saying maybe that had something to do with it, but at the cost of a guy's life, that's a pretty hefty price for a spider."

Gaelstrom huffed. "You mean you haven't even tried to figure out how a sword could do all that?!"

"Listen man, we're just hired diggers. We study the mundane. The freaky voodoo stuff is in Dr. Callaghan's department."

Gaelstrom couldn't help but think that there was more to this artifact than met the eye. More to it than supernatural abilities. There wasn't much he could do in the way of research, that was his father's job. He had his own problems. Zappa placed the sword in a long briefcase, entrusting it in Gaelstrom's possession. He went to leave the site with Dr. Callaghan who occasionally stopped to catch his breath. Gaelstrom noted the way his father would clasp a hand over his chest making him all the more concerned for the old man. The chauffeur opened the door to the car and Dr. Callaghan's frail body trembled as he went to climb into the backseat.

"Ohhh…" came his father's weak voice. Gaelstrom looked down at him and the unthinkable occurred. Dr. Callaghan's cane fell to the ground. His foot slipped. Gaelstrom dropped the case, reaching out to catch him.

"Shit, dad!"

"Wha…? Gael? Wha..whaaaa..what?"

"I toldja, aul man, your senile ass needs to retire."

"Ohhhh, it is you."

Gaelstrom sat in the backseat with his father, not knowing how to feel about something as enigmatic as the scabbard being in the trunk. He figured he'd find out later. Dr. Callaghan sneered as Gaelstrom lit a cigar and cracked the back window.

"Boyo, when you gonna quit smokin' those?"

Smoke seeped from Gaelstrom's mouth. "When I'm good and dead."

Dr. Callaghan exasperated. "Keep sayin' that your foot'll be in an early grave.

"Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you? Bet your life'll get boring real quick with nobody to bitch at."

"Gael," his father's tired voice said, "don't start your shite."

Amusing how a man at the age of forty-two couldn't just live out the remainder of his life his own way. No. His eighty-three-year-old father still had to lecture – still had to complain – each and every time he did something he didn't like. Sounded almost like someone else when it came to the complaining part.

The heated arguments, the fights, and how could he forget the name-calling? Good ole Polnareff and his thick-head, probably still acting before thinking and it coming back to bite him in the ass; still walking around with his nose in the air, wherever he was.

But even before their final dispute, there was a kindness to him under all that arrogance. That he couldn't deny. Maybe he'd changed?

Forget about him being an asshole in the past, he'd like to at least catch up before he kicked the bucket, a final get-together like the good ole days.

Those memories brought a smile to his face as he looked out the window. He wondered if the Speedwagon Foundation could find any information regarding Polnareff's disappearance. At least if they could, it would put his eerie gut feeling to rest. It was worth a shot.

"Dad?"

"What, Gael?"

Smoke trailed out the window from his cigar. "Speedwagon's got connections with the underworld organizations in Europe, don't they?"

Dr. Callaghan's face paled. "Why? You aren't plannin' something stupid, are you?"

"Just answer the fackin' question."

Dr. Callaghan narrowed his eyes. "They do. Why? Who's askin'?"

Gaelstrom tapped his cigar ashes out the window and took another drag. "I am, just me. Don't start lecturin' but I need a favor of you."

Dr. Callaghan looked at him, bemusement and suspicion filling his eyes. "Gaelstrom?"

"They might be able to help me look for Jean."

As expected, his father exasperated with his palms hitting his thighs in frustration. "You and that man. What's so important that you gotta go gettin' involved with the underworld groups? Forget about him. He moved on with his life. Maybe you should do the–"

"Aw, can it, wouldja!?" he slammed his fist on the door of the car. "I got my own reasons that I wanna-"

Haaaaagh!

Gaelstrom grit his teeth, clasping his hand over his chest as he leaned forward wheezing. Dr. Callaghan's stern expression fell into concern.

"You alright there, son?"

A consoling touch. It felt good to feel his hand touch his shoulder, but he couldn't have really meant it. Gaelstrom brushed his hand away, sitting back up in his seat drawing shallow, pained breaths.

"I'm fine," he managed to say, "I'm fine."

"Didn't you see the doctor like your mum asked?"

Gaelstrom swallowed thinking the saliva would be enough to coat his sore throat for the time being. And he'd be damned. His father's countenance expressed genuine concern that time, as if he truly wanted to know how his doctor's visit went. Perhaps he could indulge him, speaking much more calmly.

"I did." he said, feeling the need to remove his hand from over his heart. God forbid he suspected that. "Just slight congestion is all."

Dr. Callaghan side-eyed him. "Congestion make your chest hurt like that?"

Gaelstrom snarled in annoyance, knowing he'd better sell an excuse or the prying would commence. "It's borderline pneumonia, alright?"

"You pig-headed arsehole, you should be in bed not another damn country."

"You think I don't know that!?" Gaelstrom snapped. "You're one to be talkin' about pig-headed, you're closin' in on ninety and still refuse to step down from your job. If I weren't here to catch you, aul man, you'd have another broken hip."

Silence filled the car as Gaelstrom looked out the window. He recalled what their conversation was actually about, though he didn't want to just jump right back in while the energy in the car was still tense, but at the same time he couldn't wait. He had to ask now or never.

"Dad…please help me find Jean."

With a sympathetic look in his eye, Dr. Callaghan looked over to Gael placing his wrinkled hand over his. "Son, just tell me why. Why are you so desperate to find him?"

"To be honest," Gaelstrom said, "I don't rightfully know the answer myself. If Speedwagon can't help me, nobody can."

Letting out a sigh, Dr. Callaghan's hand drifted away from Gaelstrom, trembling as he took his cane in hand again. "I dunno what's going on in that head of yours these days," he said, "but if it'll make you less worried, then I'll see what I can do."

Surprise filled Gaelstrom's eyes. "So, you'll do it? You'll contact these organizations for me?"

Dr. Callaghan nodded, and if Gaelstrom didn't know any better there was a hint of uncertainty behind it. "I can't promise anything. If they can't find Jean, you're just gonna have to accept it, son. I'm sorry."

"Oh, they'll find him. Or either I will."

🔸️ 🔸️

One who glimpses the man in the key would surely think him a tortured soul, lamenting of his imprisonment until a day he would grace the sacred streets of heaven. And all that thought this were ever ignorant in their judgment, for, the man whose residence remained as such was no prison to him. He offered his knowledge to Passione within the five years he served as their consigliere. Not a single thought of what could have been crossed his mind, such a waste.

What mattered more was that he could assist another in their endeavors to bring light to the world, and that was more than enough despite his form. Five years whisked away at the drop of a hat. The weather was much more lively in Italy than it had been days prior; the Mediterranean sparkled in the sunlight with nary a cloud to impose upon it as Giorno sat in his chair, overwhelmed by the accumulated stress over the past few days.

Having recently met Jotaro in 2001 to establish a connection to the Speedwagon Foundation, and even personally dealt with the crime that dared to rear its presence in Naples, Giorno's work was yet unfinished. A cool breeze met his face as he looked out on the sea with Coco Jumbo on a table beside him.

"Things have been pretty rough these past few days." came Giorno's aged, and deepened voice.

Polnareff appeared from the key, having no doubt about the don's words. "Rough's an understatement." Wind entered the room, bringing with it a sense of ease to melt what little stress they had away. Polnareff could tell something crossed Giorno's mind then, as the breeze picked up, then died back down.

"It seems this Madman Jose's trafficking drugs through Genoa, too now." Giorno said, crossing one leg over the other, as his hand graced his chin. "According to that henchman we interrogated, he's working for some rich woman in Marseille, France."

"Any information regarding her identity?"

Giorno let out a sigh. "No. Bastard refused to tell us anything before he took his own life. Something about better him than the tyrant. Although, Murolo's got a handle on a few buyers that know the usual meeting locations, so that's at least something. This whole thing is such a mess...nothing makes sense..."

"Yeah…" Polnareff didn't really want to ask about it. Murolo's cards always creeped him out. Having, or not having, the privacy to say anything about him behind closed doors was like a ridiculous gamble, and he'd been down that road before. Not going that route again.

We got a lead!" cried Mista, as he sprang into the room and closed the door. "Just got off the phone with Fugo."

"And?" Giorno pressed.

"Says one of the guys working with Madman Jose's in Genoa going by the name Headless Game, or whatever. He managed to incapacitate one of his lackies, but then they inexplicably mutated like the other people in those reports. If you ask me, I think he's the main link to all those deaths."

Another spontaneous mutation. Spanning the course of roughly a few days, there'd been several reports of freak accidents involving disconfigured bodies, extra limbs, and other obscene growths on the outside, as well as on the brain of Headless Game's victims. It was like taking part in a horror movie, except the reality was that innocent lives were lost in horrible ways to these monstrosities. And the reports were anything but a hoax.

"Another one?" Polnareff leaned over the key, unimpressed by their rate of progression. "Hmph. But of course…"

Mista was adamant about doing something – anything – to change that, also. "Boss, with all these freaks popping up all over the place, I feel like we're pressing our luck here. It's only a matter of time before one of us gets killed trying to stop them all at once. We're spread out like butter on too many loaves of bread!"

Giorno narrowed his eyes. "Speedwagon's doing all they can to help out. Besides, I think you're forgetting who these freaks are dealing with."

Mid-sentence, a muffled ring sounded from Mista's pants. Polnareff and Giorno both slowly turned their heads in the direction of the ringing, wondering how in the hell he got around with it crammed against his pelvis like that. Mista blinked, grinning nervously as he reached down in his pants and fished out a flip phone. Black, cyber letters spelled out Speedwagon on the dim, green screen.

"Oh, speak of the devil. Bet they found out something useful."

He answered it. Polnareff payed attention to Mista's countenance and the tone of his voice, as he spoke casually to the unknown caller. A simple greeting, a moment of thought filling his face, eyes wandering, and then...a grim vacancy in expression as his eyes stared at Polnareff. He could feel something sink inside of his body, or lack thereof, and his attention to the situation changed. What began as simple curiosity became concern.

Mista's hand trembled as he lowered the phone and whispered to Giorno. Well, this was getting more ominous by the second.

The two exchanged hushed whispers, then loud ones, until finally Mista gave Giorno a knowing look and shakily placed the phone down to Polnareff's level. "It's…for you…" he spoke quietly.

Bemusement filled his face. "Me?" It had to be Jotaro, he thought. He knew of no other person that would take a chance to contact Passione for only a moment of his time. Only Jotaro graced his thoughts in that moment as Mista turned on the speaker and placed the phone to his small, ethereal body. And yet, he wondered.

"May I ask who this is?"

A deep, chesty voice with an Irish lilt came from the other end, and Polnareff's confusion expanded upon the identity of the man the moment he heard him speak.

"I'll be damned," the man said. "Poney boy's still golden."

Poney boy? Who the hell did this person think they were talking to? "Sorry, but...who is this?"

The man's breath shuddered as he exhaled over the phone, followed by a sniff. "Listen...about what happened in '77..."

"77?" Polnareff unfocused his gaze and wrinkled his nose.

"...I know we had our differences. Believe me, I went through some trouble to get this number."

Differences. 1977. An Irish lilt. Polnareff pieced together the hints to the man's identity to jog his memory, and his gut had given the answer clear as day, though his mind was pushing him to deny it. This couldn't be who he thought it was. No one would ever think to go through this much trouble of contacting him by now. But he couldn't deny the past, though dead and gone, had somehow revived itself to haunt him again, even long after his death. A name. One name in particular stood out to him in all the confusion.

"Gaelstrom Callaghan from Ireland?"

A snuffled laugh came from Gaelstrom's nose. "Took you long enough."

"How...I...how are you working for Speedwagon?"

"Look, nevermind that. I need to see you, if that's alright."

See him? The thought of explaining to an old friend about his condition only brought about dread. A ghost having to explain themselves for why they are what they are convinced no one. The very idea of revealing himself to someone he'd not seen or heard from in many years, especially Gaelstrom, only frustrated him. He could handle dealing with casual stand users in La Squadra with their oddball jokes, but that's another matter.

"If you still feel the same way as before, I understand." Gaelstrom continued. "But I'm tellin' you. Speedwagon Foundation's uncovered something big , and I'm gonna need all the help I can get."

Polnareff sighed into the phone, his forehead gracing his palm. "Gaelstrom...I don't know how to tell you this, but a lot has happened. There's a lot going on right now, so trust me when I tell you...you don't want to see me."

"Why?"

"Gaelstrom, can we just-"

"Listen, this is serious, you don't understand. This shite's huge. I need to see you now."

Mista turned the phone over his shoulder and spoke in a loud whisper to Polnareff. "Do you want me to hang up?"

Polnareff pinched the bridge of his nose and gave a loud sigh. "That won't be necessary."

Mista lowered the phone back down to his level. Polnareff leaned over the key, sifting through his thoughts of what to say to the pushy Irishman. He knew Gaelstrom well enough to know that he demanded answers for things even if there weren't any to give. And in this case, couldn't be mustered.

"I don't see how, after all this time - after you disrespected my dead mother and broke my sister's heart - I'm the person you run to for help."

Brief silence. Gaelstrom gave a breathy laugh to bury the need to retort. "Don't start with me."

"Tell you what," Polnareff said, "meet me in Naples, Italy. But don't say I didn't warn you."

"I don't get why you gotta be so vague about it."

Polnareff clenched his fist. "Look, that's the best I can do. Either you can meet me in person, or not at all."

Gaelstrom's words spat into the phone. "Arsehole! Haven't changed a bit, have you?"

"And you're still pushy as ever."

"Know what, I got better things to do. I'll see you in Italy in a few days. Goodbye."

The call ended. Polnareff could only think about how uncomfortable that conversation had to make Giorno and Mista feel for having heard the entire thing.

"I'm sorry," he told them, "that was...I don't know-"

"It's fine," Giorno reassured him, "do you need me to send someone to deal with him?"

"No, he's not that bad. Just a little annoying."

Mista's brow raised. "Not to pry or anything, Signore Polnareff, but who is he?"

"Just...someone I used to know. Let's leave it at that."