Steam rose from the bath water as it filled the porcelain tub, mixing with the cigar smoke that lingered through the air. Thirty minutes in a bathroom and all Gaelstrom had done was sit on a toilet seat and attempt to smoke his stress away. As expected, the phone call went exactly how he thought it would. A snappy Frenchman with an enlarged ego, unable to give him a straight answer. Was it really so terrible that he wanted to see him after all that time? Clearly, he still hadn't forgiven him.

Red tinted water streamed down the drain; stray drops of blood fell from Gaelstrom's mouth as he clasped a hand over his chest. Another cough. Running water carried away the blood spatter as his sandpaper throat burned with every swallow. As if the thought of his old friend being a jerk wasn't enough, he had to sit in his thoughts and lament his life. Steam fogged the mirror and Gaelstrom glanced up, seeing a vague reflection of himself behind the clouded vapor.

Just as hazy as his understanding of Polnareff's elusion. A sorry sight to behold. His once fair, freckled skin was now a golden shade. If only he and Polnareff hadn't had that falling out in the past, they could have met up and his wish of having his only friend be by his side at the time of his death would be ful-filled. But no.

Instead, Gaelstrom had to face the accusations against him and live with the fact that the old Polnareff he used to know just might not exist anymore, making this entire ordeal all the more insufferable to deal with. He wiped the drops of blood from his chin and rinsed his hand under the water faucet.

"It's spreading," he said, looking at himself, "why am I wastin' my time?"

His doubts refused to leave him alone. With the little time he had left, he could be doing anything else. Spending his final moments with his mother didn't seem too bad, but that meant that he would have to come clean about what really happened at the clinic. Not only to her, but his father as well.

He could tell Polnareff, maybe. If he'll allow him to. But he could treat him just as disingenuously as they would. On second thought, nevermind. Gaelstrom preferred for someone to treat him in the usual way, no matter how bad that was as opposed to someone pretending to care due to a condition out of his control. Let alone someone distancing themselves from him even more, which he hoped wouldn't be the case between him and Polnareff, though when it came to him, he kept his expectations low.

Haaagh

Wheeeeze

A glob of saliva and blood dropped into the sink. For a moment, Gaelstrom saw his younger self and how proud he was and compared it to his reflection. So much wear and tear on his body over the years with all the abuse of alcohol consumption, and smoking several packs of cigars a day.

His eyes met his own, a hopeless reflection briefly clear then disappearing under the mask of steam. The least he got was that he finally had the chance to visit with Polnareff, though with his stand-offish tone from earlier, doubts of their meeting going well seemed the more likely as he pondered on it. Desperation beating in his chest, something had to make it work. Something. Anything before his inevitable end came to haunt him.

Darkness filled the hotel room, save for a lamp on the nightstand where Dr. Callaghan had fallen asleep writing in his notes. Gaelstrom's heart sank. Letting him down gently would be the more responsible thing to do, but the inevitable shit-show to come forced his mouth shut. There in Dr. Callaghan's notes lied that same wilted rose. Inked words beneath it mentioned energy and life-force, even something as vague as a meteorite. Gaelstrom looked to his father and then sifted through the notes, taking in his theories. "What's this?"

Origin unknown

Brimming with Life Energy?

Sustainable?

Meteorite

The word meteorite had one line leading to the word sword , then another line to the word arrows . A line alluded his gaze from the word arrows to another word... stands. Gaelstrom's eyes shifted over to the word sword and leading from it to the other was the word ambiguous. Gaelstrom froze. "What?"

Between these words, ambiguous and stands , were lines leading to something that dropped his jaw... divergent .

"What's all this? The sword really isn't made from that Cape York meteorite…what the hell is it?"

He spelunked through Dr. Callaghan's drawers and dug out a small notebook and turned the pages, getting as much information as his father could guess was possible.

Contradictory. No conclusion has been made thus far. Found in Slovakia. Origin of creation Unknown. Design is unlikely to be Slovak. Unlikely Medieval. Supernatural?

A wrinkled face adorned in its speckles and splotches made him think about how long he'd really been with the Foundation, doing their work and studying god knows what. Then Gaelstrom realized that even the old man had accomplished something that he would never get to. A ful-filled life doing what he loved the most. To think he'd be jealous of the old fart.

A feeling swelled in Gaelstrom's chest as he watched his elderly father sleep. A laborious man who just couldn't say no to work despite his age having already caught up to him. Gaelstrom noted his cane near the nightstand. Because of this man and his lack of sleep — and Gaelstrom's persistence — he finally had the chance to meet Polnareff again, even if it only lasted a few minutes. Maybe if he was lucky enough, he could hear from Sherry while he was at it. That was more than he could have ever hoped for. In spite of his father's constant nagging, he hated not to repay him.

Though, there was nothing that crossed his mind he felt could measure up to the favor he'd done for him. Nothing could. But wait. He looked down at the notebook in his hands. Perhaps it wasn't a lost cause to return the favor after all. The very thing — the only thing — worthy in his eyes appeared to him in the form of his father's research; the scabbard. It was perfect. Stupid and risky, but perfect. And for what it was worth, stupid and risky was more Gaelstrom's style.

He crammed the notebook into the case with the sword and gathered his clothes from the bathroom. He threw on his usual red coat and fedora with its celtic knot and made for the door. One last time to do something worthwhile. For all he knew, Polnareff just might be interested in spending time with him to help further his father's research. So there was a silver lining.

Standing by the door, dressed and suitcase in hand, he looked at his father with an aching heart. "I'll take it from here, da'," the door creaked to a stop, "see ya when I see ya, aul man." And with that, the door quietly closed behind him, his presence fleeting as though he were a ghost.

"So, Italy," he said, "well, Jean, let's see how kind time has been to you."

🔸️ 🔸️

Giorno looked out on the sparkling waters of the Mediterranean as Coco Jumbo sat on a bench beside Mista, chowing down on a slice of watermelon. The waves rushed against the shore below, carrying a breeze to caress Giorno's face as he paced by the bench.

"So, this friend of yours," he directed to Polnareff, "can we trust him to meet us on time?"

Polnareff appeared from the key. "If I remember correctly, Gaelstrom's never been one for being on time, let's not even talk about how disorganized he used to be."

"Oh, excellent." Mista groaned. He was getting tired of sitting around, what with the spike in Headless Game's mutant extravaganza weighing on his need to act.

Passerby went in and out of sight as the cars passed by behind Giorno, something Polnareff was paying attention to just to kill time. His fingers tapped on the key, watching the cars drive by. A black car made its way past the pier when something vibrant caught Polnareff's eye. Standing across the street, in front of a bookstore, was a man in a red trench coat. At first glance, the coat simply caught his attention and nothing more, but he recalled Gaelstrom mentioning that he'd be wearing one.

"Hey," Polnareff said, "I think that's him."

Giorno looked behind him. "You're sure?"

Polnareff watched the man for a moment, hoping he wasn't just assuming his identity. The man in the red coat removed his hat, swatting at a bug and shouting obscenities in a Gaelic tongue. People shot confused looks, hurrying past him.

"Holy fuck!"

Swat

"Sting me, will ya? Like to see you try it from the ninth level of hell."

A woman ushered her child away and glowered back at the man in red. "What the hell is your problem?! Idioto!"

Polnareff sighed. "Yep...I'm a hundred percent certain..." Giorno picked up Coco Jumbo and crossed the street with Mista to where the man stood around cursing under his breath. Polnareff could hear every word he was saying as they made their way over.

"As if I'm gonna let a bee sting me...I'd sooner eat shite from my dad's ass with a fork." Gaelstrom's gaze met Giorno, Mista, and Coco Jumbo, his green eyes looking down at them from under his red fedora. "What? You never seen a man swat a bug before, either?"

Giorno kept his neutral expression and let Mista talk to him. "Are you Gaelstrom Callaghan by any chance?" he asked.

"Who's askin'?"

"I am. You got a problem with that?"

Giorno stepped forward, not in the mood to watch a fight break out. "I'm Giorno Giovanna. We were supposed to meet here this afternoon."

Gaelstrom folded his arms. "I was supposed to meet an old friend, actually. What, did he send his boss to meet with me in his place? Arsehole, if he didn' wanna see me he coulda just said so."

Polnareff appeared from the key, scowling at him. Not feeling up to seeing him was shy of an understatement. Giorno kept his composure and spoke calmly to Gaelstrom. "Actually, he is here." he said.

Gaelstrom turned his gaze to him, his eyes less leery and cold. "Oh yeah? Then why's he hiding? You can come out now, Jean!"

"Hey, stop shouting, what's wrong with you?" Mista chided. It'd be their luck he'd get the attention of either one of Madman Jose's henchmen, or Headless Game's mutants. The hell with that noise.

"There's no need to make a scene," said Giorno as he turned away, "come with us."

Gaelstrom shrugged and rolled his eyes. "Fine. But he better be waiting for me when I get to wherever it is we're goin'."

Polnareff peeked from the key for just a glimpse of the Irishman following behind them. Same flaming red hair and muscular build...then again maybe a bit less in that department from what it used to be. His freckled complexion was much more yellow than he remembered. As for the dragon tattoo, Polnareff looked over it, expecting as much from him, given his fascination with dragons as a kid. He returned to the key with a sigh.

"Let's get this over with."

Giorno and Mista led Gaelstrom into a small pizzeria, taking their seat by the window. Gael sat across from them, grabbing the salt shaker and pouring salt onto the table. Unbeknownst to him, Polnareff peeked over to see the notorious salt shaker trick in action for the first time in several decades. "Ahhh, I remember that."

Gaelstrom tilted the salt shaker in the pile of salt, his fingertips gently easing away from the shaker. Mista grimaced and to his surprise, Gaelstrom managed to move his hands away and the salt shaker stood on its own at a twelve degree angle.

Polnareff looked at the salt shaker with an impish smile, the same desire he felt as a kid to bump the table and make it spill over was so great. If only he had his body, he could make it happen.

He sat there with a grin on his face. "Can you do that?" he asked them.

Giorno shook his head. "Well, to be honest I've never tried."

"Heh! Doesn't look that hard." Mista took the salt shaker and tried it for himself while they continued to discuss important matters. "Dammit!" he cursed as the salt shaker fell over for the fifth time. Gaelstrom lit his cigar and started to take a few good puffs.

"I don't think we're supposed to smoke in here." Giorno said.

Smoke blew from Gaelstrom's nostrils. "What, they don't got a smoking area?"

Giorno's brows furrowed. "Obviously not," he said, ignoring his uncouth behavior, "he's here if you're ready to meet him."

Gaelstrom put out his cigar on the bottom of the table and leaned back in the seat with an arm draped over the back. Damn. He really needed a cigar, too. "I've been ready." he replied.

Polnareff closed his eyes. Drifting to the exterior of Mr. President, one thought occurred to him before making his presence known: Just how disastrous is this going to turn out on a scale of 1 to 10? 1 being the least chaotic, 10 the most. Polnareff lingered just beneath his exit and said, "Twelve, I'm calling it."

This was it. No turning back now. "Gaelstrom." Polnareff called out. Gaelstrom looked around frantically, his nose wrinkled as he looked everywhere but down on the table.

"What the hell was that?!"

"Down here."

The only other living thing closeby was the tortoise. Well, that didn't seem right. "Hey!" he hissed to Giorno. "That turtle just spoke to me!"

Giorno sighed, not paying any mind to Mista's fascination to finally getting the salt shaker trick down pat. "Look again."

Gaelstrom focused his gaze intently to Coco Jumbo. He stared for a bit, then he went white as a sheet as the upper half of Polnareff's figure ghosted through the key. A hint of dread weighed him down as he avoided making eye contact with Gaelstrom. Everything was so quiet. The customers in the background had walked out, leaving only the four of them to sit there in a state of mixed emotions.

Polnareff opened his eyes, trailing his vision up the red coat and meeting Gaelstrom's gaze for the first time since 1977. Sad, unblinking eyes watched the ghostly man sitting on the back of the tortoise, his mouth open as if he wanted to ask questions, maybe make remarks. Something. Gaelstrom's breath shuddered and he closed his eyes. Polnareff could swear there were tears, but it was hard to tell with the way Gaelstrom placed his hand over his brow.

"What kind of sick joke is this?"

Polnareff looked down at the key. "I told you…you wouldn't want to see me."

Gaelstrom's breath heaved, his throat welling as he fought his urge to cry. "This is bullshit. No. This has to be some holographic light trick. You're just-"

"Gaelstrom," Polnareff interjected, "it's me."

He shook his head. "No, this can't be the real you! That would mean…!?"

"Yes," Polnareff said solemnly, "I'm dead. I can explain everything, if you're willing to listen."

Gaelstrom swallowed and nodded. "Okay…"

Giorno and Polnareff told him of the events that unfolded in all that time. From Polnareff's adventure with the Joestars through Egypt, to his investigation on the stand arrows, and finally the moment Giorno trapped Diavolo in an eternal death loop. Lastly, they informed him of the news reports, and the work they and the Speedwagon Foundation were doing in to eradicate the threats that were beginning to sweep the country. Gaelstrom sat there taking in all the information with genuine interest in his eyes and concern. Polnareff noted his change in behavior and felt he'd stop being so withdrawn.

Gaelstrom wiped his eyes with his sleeve. "Damn. Well, that answers a lot of questions I had." Polnareff looked up at him as he spoke. "I came back to France after...you-know-what...and you weren't there. Now I know why. It was 'cause of Sherry."

Polnareff's gaze met the table and he nodded. "That's right."

Gaelstrom hung his head. "I don't understand," he said on the verge of tears, "why would someone as sweet as her...she was so precious...and yet, where was I? Where were we?"

Heat flamed in Polnareff's ghostly face. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?!"

Gaelstrom winced, realizing the weight of his words. "Look, I didn't mean-"

"How could you expect me to know about someone like J. Geil, huh!?"

"Hey, listen -"

"No, you listen. You of all people knew how much I loved my sister!"

Gaelstrom swiftly slammed his fist down, making Mista instinctively reach for his gun in case he tried something. "Oh, for god's sake, you're takin' what I said out of context. See, that's your damn problem, you never shut up and listen. Just like how you didn't listen to me before when that bitch aunt of yours tried to fucking kill me."

Polnareff rolled his eyes. "Ohhh, here we go. You know, you're such a coward, placing the blame on others when you're the one that wronged me !"

Gaelstrom's jaw tightened. " I wronged you?! No. You're aunt wronged you. Wronged you and Sherry."

"Shut up, Gaelstrom …!"

"Or what, you gonna hit me? Maybe your stand can cut up the other side of my face!? Oh, not to worry I can cover it up with a tattoo like the other one you gave me. Oh, that's right, you don't have it anymore. You're a useless, fackin' reptile now."

"Why, you son of a…!"

Mista shot up from his seat. "That's enough, both of you! For crying out loud, this is a damn restaurant."

Polnareff looked off, anything but looking at that asshole in front of him. "My apologies."

Gaelstrom sat there, eyes to his hands on the table. "Look, I'm glad you killed that J. Geil bastard, good on you and all that. I'm sorry, alright?"

Polnareff's self-control teetered from one end to the other. Lighting into Gaelstrom would satisfy him for a time, but he didn't want to risk annoying Giorno or Mista again. Then there was the thought that maybe because he was close to his sister, his pain and lack of keeping his comments withheld were somewhat understandable. Still, the way he handled it all was like he just wanted to pick a fight. Good ole Gaelstrom, just as much of an instigator as he used to be.

With a pained chest from all his shouting, Gaelstrom coughed. Not having a napkin nearby to grab onto, he leaned down to face the seat and placed his hands in front of his nose and mouth. Giorno reached over the table. "Are you alright?"

Gaelstrom turned his head. "I'm fine. Just sinuses actin' up. Listen, I'm sorry. It's just…I loved her, too. Not being around for her after the fight tore me apart. I miss her laughter, like the time we were—"

"Can we change the subject?" Polnareff snapped.

Gaelstrom's sunken eyes looked away; that topic was far too sensitive for the both of them. And then Gaelstrom looked as though he just remembered something. He leaned down and picked up his suitcase, putting it on the table. Polnareff, startled by it, watched him open it and spelunk through it.

An open notebook was placed down on the table and the suitcase closed, sliding over into the seat, beside him. "You see this?" he asked.

"Yeah, what about it?"

"My dad's not doin' so good. I took it upon myself to take over his research for awhile."

Polnareff leaned over the key, his expression becoming more sympathetic. "Your dad, he's working for the Speedwagon Foundation, right?"

Gaelstrom glanced up, his eyes still vacant and tired. "He is for now. Man's closin' in on eighty-four this December. Let's just say I'm returnin' a favor by helpin' him out."

Polnareff couldn't help but feel concern as he skimmed through Gaelstrom's book. "Did you at least tell him you were doing this?"

"Fack no, I didn't tell him."

"Well," he said, looking up at him, "don't you think you should?"

Gaelstrom's brows furrowed. "Look, I'll do what I want, mind your own business."

Polnareff scowled, but chose to ignore that last statement. "So, what was this really big thing you mentioned on the phone? I'm assuming that's what all this is about?"

Gaelstrom looked around the pizzeria, as though paranoia had suddenly taken ahold of him. It wouldn't surprise Polnareff in the slightest as much trouble as Gaelstrom got into in the past. Then he pulled out the briefcase again, holding it open partially. An iridescent sheen caught the gaze of all three.

"Que diable!"

"That there is what my da' is tryin' to look into for the Speedwagon Foundation. They know so little about it, and I'm hopin' I can figure it out."

Polnareff couldn't tear his eyes away from the iridescence of the blade. The hilt was a nearly ivory tint of gold unlike any metal he'd ever seen. The blade curved in a single edge likened to a sword made for chopping and less curved as the Persian scimitar. The light meeting its opalescent body begat the many colors of the spectrum, a truly spectacular sight. Polnareff looked over to Giorno, his gaze on the sword at first, but then back to Polnareff.

So many questions to ask Gaelstrom, but Polnareff realized he knew about as little as he did about it. Still, the interest ate away at him. The desire to learn about it wouldn't ease off of his mind, and he knew it wouldn't be any time soon. As if laying eyes on it for the first time would affect him in the way that an unrequited love would haunt him for years to come. Polnareff decided instead of asking questions, he'd try something more base.

"What's your plan?"

Gaelstrom smiled crookedly, closing the briefcase and setting it down beside him. He entwined his fingers and leaned his weight onto his elbows. His gaze focused intently on Polnareff sending a shiver up what would be his spine, but crept throughout an ethereal body as a whole.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Come to Slovakia with me." Gaelstrom said.

Polnareff laughed. "What? Didn't hear what we said earlier about the mutations? I'm needed here."

"Aww, don't gimme that, turtle boy. Come on, I can't do this on my own."

"Gaelstrom, look at me. I'm dead. What can I possibly do?"

Gaelstrom shrugged. "Keep me company."

Relentless. That was the only word that could be used to describe his pushy demeanor. Gaelstrom took one last puff of his cigar as Polnareff felt he had no other options but to go along with him. The dread washed over him and the question in his mind wasn't a matter of how this whole thing would go wrong, but when. Still, his answer remained.

"I can't."

"Oh, so you don't wanna catch up with an ol' friend. I see how it is."

Polnareff clenched his fist. "That is not what I meant."

Gaelstrom laughed. "Look, all jokes aside, I'd really like it if you would come with me. Just you."

"I get that. I know how you feel. I just don't see how I could be of any assistance. I can't do research on my own and I certainly can't do favors."

"Don't need to," he told him, "I just figured you'd be fascinated in learnin' about this as much as I am."

Polnareff sighed. He looked up to Giorno who had been silent the entire time, though judging by his countenance he could be doing anything else. Giorno shrugged. Polnareff was once again left to his own decisions.

Gaelstrom looked at him, a soft plea filling his vacant, green eyes. "I won't be able to see you again once I leave Italy." he told Polnareff. "So whatever you decide right now is the ultimate decision, and whatever you choose, I'll respect that."

Polnareff leaned over the key, concern setting in. "What do you mean?"

"I mean 'sactly what I said."

When it came to the sword, it did fascinate Polnareff in a way that he would gladly be of assistance if it were needed. Something that beautiful and mysterious had to originate from somewhere. If he stayed, the chance to unveil its secrets would be lost to him forever. If he went, he could finally do something useful besides give advice and observe situations from afar. Not that he minded either of those things, but he couldn't deny the temptation to try something different for a change. Passing up an offer like that when it presented itself would only haunt him. But what if this opportunity didn't give him the satisfaction he wanted? What if staying was the better choice? What if it wasn't?

Weighing the pros and cons came down to a single word...useless. Polnareff glanced up to Giorno one last time, hoping he could give a suggestion of some sort. Giorno gestured his hand as a way to say your call .

That was no help. Gaelstrom just watched Polnareff with an obvious plea behind his eyes. Polnareff wanted to know just what this guy wanted from him, why was him being there so important to begin with. Did it matter? Could he trust that he wouldn't bring up Sherry again? Could he trust that he wouldn't bring up anything without trying to pick a fight with him?

It's like someone was bullying him, knowing his spectral self couldn't throw punches. How annoying. Then again, Gaelstrom had his own goals in mind. Maybe old feelings wouldn't get in the way too much. How long would this take was another thing. Either way, he knew he'd regret either decision. With a frustrated sigh, Polnareff leaned over the key, his chin resting on his palm. Dislodging the words in his throat, his decision loomed over his head and the regret set in.

"When do we leave?"

🔸️ 🔸️

Giorno and Mista both made it a point to see Polnareff off. Things would be really strange without them around, he had to admit. But at the very least, he would still have Coco Jumbo to talk to when things got a bit too lonely. What with Gaelstrom not really being the prime candidate to spark a conversation with after that fiasco at the pizzeria. Giorno handled seeing him off with dignity and composure, two things he grasped onto so well. Mista, on the other hand, showed more emotion than Polnareff thought he would.

"Make sure this clown feeds Coco Jumbo at least twice a day. We can't afford to lose our consigliere to a drunk man."

"I had one drink. I'm still sober." Gaelstrom retorted.

Polnareff wanted to sneer at that statement. "I'll be fine, don't you worry about me. Mista, you and the gang hang in there while I'm gone. I will come back to Italy and resume helping you once this whole thing is over with. Wait. Are you crying?"

Mista sniffed. "No, you are."

"What?"

"Huh?"

Giorno handed Coco Jumbo to Gaelstrom and looked him in the eye. "I'm counting on you," he told him, "don't let anything happen to him."

Gaelstrom readjusted his fedora. "Do I look that incompetent?"

"You don't want me to answer that." Mista said.

"I wasn't asking you."

Polnareff laughed under his breath. "Anyways, shall we be off?"

Gaelstrom sat Coco Jumbo in the passenger seat and he drove off. He could hear Mista shouting his goodbyes behind them as the car pulled away, and he knew from that moment on nothing would be the same. Though, he couldn't place why. But with Gaelstrom being his only company, there was no telling what sort of trouble would come his way. It felt wrong leaving La Squadra to their own devices like this.

Polnareff wracked his mind about why he chose to go. But with the Speedwagon Foundation and Passione having formed an alliance, what did he have to lose? He'd be back, and he'd make himself useful to Passione. That much he believed.