The door to the safehouse opened with a creak, a long rectangle of light stretching across the darkened floor. The air inside was musty, dusty and rich with an old, earthy smell like a root cellar.

"Wait a moment," said Catwalk, ducking into the shadows. "It's been a while since I've used this one, there might be–"

The switch made a heavy, industrial 'clack' and old lights flickered on, casting the room in dim cones of light. Standing all about the sparsely appointed room were a half dozen demons. Some were lanky, others stout, all were barefoot and dressed in simple white pants and open-necked tunics. They were pale and bald like cavefish with huge black eyes, their ears were odd multi-lobed spines growing out from their freckled cherubic cheeks. Their eyes turned to the intruders, mouths curling into high-spirited smiles, a crescent of fangs below oily black pits of malevolence.

"Fun," chirped a tiny, child-like lurker perched atop the shoulders of a larger demon ominously holding a huge, splintered stick. He leered down at them, his eyes and smirk promising hideous violation as he licked his lips. "Yessir. Fun begins now."

The Seraphim Steel wrecking ball thrummed like a turbine as it streaked outwards, the dozens of spinning balls within it screaming like ricochets as they burst forth, streaking about the room like claymore billiards. The spheres clattered about the room in a whirlwind, bouncing off the drab concrete walls before nesting back in the spinning mother-ball which returned back to the patchwork-demon's palm, whirring to a stop. All of the lurking, vile demons lay in bloody, shredded piles on the floor.

"Squatters," Catwalk grunted in irritation, stepping over the corpses. "I need to invest in better locks. Come in, all of you. Make yourselves at home." JoJo, Kashmir and Bhavana stood in the doorway, staring in shocked silence. Catwalk turned about, snapping his fingers. "Today."

The three entered, carefully stepping around the corpses, JoJo flinching as one of the bodies twitched. "And who were these guys, exactly?"

"Squatters," said Kashmir, regaining his composure. "Weren't you listening?"

"Didn't think squatters ventured this close to the…" Bhavana began to say, hungrily eyeing up the fresh meat before stopping, eyes darting over to JoJo and Kashmir. "Uh… the Colony."

Catwalk shot her a stern glare, glancing at the pair and back to her. Bhavana shot him a silent, pleading look. "Yes, well, as the Turf War continues to expand, you'll find disinterred demons taking up residence wherever they can. This lot was probably from the Woodlands. I hear Overlord Playlist turned that whole area into a farm."

"So, what," said JoJo, gesturing at the bodies. "You just killed a bunch of refugees?"

"Yes," said Catwalk, pointing to a room on the far side of the safehouse. "The kitchen's in there. After that's done, I'll debrief you in full."

"I'll unpack!" Bhavana exclaimed, rushing forward and taking the bags from them. "You boys have your crazy 'Agents of Heaven' chat. Anyone want coffee? Cookies? I'll bake some cookies."

"Mary's Little Lamb's gone domestic," JoJo muttered to Kashmir as Bhavana scuttled into the kitchen. "Some kinda stress response?"

"And to our detriment, probably," Kashmir scoffed, shaking his head. "She strikes me as the type who burns cereal."

"I heard that!" Bhavana shouted from the kitchen. "I'll have you know, I'm a chef in training!"

"Coffee would be excellent, Signorina, thank you." Catwalk gestured for JoJo and Kashmir to sit at the folding table in the middle of the room. "I imagine you two have some questions."

"You could say that," said JoJo, taking a seat. "So, we're not the only ones Down Here on Heaven's behalf?"

"No," said Catwalk, leaning back in his chair. "There are several. How many, I cannot say, as we were instructed to not make contact with one another. Should any of us be captured…"

"You won't compromise the mission, right?" Kashmir said, nodding. "Then why did you interfere on our behalf back there?"

"Because you're different. You still retain a degree of Celestial essence, whereas I and the others, I assume, do not."

JoJo and Kashmir exchanged looks, turning back to Catwalk. "Why is that? Wouldn't that sort of thing come in handy down here?"

"Indeed. Although, perhaps it had something to do with your method of damnation." Catwalk leaned forward on the table, studying them. "You two were in Heaven, yes? Your souls went to Heaven and were then excommunicated."

"Yeah," said JoJo, rolling his eyes. "Cancel culture is real and it is coming for you."

"If you don't mind me asking, how did you get here, Signore?" Kashmir asked, gesturing at the demon. "You seem an honorable and dignified man."

Catwalk sighed and nodded. "For a time, I suppose I was. In life I served as a personal guard to the King of Naples. I killed a man, my brother-in-law, over his mistreatment of my sister and was subsequently exiled to America. From there, I fell in with a bad crowd, a blaspheming, power-hungry tyrant and 23rd President of the United States, Funny Valentine."

"Wait a minute!" JoJo exclaimed, gesturing for him to stop. "Benjamin Harrison was the 23rd President of the USA, not Giggles Patrick or whatever!"

"That joke was a bit of a stretch," muttered Kashmir. "Do better."

"Piss off, it's been a long day!"

"So, you are not of my timeline?" Catwalk, not sounding the least bit surprised. "Interesting. Anyway, I continued on this path until, one day, I met two men. One, a crippled former racing jockey, the other the son of the man who signed my exile: Jonathan Joestar and Gyro Zeppelli."

JoJo and Kashmir stared, mouths agape. "What?"

Catwalk smirked and continued. "They set me back on the path of righteousness, restored to me my reason to live as an honorable man. For my assistance in their righteous quest, my soul was deemed worthy redemption. When I died, my essence was sent to Limbo, waiting to be restored to Earth and a chance at walking the true path. But, I was restless. I felt I had not yet earned this boon. Sensing this, I was given a choice: live a new life on Earth, or tread the Infernal Plane on behalf of Heaven, that I might one day help a Joestar and a Zeppelli in their business there. And here I am, over 120 years later, sitting opposite a Joestar and a Zeppelli."

JoJo spun his wheels on this for a moment. "How did Heaven–ugh, stupid question–how did you know who we were?"

"I already told you," he said, patiently. "I could see the Golden Ratio in both of you. Your retained Celestial essence allowed you to manifest this ember of God's design. I knew then that you were my mission."

"So…" Kashmir murmured, staring into the middle distance. "This was all prophesied."

Catwalk nodded. "God does not deal in coincidences or chance."

"That was a lot to take in." JoJo blew a sigh, setting a hand to his forehead. "But we're not your Joestar and Zeppelli."

"No, but my instructions did not specify who or from what timeline, either."

"Yeah, that tracks," grumbled JoJo, shaking his head. "Alright, so, are all Agents of Heaven 'technically damned' like you, er, us?"

Catwalk shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "I assume so. I also suspect that the nature of your damnation is what allowed you to retain your Celestial essence. It is not our place to question God's plan any more than it is the place of a domino to understand its role in the line. Free will exists inasmuch as we can choose to move forward in the righteous path, or shirk our duties and pass the role to another. Good and evil are immaterial in the grand performance, all that exists is one's role and their choice to play it. In this regard, Kashmir, JoJo, all your actions have led to this moment, to this place. What you have done, what you will have to do, is part of this plan."

"What are you getting at?"

Catwalk leveled a flat stare at the two of them. "Regret is not a luxury we can afford, it stymies the mind against future action. We have many powerful demons after us now, some of whom are more ancient and terrifying than you could possibly fathom. We will not be given leave to hesitate or dither, for doing so could mean our destruction or worse. I want to know that I can rely on the both of you to do whatever is necessary to fulfill our mission. Do you understand?"

Kashmir turned to JoJo, his brow furrowed in concern. "I'm afraid I don't follow."

"We are in Hell, Kashmir," said Catwalk, turning to JoJo. "Morality, justice, mercy, scruples. These things are liabilities Down Here, and they can and will get you killed. I'm not asking you to become monsters, but if we find ourselves in a situation where they stop us moving forward, you leave them behind. Any regrets you still have from your past life, leave those behind too, because you may well have to do worse to get by Down Here. From here on out, every obstacle is an enemy and every fight will be to the death. Do not show pity, or mercy, or remorse, because you won't get any in kind. Allow nothing to stand in your way of fulfilling your mission, God's mission, because there's too much at stake. If you live to regret your actions Down Here, consider that a gift, a gift you extend to all you know and love. Can I rely on you two to do what is necessary?"

JoJo and Kashmir turned to one another, a silent accord passing between them and they turned back to Catwalk.

"You can count on us," said JoJo.

Kashmir nodded, his expression set and focused. "We will play our part, no matter what."

"Good," said Catwalk, pointing to the bodies of the squatters. "Now, one of you go and loot those corpses and pile them outside. There's a 'free meat' sign in the closet, they'll be gone by the morning."

"Ugh…"

Bhavana hummed happily to herself as she got the ingredients out. The coffee percolator bubbled on the counter. The kitchen, while sparse and ugly as the rest of the safehouse, was surprisingly well appointed, with a full-sized stove-top oven, freezer-fridge, and a robust selection of utensils. Whether they belonged to Mr. Catwalk or the squatters she didn't know, but at this juncture she supposed it didn't matter. She mixed the brown sugar-ginger cookie dough and parceled it out in small clumps on a waxpaper covered tray, setting them in the pre-heated oven. She sighed in satisfaction. Cooking had always been a calming thing for her. Even in the rush and clamor of the kitchen the feeling of accomplishment she received from crafting a proper meal from the right ingredients was gratifying. Just wait until they tried her authentic nihari made with–

…Oh, right.

That.

She glanced over at the fridge, a twinge of nervousness stirring in her gut. She'd been careful to separate and cloister away her 'personal' meat from the rest, but the risk would always be there. How would they react? Would they cast her out? Throw her to whatever horrors were apparently pursuing them? She noticed that look Catwalk had shot her before, when she'd almost named her old neighborhood.

'They don't know?'

Of course they didn't know! Demons as fresh as those two wouldn't be able to tell the Cannibal Colony from the Cenobite Section until someone took a bite out of them! And the appropriate segue into the topic had not presented itself in the day or so she'd known them. …God, it's only been a day? It felt like years ago she was humming to herself as she cooked in her cozy little kitchenette. Now she's joined at the hip to a trio of Agents of Actual Fucking Heaven on some insanely dangerous crusade!

'What am I supposed to do?' She thought to herself, bitterly. ' 'Oh, hey JoJo, Kashmir, wanna hear something funny? I'm a cannibal! Har-har-har!' Yeah, that'd go over well…'

She sighed, shaking her head. If they cut her loose… well, Bhavana didn't want to even think about that. Either she'd get picked up by Heavy Fuel and his buddies with all that implied, or she'd be found and silenced by whatever monster turned an apartment building into a molten parking lot! No, she couldn't risk it. She'd just have to… not tell them? Hope they didn't find out? Control her hunger? She'd heard rumors of some cannibals kicking the hunger. But only rumors. 'Born' cannibals, Sinners who killed and ate their fellow man while alive, were reborn cursed with a bone-deep, gnawing hunger that would never abide, never settle, assuaged only by consuming the flesh of what her community ruefully called 'chatty meat'. Only the flesh of sapient beings would do. As her now-atomized neighbor would say 'if it talks, it woks!'

She chuckled aloud at this, her smile curling into a grimace, the laugh becoming a sob.

Gone.

It was all really gone, and now she had nothing, had no-one, no-one save a pair of prickly himbos with a knack for finding trouble and a God-fearing, ball-slinging, ass-kicking mystery demon! What was she going to do?

She looked over at the percolator, walking over and pulling out four mugs and a tray. "Serve coffee."

She stepped out into the main room, tray in hand. JoJo was dragging the fresh, wonderful-smelling squatter carcasses about the room while Kashmir chatted idly with Catwalk at the table. He effortlessly hefted the meat two at a time, piling them onto an old, stained mattress, a 'free meat' sign perched atop the pile. Her stomach clenched, a fresh stab of that particular hunger so sharp it almost made her wince.

"How do I keep losing rock-paper-scissors? Aren't I supposed to be psychic or something?" JoJo grumbled to himself before noticing her. "Huh? Oh! Coffee's ready!"

"Huh?" Bhavana mumbled, realizing she'd been staring at the pile of flesh. "Oh! Uh… y-yeah! I didn't know if you guys wanted any milk or sugar. I can go get some, if you like."

"All good. I take it black," said JoJo, leaning over to her and whispering as he pointed. "Don't bother asking those two, though. Italians can be very Italian about their coffee."

"O~kay!" She said, walking over to the table. "Coffee's ready!"

"Grazie, Bhavana," said Kashmir, taking a mug.

Catwalk nodded and did the same. "Grazie, Signorina."

JoJo took a cup of joe and sat down, beckoning her to do the same. She did and Kashmir continued with what was, evidently, the previous conversation. "So, if every fight down here is to be to the death, why did you allow Straitzo to escape? You know he'll just tell his boss about us and, now, you."

"A calculated risk. Heavy Fuel is no common demon, and his death in uncontested territory would have drawn attention," said Catwalk, sipping his coffee. "You see, Heavy Fuel is a member of the very gang that currently possesses the Corpse."

"Because of course he is…" JoJo sighed. "So, why let him go?"

"Needless to say, stealing the body of Jesus Christ for themselves has not endeared them to the Inner Circle, Hell's royalty. The movements of their more notable members are closely monitored. The only reason they still exist is the fact that Lucifer cannot afford to appear threatened by their actions. That, and the fact that they are, somehow, able to evade his Peacekeepers. Even if Heavy Fuel informs his lord HOLY DIVER of your presence, he will be forced to either dispatch his more powerful minions in search of you, thereby increasing the likelihood of a Royal noticing their activities, or send an attenuated force of less renowned agents, such as Heavy Fuel, whom I'm more confident we can handle."

"The B-Squad," said Kashmir, smirking. "Still, even if he's not sending his best, Kashmir and I are severely diminished in our ability to use Hamon. I fear that, even with your help, we're still at a significant disadvantage against anything stronger than some petty thugs."

I believe I can be of some assistance in that regard," said Catwalk, spinning the coffee mug on its rim without so much as disturbing the liquid within, its contours trailed by glowing ribbons of golden energy. "From what I've seen, the properties of Spin and your 'Hamon' could be compatible, complimentary even. I would suggest we take advantage of this time of relative calm to introduce you three to the basics."

"Three?" Bhavana inquired, looking at JoJo and Kashmir as though to count before pointing at herself. "What? Me too?"

"Yeah, her too?" JoJo asked, cocking his head to the side.

"Why not her?" Catwalk said, gesturing to the sheep-demon. "She's part of this just as much as either of you."

"Well, yeah, but I mean come on!" JoJo gestured in her general direction. "She's, uh…"

"A small, weak, useless coward," said Kashmir, flatly.

"Hey!" Bhavana exclaimed, outraged. "I am not useless!"

"Your coffee begs to differ," said Kashmir, smirking as he sipped. "Did you brew it before you started baking or something? It's cold!"

"Yeah, and not 'iced coffee' cold," said JoJo, grimacing. "It's in that horrible 'slightly lower than body temperature' zone."

"It's freshly brewed!" Bhavana growled, reaching out and knocking over Kashmir's mug, spilling it on his arm, the steaming liquid searing the tender, frost-bitten flesh there. "See?"

"AAAAGH!" Kashmir cried, shooting to his feet and shaking off his arm. "Che cazzo, puttana?!"

"Huh," JoJo grunted, sipping his coffee before dabbing his finger in, pulling away, hissing. "Oh man, that's brilliant!"

"What's brilliant?!" Kashmir snapped.

"We're in Hell, Kashmir," said JoJo, pointing to his mouth and then to his lap. "The coffee's only hot when you spill it on yourself!"

Kashmir sighed in disgust, sitting back down. "They really thought of everything…"

"I'm almost impressed at that level of pettiness." JoJo chuckled before turning back to Catwalk. "So, what, can this Spin stuff make Bah-Ram-Ewe here into a super fighter or something?"

"Huh? Oooh~" Bhavana turned to Catwalk, smiling hopefully. "Can it?"

"No," said Catwalk, his tone and his stare flat. "Your cowardice and treachery notwithstanding, you lack the killer's glint."

Bhavana blinked, her ears drooping. "The what?"

"The will and the determination to kill. As a royal guard of the King of Naples, I was trained to spot it. True, anyone could be forced to kill, but it takes a special kind of willpower to decide to kill, regardless of circumstances. JoJo and Kashmir have it, attenuated by morality, but there regardless. You do not."

"Oh…" Bhavana deflated, her shoulders sagging. "Then why bother teaching me at all?"

"Because, like people, the Spin is a versatile force. It can heal and repair just as readily as it can rend and destroy." Catwalk sipped his coffee, eyes locked on her over the rim of the mug. "As a cannibal, you no doubt have a robust knowledge regarding anatomy. You could make for an exemplary healer."

Bhavana froze, her blood turning to ice in her veins. What did he just fucking say?!

"Yeah, that makes sense," said JoJo, taking a sip from his mug before setting down. "Excuse me, what?"

"She's a cannibal," said Catwalk, nonchalantly. "Due to her actions on Earth, she is now compelled to regularly consume the flesh of other sapient beings. Didn't you know?"

"No…" Kashmir growled, turning to the ram-rod stiff sheep. "We didn't."

"The neighborhood you were living in was called the 'Cannibal Colony'," said Catwalk, a faintly amused smile on his face. "Forgive me, Signorina, I assumed they knew."

'OH BULLSHIT!' She raged internally, turning to JoJo and Kashmir. "Uh, I can explain?"

JoJo and Kashmir looked at her expectantly, Kashmir eventually nodding. "Oh, do go on, please."

Bhavana heaved a heavy sigh, nodding. "As Mr. Catwalk said, uh, I'm, well, a cannibal. B-but it's not as bad as it sounds!"

"Oh, this ought to be rich," muttered JoJo, leaning back in his chair and lifting his mug for a sip before thinking on it and setting it back down, pushing it away.

"Oh for love of–it's just coffee!" Bhavana cried, running her fingers through her wool in exacerbation. "Look. Yes, I'm a cannibal, but I'm not, like, running around killing and eating people! Look at me, I'm no Alastor! All my meat is free trade and ethically sourced, I promise!"

"I'm morbidly curious as to how cannibal meat could possibly be 'ethically sourced'," said Kashmir, dryly.

"Most cannibals source their meat from Hellborn, imps, hellhounds, succubi, and all that, because they're generally weaker and less connected, so no one misses them. I only eat meat taken from Sinners, since we're immortal." Bhavana said, shrugging. "Lotta demons Down Here have a bunch of extra limbs and whatnot, and it'll all just grow back anyway. Some companies even pay them for the inconvenience! It makes it more expensive, sure, but at least I know that some poor Hellborn wasn't killed for it."

This was partially true. While she in no way reveled in her dietary requirements like the less-couth member of her community, her preference amounted to the simple fact that Hellborn tasted… off. Imps were gamy, tough, and held the slightest twinge of sulfur. Hellhounds tended to be stringy like an old goat, with a peculiar astringent flavor that reminded her ever-so-slightly of battery acid. Succubi and Incubi, while less offensive in mouthfeel, well, her own personal hang-ups demanded that she cook the meat so thoroughly that all flavor was lost! Who knows what bugs those Lustringers were packing…

Not to mention, whenever she'd receive various 'oohs' and 'aahs' whenever she busted out her signature nihari made with Sinner shanks at her apartment's monthly potluck. Sinner cuts were more expensive, sure, but then again they were more expensive. She was trying to get signed on as a cook at Jeffrey's fancy restaurant for a reason, after all.

Kashmir opened his beak to retort before considering for a moment, shrugging. "Yeah, alright. That makes sense, in an insane sort of way."

"So, uh, when we were walking about and people were ogling us," said JoJo, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Were they horny, or hungry?"

"Column A, column B," Bhavana said, gesturing so-so.

JoJo shrugged, picking up his coffee and taking a sip. Bhavana allowed herself to relax an increment, internally relieved at how well they were taking the news.

"Have you ever tried… not being a cannibal?" Kashmir said, leaning towards her. "Try it on for size?"

"Weren't you listening, Kashmir?" JoJo said, pointing to Catwalk. "She's cursed! She chose to eat people in life, therefore she has to Down Here. Wait, does that mean we might have walked past members of the Donner Party back there?"

"Surely exceptions are made for survival situations! The Pope himself pardoned those football players in the Andes!" Kashmir exclaimed, turning to Bhavana, a sympathetic twinge in his voice. "Did you experience something similar, Signorina? Was it a matter of survival?"

"I…" Bhavana turned away from him, looking into her coffee. "I don't want to talk about it."

Catwalk set his mug down with a 'clack', drawing all eyes to him. "My name on Earth was Wekapipo, I surrendered my family name to the service of my king. I swore an oath that I would never put anything ahead of my duty to him, an oath I broke when I killed my sister's abusive husband, a fellow guard, in a duel. I violated the oath I took before God and the Church. I then took work as an assassin, applying my skills to the art of murder. Finally, I assisted a man in his blasphemous quest to misuse the very body of Jesus Christ. I am an oathbreaker, a murderer, and a blasphemer. It is only by God's infinite largess that I have been given the chance to redeem my soul."

He turned to JoJo, eyebrows raised in a silent challenge. JoJo shifted in his seat and sighed. "Alright then… my name on Earth was Joseph Joestar. My sins are infidelity, fathering an illegitimate son whom I also failed to raise or support during his childhood. Also, I may or may not have contributed to the Japanese economic crash. I initially went to Heaven, but then some bad actors got together to quite literally cast me down to Hell. It was all according to the plans of the Angels, of course, but here we are. How about you, Kashmir?"

Kashmir folded his arms across his chest. "Must I?"

"Kashmir."

"Fine!" Kashmir counted off his fingers. "My name was Caesar Antollio Zeppelli. I was a thief, a violent thug, a womanizer, a serial accessory to infidelity, and was generally an overly proud, wrathful person. There. Happy?"

"You left out buggerer," JoJo muttered, sotto voce, smirking into his mug.

"What was that, cornuto?!" Kashmir snapped.

Kashmir prepared to lunge at the grinning ram-demon when Bhavana cleared her throat, hands on her lap grabbing up bunches of her pants, staring hard into her coffee. Kashmir sat back down and gently gestured for her to continue.

"Okay…" She heaved a heavy sigh and nodded. "I was born Afreen Mehra in a small mountain village in the Kashmir and Jammu region, the daughter of the village leader. In 1947, during the massacres, uh…" She paused. Luckily, JoJo and Kashmir seemed to assume this was just nerves. How to broach this? "A group of soldiers and partisans from the cities came to our village one day, looking for Muslims to, uh, y'know…"

So far, so good. She let the implication hang, letting them fill in the blanks. They didn't need to know that her father had sheltered a few dozen of them in their root cellar, despite her opposition. When the partisans came armed with rifles and hatchets and all manner of bludgeons, it had been obvious to her that if – no, when – those fanatics found the Mohammedians, those weapons would fall on their abbeters just as easily. Her soft-hearted father, in some misguided notion of nobility, had placed his entire village in the crosshairs of those maniacs! As his daughter and a respected figure in the community, she had to do something! After ingratiating herself to the leader of the partisans, seducing him, she had told them of the refugees, claiming they had been part of a larger group hiding in the mountains, and they had been threatened into sheltering them. This appeared to work, as the fanatics made short work of the refugees and prepared to move on, but then…

She continued: "Anyway, there was an earthquake. A big one. My village was located in a valley, with impassable cliffs on either side. When the earthquake hit, landslides filled in most of the valley. Those who survived were trapped, completely cut off, and almost all of our food stores had been destroyed. We were so hungry… and the partisans were armed."

"Jesus Christ…" JoJo groaned, shaking his head.

"Go on," said Kashmir, settinghis taloned hand over hers. "Whenever you're ready."

"Thank you, it's not an easy thing for me to talk about," she said, sighing.

It was true. She wasn't proud of what she had done, but it was a matter of survival! She'd always held that if you can only live with guilt and regret if you're alive. To be damned for doing what was necessary for survival had always struck her as a touch overzealous on behalf of Up There. Still, her companions didn't need to know all the gruesome details, their imaginations would take care of the rest. They didn't need to know that she'd used her position in the community to rally the survivors, nor did they need to know how she'd cozied up to the leader of the partisans becoming a sort of co-leader of the motley group, clandestinely selecting less useful townsfolk for the inevitable (rigged) lotteries that followed. For her efforts, she'd been treated to equal portions of food to the members of the partisans, while her fellow villagers were sustained on scraps. Was she proud of what she did? Of course not! But her actions ensured that at least some of them survived… long enough to all die in the flash flood that swept away what remained of the town three weeks later.

What a cruel fucking joke…

"The soldiers set up a selection process. Every few days, they forced us to draw lots on who would be, uh, sacrified. I had always been a good cook, you see. The soldiers had me… prepare the food, in exchange for a greater portion. I was disgusted but I-I was so hungry! I helped them, in my own way, aided and abetted in the murder and cannibalism of over twenty people, people I knew, all to save my own miserable hide." She hung her head, shaking it. "I guess that's why I'm down here, cursed with this horrible hunger. I'm a treacherous coward. Oh, and, uh, I also slept with my sister's husband. That's probably another reason I'm Down Here."

That was also true, but her tramp sister had been fooling around with the gardener, so she didn't feel too off about that one.

Silence hung in the air as the other demons digested (ha-ha) the information. JoJo looked tense, awkward, as though he'd walked in on his parents. Kashmir wore a strained yet strangely sympathetic expression, conflicted between disgust and empathy. Only Catwalk remained unmoved by her story. Indeed, the patterned-demon seemed to regard her with a degree of skepticism, although not one he appeared inclined to indulge.

"So…" said JoJo, breaking the silence. "Does just eating people mean you're damned and cursed?"

Catwalk shook his head. "As I understand it, anthropophagy – the mere consumption of human meat – does not incur the curse. No, it's the active participation of killing another in order to consume is the deciding factor. For her apparent cooperation with the murderous partisans, Bhavana here was damned."

"Absurd!" Kashmir exclaimed, shaking his head. "What was she supposed to do? Die? And to be cursed for it, no less! To have it thrown in your face for the rest of eternity! Despicable!"

Catwalk shrugged. "I don't make the rules."

JoJo turned to Bhavana, his morbid curiosity clear on his face. "But you can eat other types of food, right? You just have to eat, uh, people to handle the hunger curse?"

She nodded. "Yes. I can go a week or so without it. Good thing, too! Sinner cuts are expensive!"

"Huh!" JoJo grunted, glancing over at the body pile. "Well, let's save your wallet a bundle and me a chore. She can have those, right?"

Bhavana perked up, her eyes wide. "Really? Can I?"

"I don't care, and neither do they," said JoJo, shrugging. "Kashmir, you're cool with that, right?"

Kashmir grimaced in disgust, turning away from them. "Just do it where I can't see or hear or smell it! And label the containers! I don't want to have a midnight snack and accidentally eat someone!"

"Haw!" JoJo laughed. "What, are you afraid of pulling a Hannibal Lecter? Some liver with fava beans and a niiicechianti? Thp-thp-thp-thp-thp!"

"Can we please change the subject already?!"

"Indeed," said Catwalk, rising to his feet. "Now that we understand one another to a greater degree, we can move forward as a team. Now, come along and I'll teach you all the basics of Spin."

JoJo and Kashmir shot to their feet, eyes alight, JoJo clasping his hands together. "Man, back in the day I would have groaned about training up a new martial art, but I gotta say, I'm kinda excited to see what this loopy-crap is all about!"

"Indeed!" Kashmir said, grinning. "In Heaven, I had all but perfected my Hamon, learning all there was to know! My warrior's heart hungers for a new art to master!"

"How about you, Bhavana?" JoJo said, turning around to face the sheep-demon only to find her missing. "Hungry to–Bhavana? Where'd she go?"

A low, gristly tearing sound echoed in the safehouse. They turned to see the svelte form of Bhavana stooped over the pile of squatters, a leg with a large, round bite taken out of the calf in her arms. Her ear twitched and she turned around, cheeks bulging as she chewed, unctuous black blood coating her lips, dripping down her chin.

"Uhhh…" She said through her mouthful, smiling bashfully. "Sorry! All that talking about it and, uh, the smell of these guys kinda whipped it up, yeah? I usually cook, but I'm just really hungry!"

"Ugh… the curse is strong with that one…" JoJo grimaced, cringing away as she took another bite. "Nope. Pretty sure I'm never gonna be completely chill with that, eh Kashmir? …Kashmir?"

JoJo turned to see Kashmir, who was watching the skinny she-demon gorge herself with a particular interest, his eyes glinting with equal parts perplexment and…

JoJo rolled his eyes. "Oh, for–really?!"

"Huh?" Kashmir blinked, the spell broken. "What?"

JoJo shook his head and set off after Catwalk. "Just try not to get a bite taken out of you, Don Juan."

"What?! No! I–" Kashmir glanced back at Bhavana and then back to JoJo. "What are you implying?"

JoJo scoffed and threw up a pair of finger quotes. "Implying~"

"What?" Kashmir said, growling as he set off after him. "JoJo!"

Heavy Fuel loped awkwardly through the air, his missing fingers making flight a jagged, barely controllable affair. He had to get back to HQ, to report his findings… and his failure. He grit his teeth, almost sick with rage: he had been so close! So close to having brought not only the prophesied targets before His Lord, but present no less than a Joestar! He could hardly have believed his luck! He'd been on the fence as to the demon's identity, but the fight in the mall, the swagger, the voice, that fresh new demon could be no one else! His infernal bloodline had plagued His Lord so thoroughly in life, how gratifying it would be for him to extract gruesome vengeance on his hated enemy for the rest of eternity. He would have proven himself a worthy addition to the organization, at least as much as any of the fawning acolytes he had accrued on Earth. No longer would he be among perennial outsiders to the inner circle like the others, a position that chafed the demon to no end!

But no.

That damned interloper, Catwalk, just had to jump in and spoil his glory, his vengeance. But why? Catwalk was a well-known figure, well-connected and respected Hell-wide for his ability to find almost anything, information, items, people, you name it. He'd served alternately as a bounty hunter, a private eye, security consultant, anything involving locating things of import or helping people keep such things hidden. How he did this none could say, but it was known around Hell that if you wanted something, anything, found Catwalk was the demon to talk to. He was hardly in the business of saving random, fresh-fallen demons from a richly deserved fate.

'Unless…'

Heavy Fuel furled his wings and set down on the bustling sidewalk, pancaking a hellhound with his unleashed form's bulk. The crumpled form of the ringscraping mutt shriveled in an instant, flesh crackling dry as his tendrils dug deep, devouring every last drop of fluid and paltry essence in the wretched creature. He sighed in some relief, feeling the wounds on his chest closing, his natural healing boosted by the meager meal. He looked down at his hand, at his slowly regenerating fingers. He needed a more bracing meal.

"Hey!" A Sinner, some manner of flaming skull-demon, cried. "That was my fuckin' hound, asshole! S'gonna take me all day to find another one!"

Heavy Fuel paid him no mind, wordlessly shoving his fingers into the demon's empty sockets and into his brain. The skull-demon squealed as a loathsome gulping sound emanated from within his head, his flames and body retracting, shriveling, as the vampire-demon drank. The husk fell to the ground with a dry rustle, the barest flicker of flame present atop his skull, that last remaining ember of his essence impossible for Heavy Fuel to prise. So it was with Sinners.

Heavy Fuel flexed his hand, his newly regenerated fingers curling and extending. He walked down the sidewalk, Sinners and Hellborn swerving around him. He paid it no mind.

'Why would a mercenary like Catwalk save those two unless he was hired to?' Heavy Fuel pondered. 'That would imply that there's another party out there, one privy to the goings on of our business. The Inner Circle? No, Catwalk's open about his refusal to work for Royals, so much so they'd never sacrifice their dignity to ask. Who else knows? Il Nove? Overlord Danger, perhaps? But what would they want with those two? What do we? Too many questions. Too many variables. I must return to HQ, tell Lord Trouble of my findings, but…'

He grimaced. His failure to capture two young demons, weak and inexperienced for their lack of evidence, would not go over well. He had been dispatched because of his relatively mediocre standing in the gang, as not to arouse the suspicions of the prowling Peacekeepers and their dogs. This was to be his shot at rising in the organization, instead he'd allowed this meager mission to slip through his grasp. It was not his place to question His Lord's orders, merely to carry them out. His information regarding Joestar's presence and anomalous use of Hamon would be of little consequence in light of his failure. Regardless, he had to report back, any punishment he faced now would be a butterfly kiss compared to what would happen if they were forced to track him down. No, he would bring back the intel and accept his punishment.

Heavy Fuel walked past a bus-stop, deep in rueful thought when motion out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. Sitting on the bench was a female demon, eyes glued to her Hellphone. She was short and thin, somewhat catlike in appearance and in her hand was a cup of black coffee, the lid having popped off due to the thing rising up out of it: a hand.

It had long, taloned fingers and was black and steaming, composed from the coffee it rose from. The demoness noticed the appendage rising from her cup, boggling at it for a few moments.

"Wh–" She began to say before the steaming, fluidic hand snapped out, too fast to see. The demoness twitched, head leaning forward, and forward, angling down until it tumbled from her shoulders, rolling across the sidewalk. "–at?"

The coffee leapt from the cup and onto the sidewalk, splashing for a moment before reforming into a limb reaching up from the sidewalk, beckoning the vampire-demon with a finger. Heavy Fuel sighed and nodded, the limb collapsing into a puddle. An instant later and a shark-demon leapt from the puddle. Heavy Fuel regarded the demon for a moment, he was on the short side by Hell's standards, lean and rangy with steely, gunmetal gray scales. He wore a dark jumpsuit with studded shoulder metallic pads, his red hair done up in loose braids.

"Atom Tan," said Heavy Fuel.

"Boss wants to chat," Atom Tan replied, his face twisting into a toothy grin.

"I gathered."

This was the original Atom Tan and not one of Trouble's dead-eyed Disc-clones the rest of the gang used to instantly travel. His power allowed him to form portals in liquids, allowing him and anyone he was touching to re-emerge to any location he'd personally been. As the original, only he could teleport to the gang's HQ, all other transit being handled by his innumerable, degraded duplicates. It was the combination of his teleporting and Trouble's Disc-copying abilities that more than anything allowed their forces to evade Lucifer's Peacekeepers.

Atom Tan chuckled and set a hand on his shoulder and, with a lurch, they were there. Where 'there' was, Heavy Fuel couldn't say, for the location was a closely guarded secret. It was a wide, high-ceilinged room lit by the dim light of dozens of candle chandeliers. The stone walls were festoon with precious silk curtains, enchanted moving portraits of the Fallen's conquest of Hell, and elaborate tapestries depicting like. Priceless artifacts and vases stood on carved pillars of polished Envy marble and Wrath onyx, tall bookcases held innumerable books, tomes, scrolls, and grimoires, the ownership of even one, should the Inner Circle discover them, would have meant a fate worse than death.

It was his personal boudoir.

At the far end of the room was a 36-step dais their usual places were His Lord's inner-circle. He approached it and knelt, his head bowed.

At the foot of the dais was Crossroads, a muscular skull-faced demon with the power of the Void and Their Lord's ever-present bodyguard. Few in their gang approached his fervent, fanatical devotion to Their Lord, and fewer still could match him in sheer destructive power.

Further up, regarding him with a low sort of contempt, was the whirling, gaseous form of Boadicea, the grand-high witch of the organization in more ways than one, responsible for deciphering and utilizing their organization's myriad mystical artifacts. She issued his orders to their dispersed forces with endless numbers of puppeteered bodies, mundane Sinners or Hellborn slaved to her cruel will. No one knew who or how many Hellions were under her thrall, her anonymous eyes and ears spread out across the vast city.

Sitting opposite her on the same level of the dais was the ironically named Eternal Flame, a demon who resembled a clothed, humanoid mass of water; it was his ability to make any non-living fluid – such as coffee, for instance – within his unknown-but-vast range an extension of his will. In his lap was a large tome, ornate gold and jewel encrusted covers clasped shut over what appeared to be water. It was rumored this book had long ago been stolen from Prince Orobas by Their Lord, and that it contained the power of prophecy, only able to be read when under the influence of Eternal Flame.

Looming from the penultimate step of the dais was Trouble, the second-in-command of their organization and closest confidant of Their Lord. His pale, G∆CT-branded flesh stood in stark contrast to his deathly black robes, his cold silver eyes peering out from under his tall, crown-like horns. The demon priest stood slightly lower and to the side of an immense onyx throne, its back pointedly turned to the rest of the room. In the silence of the room, all that would be heard with that mechanical hiss-and-click of air passing through a respirator: breathing.

"Heavy Fuel," said Trouble, his voice carrying across the hall like the rumble of distant thunder. "Report your findings."

"Yes…" Boadicea hissed, her eyes points of tyrian light in her ephemeral face. "Explain your failure to capture two newborn demons. Can we even be sure this bungler trailed the right demons?!"

Heavy Fuel did not flinch, he knew this was coming. "I went to the position supplied by Eternal Flame. As predicted, two newcomers to the realm approached the abode of the princess and were rebuked. I took this to mean they were the ones you sought."

"Rebuked by Princess Charlotte," Boadicea mused. "That is unusual."

"Continue," said Trouble, pausing to cock his head towards the throne as though listening. "When you made contact, what happened?"

"I engaged them in combat. They were unexpectedly formidable, but–"

"How formidable could two newborn demons be?" Crossroads interrupted, scoffing. "I expected better from you, Heavy Fuel."

"Indeed," sneered Boadicea. "You were dispatched on this mission for your relative obscurity within this organization. You are mediocre enough to escape notice and collect objects of far greater import than yourself! How disappointing you've added ignominity to your roster of choice adjectives."

Heavy Fuel wanted to cry out all he knew, tell them just who exactly the target was. But he held his tongue, every piece of information he had was a vital bargaining chip.

"Check your tone, witch," said Eternal Flame, gesturing to the mystical book in his lap. "The Blackwater Gospel tells of what could be and how to bring it about, but specific it is not. The impression I got when reading about these two is one of singular gravity. These two may well be more formidable Souls than average, possibly even former Stand-Users."

"While I am loathe to put much credence in the readings of a blind man…" Boadicea grumbled. "The possibility of them being former Stand-Users had not occurred to me."

"That would explain it," said Crossroads, thoughtfully. "Mr. Clean was fresh as fresh could be, and he still slaughtered Anubis and several others without much effort."

"Were they Stand-Users, Heavy Fuel?" Trouble asked.

"One of them was," said Heavy Fuel, obediently. "I think? But this ability is not what made them formidable. It was Hamon. These two demons could, somehow, use Hamon."

For the briefest moment, the hiss-click of Their Lord's breathing sharpened, but just as quickly returned to its regular rhythm.

"Hamon!" Boadicea scoffed. "While it is indeed odd that they can withstand it, no self-respecting member of this organization should be troubled by that feeble lightshow!"

"Indeed," said Heavy Fuel, smirking internally. "As a master of the art, it proved of limited effectiveness. I prevailed and subdued them."

Eternal Flame's head bowed in silent snickering, garnering a scowl from the wispy witch before she turned back to the kneeling demon. "Then where are they?"

"When I was preparing to incapacitate them, a third party intervened," said Heavy Fuel. "The interloper was a demon by the name of Catwalk, he's a–"

"We know who he is," said Trouble, now looking distinctly agitated. "He is the one who defeated you?"

Heavy Fuel nodded. "He somehow induced in me a sort of paralysis. He was armed with Seraphim Steel. Had I not fled, I would not be able to tell you what I know."

"And what, pray tell, have you learned?" Boadicea said, derisively. "That these demons have some knowledge of worthless mortal razzle-dazzle? That you're a craven fool? We are, no doubt, grateful for your contribution to the brutally obvious! Crossroads, take this incompetent to the dungeons!"

"For my failure, I should be punished," said Heavy Fuel, bowing his head deeper as Crossroads approached. "But before you cast your judgment upon me, I have one last piece of information to impart to Our Lord."

Trouble gestured for the skull-faced demon to stop before giving Heavy Fuel leave to speak.

"One of the targets," said Heavy Fuel, raising his eyes to look up directly at the throne. "Was Joseph Joestar."

The effect was galvanic. All of the inner circle flinched at the utterance of the dreaded bloodline, as though the name alone had slapped them across the cheek.

"Wh-what did you say?" Boadicea croaked, her glowing eyes tyrian circles in her whirling face.

"A Joestar…" Trouble growled, pale hands balling into fists. "Gravity…"

An instant later and the dais was gone, blocked by an enormous, towering shape. Standing before him, the air around him thrumming like a tesla coil as his immense power surged to the fore. His red, cog-shaped pupils glared down at him from a flawlessly handsome alabaster face perched some ten feet over the smaller demon, framed by the shining gold armored headpiece, framed by a leonine mane of long golden hair. Standing before him was the armored muscular form of His Lord, the future ruler of Creation: HOLY DIVER.

"Well?" HOLY DIVER rumbled, his words underscored by the hiss-click of his breath as it surged through the articulated metal breathing-tubes sprouting from his cheeks and leading down his back. "You have my attention."