**Happy Halloween, y'all. Fun fact: I went as Speedwagon last year, and for some reason, I still have my Victorian coat and that blonde mullet wig hanging in my closet. That coat was $40, I ain't throwing it away. The mullet I don't have an excuse for. This year I'm going as Stevie Nicks because it's the most effective yet cheapest costume I can come up with. What are you guys going as? If anyone needs a ratty blonde mullet wig, I got one.

Thanks for your reading eyes! See you in the next chapter!**

"Pardon my French, but what the bloody fuck?"

"This was three days ago. I haven't seen him since."

"How is he…what the—what the fuck?"

Speedwagon paced angrily around, lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed while Jonathan shifted the paper bag to his other arm. He glanced down the alleyway, watching people crossing the busy morning streets. A small, brown tabby cat that had been scavenging through a garbage can near the entrance of the alley made its way toward them, meowing loudly.

"He's here in London," Speedwagon rambled. "I travel all over the city; I would've seen him by now. How-How could this be? Oh, he'll get a sound thrashing once I get my hands on him!"

"Which is why I need your help." Jonathan looked at him again. "We need to find Dio as quickly as possible."

"Hell yeah we do! The sooner he's six feet under, the better."

"I don't wish for his death, nor his arrest. I just need to speak with him."

Speedwagon staggered to a halt, shot him a wildly confused glare. "Wait, what?"

Jonathan sighed. "I'm going to try to settle things as peacefully as I can."

"Wha-But that doesn't make any sense! Why would you…he doesn't—b-but what about Hamon? The power that Zeppeli fella taught you? It'd be a waste if you didn't use it for the reason you learnt it in the first place."

As he argued, the tabby cat trotted toward Speedwagon, weaving in between his legs and mewing weakly. Speedwagon grumbled "shoo" as he lightly kicked the feline away.

"I learnt it because I felt like I needed to protect what I had left," Jonathan clarified. "It was for defense, not offense."

"But the point is you can easily wipe the floor with that rat. He's a thief, a liar, a murderer—no one's going to miss him. Why are you holding yourself back—?"

The tabby cat rubbed against Speedwagon's calf once more and he pushed it back a little harder this time. "I said get away!" he barked. The cat hissed in response.

"What-What are you saying, Jonathan?" he tried again. "What use is there to simply talking with a beast that has never spoken a word of truth its entire life? JoJo, I-I don't get you."

Speedwagon rambled on, throwing his arms about and pacing like a mad bear. There wasn't anything that Jonathan hadn't already heard from Erina or Helena. Listening still, he ripped a chunk off the baguette sticking out of the paper bag in the crook of his arm. He mushed the piece of bread between his fingers to soften the tough texture. He then bent down and offered it toward the cat.

It approached cautiously, its tiny pink nose scrunching at the air. He laid the crumpled food on the ground. Suspicious, the cat crept forward, sniffed the bread, picked at it, and then fully dug in, closing its eyes in contentment.

"I understand where you're coming from," Jonathan related. "I thought revenge and blood were the only words Dio could comprehend. Hamon, when pushed, can speak that very language, but Zeppeli focused on its healing properties."

The cat gobbled up every little crumb before arching its back and flicking its tail up. It let out a chirp and Jonathan scratched its furry neck. He couldn't help but smirk as the animal leaned heavily into his touch.

"My father would've wanted me to settle things as peacefully as possible," he added. "I can't disappoint him, and besides…" The tabby looked at him, golden eyes locked on him.

Those golden eyes were always watching him.

He sighed and gave the stray a final pat before standing back up. "I don't think Dio's ever going away, no matter what happens, so might as well make the best of it."

Speedwagon, fists on his hips, peered at Jonathan then the cat as though he were deciphering one of Shakespeare's sonnets. Eventually it was his turn to sigh; he bowed his head in defeat.

"I'll never understand you Joestars," he muttered and then looked up at him with wide eyes. "Fine, we'll do your 'peaceful' route, but if that bastard tries anything funny, I'm throwing hands. Got that?"

Jonathan smirked. "Got it. Thank you for your help, Robert."

"Hmph." He glanced up and down the alleyway. "Now the fact that I haven't seen him around at all astounds me. I'm everywhere all of the time—how could I miss him?"

"You think he's hiding somewhere?"

"Has to be, though I wouldn't know where." He crossed his arms. "I'll ask Tattoo in Ogre Street if he's seen anything."

Jonathan paused, remembering how Dio came from a poor neighborhood, although he couldn't recall if it was Ogre Street or not. All he knew was his father's name, that he was a raging alcoholic, and how Dio murdered him. Not once did Dio talk about his childhood during his stay at Joestar Manor.

"Do you suppose…" Jonathan said slowly, thinking out loud, "that he's back where he used to live? Before my father took him in?"

Speedwagon shrugged. "Could be. Do you know where that is?"

"Unfortunately not, but maybe we could ask around and see if anyone knew Dio's father, or anything about the Brando family."

"Sounds like a lead. Let's go see Tattoo tonight; there isn't time to waste." Speedwagon went to storm his way out of the alley, almost kicking the cat in the process, but he stopped and turned at the last second. "If you don't mind me asking, what makes you think he's there? In his childhood home, I mean."

Jonathan could still smell the whiskey on Dio's breath, sense the anger within him. He was abusive, he was drinking, he was slowly losing himself. Jonathan looked down at the cat between them, who'd been staring back with those unblinking golden orbs.

"I think he's following his father's footsteps, although I don't think he knows he's doing so."

Ogre Street felt different the second time around. Before Jonathan had been on a time-crunch for his father's life, thus he was willing to do anything to get that cure. His vision of the district had been tunneled, but now, with his goal wobbling in certainty, he observed his surroundings in a new light.

The streetlamps were low with oil, providing very little illumination. More people were out at this time of night; it was noisy with chatter and work. Men sped-walked this way and that, hurrying to their graveyard shifts or some other important arrangement. Women stuck close to one another at street corners, some making flirtatious suggestions at any wandering man, others nervously reading about the Whitechapel murders. Whoever wasn't working that night was at the tavern, hollering and laughing and drinking. The homeless sat against the brick walls, either falling asleep with what little possessions they owned scattered around them or begging passers-by for anything they could spare. Barefooted children ran up and down the cobblestone roads while playing a makeshift game of baseball. A red-headed boy hit the ball with a long lead pipe, and Jonathan barely made out the ball's dark outline coming straight for his face.

He caught it with ease and Speedwagon flinched, his reaction a bit delayed. "I got it!" yelled a high-pitched voice, and then Jonathan felt a soft thud against his leg.

His gaze met a young boy in overalls and blackened feet. He and the other little boys gawked at Jonathan in mutual astonishment. He was used to the stares; he'd been receiving them all his life. But the feel of the hard, leather ball in his palm and the sight of these boys playing sport brought back fond memories of his own youth.

"Watch it, brats! You could've hit someone!" Speedwagon barked at the same time Jonathan leaned toward the boy who bumped into him. He grinned, holding up the ball.

"Make sure you move to the spot where the ball is going to land, not where it is in the air," he advised. "It'll guarantee you a catch." He tossed the ball which the boy caught gingerly. "But great job at communicating with your teammates and keeping your eyes on the ball. I believe you'll make a fine baseball player someday."

With a glint in his eye, the boy smiled widely, and Jonathan noticed a missing tooth from his bottom row of teeth. They went their separate ways, the boy to his friends with new knowledge and Jonathan to Speedwagon who was stomping toward the closest tavern across the way.

"Tattoo hates his job," Speedwagon said as he opened the door, "so it should be easy to talk with him."

Inside it was stuffy and warm, crowded with bodies and the stench of alcohol. Waitresses balanced mugs between their fingers as they served each table all while swerving every grabby hand. It was loud with all kinds of drunkenness: the happy laughter, the angry rambling, the sad whimpers. The oil lamps in here were brighter than the ones outside, each face in the room clear.

Jonathan scanned each one—none of them belonged to Dio Brando.

He barely heard Speedwagon say "over here" before following a wall. Jonathan trailed behind him until they came upon a busy bar. Waitresses and customers bowed over the messy wooden counter, grabbing drinks, trading money, shaking hands. Most of the tavern's occupants were crammed here, but Jonathan spotted Tattoo behind the counter, his large build and distinguishable face pattern hard to miss.

As Speedwagon tried getting Tattoo's attention, Jonathan couldn't help but draw it. People gawked and pointed and made comments like "Look at what came climbing down Jack's beanstalk" or "I didn't know Polyphemus had a rich cousin." Again, this wasn't surprising for him—the commentaries were louder than usual, but nothing he hadn't heard before.

Nevertheless, Speedwagon took offense when Jonathan did not. He glared at the nearest drunk. "There's this brilliant invention called 'minding your own fucking business.' I suggest you try it out sometime."

"Robert." Jonathan placed a hand on his shoulder. "There's no need for that. I'm not offended."

Sometimes he forgot Speedwagon could be sharp when pushed. After all, he did try to kill Jonathan upon first encounter.

"Well, I'm offended for you, so someone has to get their ass kicked."

"I thought I heard a pipsqueak."

Tattoo glanced over with a smirk as he cleaned a jug with an old rag. "And you brought the baby-faced, silver spoon that ended you with a single hit."

"The same thing happened to you, so watch your mouth."

Tattoo rolled his eyes. Jonathan vaguely remembered their first encounter almost a year ago, but he did recall grabbing Tattoo's wielding blade and throwing challenging words back. Other than that, nothing extraordinary came to mind.

"We need to speak with you," Speedwagon continued. "It's important."

"I'm a little busy right now."

"Don't act like you care about your job."

But before Tattoo could reply with some witty remark, Jonathan had wormed his way to the bar, fished out a handful of change, and laid it in front of him. A coin slipped from his grasp and bounced across the counter.

"We need speak with you now." Jonathan let the stubbornness to find Dio seep into that last word. It was times like these that he had to be rough.

Tattoo's dismissive attitude instantly dropped as he scooped the shillings into his apron pocket. "Well, bloody hell, what do you wanna know? I've got the dirt on everyone; drunk people tell you everything."

And with that, he shuffled out from behind the bar and made his way back from whence they came, ignoring the complaints of his customers and coworkers. Speedwagon slapped Jonathan's shoulder with a sure "c'mon, mate" and bounded after Tattoo. Jonathan followed them back outside.

Tattoo walked ahead while counting his shillings. Speedwagon hurried to his side. "Would you slow down? You don't even know what's going on."

"If it has anything to do with you, then you want someone dead. I have no care for who it is though." He looked back at Jonathan with an impressed stare. "You gave me more in an instant than that place ever gave me."

"We don't want to kill him," Speedwagon explained, "just talk with him."

Tattoo squinted at Speedwagon. "Talk? Since when do you just talk?" He shook his head and made a tsk-tsk sound. "You've changed, Speedy, ever since you moved out of here to start your rich boy job."

"I literally pave roads and fix the machines at sweatshops, but that's not the point." He grabbed Tattoo's elbow and pulled him to a stop at a street corner, halfway between the noisy nightlife and eerie quietness of Ogre Street.

"It's his adopted brother we're looking for," Speedwagon said as he gestured to Jonathan.

This time Tattoo gave Jonathan a look that seemed to say what a pitiful thing. "Sorry, mate, but believe me when I say that this boulevard hasn't seen anyone like you before."

"We don't look alike." He took out a family photo that was taken no more than three years ago. "He looks like this except now his hair is longer, shaggier. He also looks thinner."

Tattoo studied the photograph under the weak streetlamp. No form of recognition crossed his wide features as he handed it back. "Like I said, we've never seen anyone like you before."

"I think he might've been born here or somewhere nearby. His name is Dio; he was brought into our family almost immediately after his father, Dario Brando, had passed. I don't know what happened to his mother or—"

"Hold on." Tattoo raised a hand. "Did you say Brando?"

Jonathan blinked. "Yes. Are you familiar with the family?"

"I heard plenty of tales from my father growing up, but never actually met them." His face scrunched together in thought. "Is that cold-blooded boy really a Brando? Honestly, I'm not too surprised."

Jonathan recalled Speedwagon calling Dio a liar and "completely rotten" when he first met him. Tattoo just labelled Dio as "cold-blooded" even though he only saw his photograph. How was it that both of them could unfairly yet accurately judge someone without truly knowing them?

"What do you know about them?" Speedwagon asked.

Tattoo looked back in the direction they came from. "That the father—Dario, or whatever you said his name was—gave new meaning to the word 'alcoholic'. My father used to work at the same tavern that I now manage, and he would bring home stories of his worst drunks of the night. Brando was a name I heard often."

A stumbling Dio, reeking of whiskey and shame entered Jonathan's mind. Something within him wobbled as if his own heart caught itself before slipping from some high shelf and shattering into pieces all over again.

"What'd he do?" Speedwagon urged.

"All sorts of shit. He'd shout, start fights, never paid. Always left behind a catastrophe. He drove my old man up the wall—Brando this and Brando that. Boy, was he sure glad when the bastard finally bit the dust." He leaned toward Speedwagon. "Are you certain you don't want to kill his bastard son?"

Growing irritated at the man's total disregard for humanity, Jonathan retorted, "His fate has nothing to do with you. I don't have time for your commentaries; just tell us what we need to know."

Tattoo scowled at him, the marking on his face making him appear more intimidating in the moonlight. "Are you threatening me, you rich prick? I can rip your ears out of your pretty little head."

Jonathan glared right back. "We all know what happened the last time you threatened me. It would be wise if you wouldn't make the same mistake again."

Speedwagon snorted and Tattoo whipped toward him. Speedwagon shrugged. "Couldn't have said it better myself."

Tattoo rolled his eyes, hesitated, and turned begrudgingly back to Jonathan. "Look, I don't know anything about this Dio guy. I didn't even know he existed."

"But your father knew his," Speedwagon started, but Tattoo snapped back, "And both have been dead for years now, so what does it matter?"

"Did your father ever mention anything about Dario's wife or Dio's mother?" Jonathan probed.

He frowned. "I don't recall much. Everyone thought she was a whore because Brando said his wife was the main breadwinner of their household, yet he never told what business she was in." He then muttered under his breath "What confused me the most was how he managed to get a wife in the first place" before raising his voice again. "He didn't even say what had killed her. He only said she was sick, so my old man thought it was syphilis."

Jonathan's eyebrows crinkled at that information, at the horrific position the Brando family was in. No wonder Dio never spoke of his past—it must've been too painful to relive such memories.

"Do you recall where the Brandos used to live?" Speedwagon asked.

Tattoo shot him another scowl. "It's almost like I said I don't know this Dio guy. Our families weren't best buddies!"

A metallic ping boomed down the street, followed by excited screaming. Jonathan glanced back to see that same barefooted boy in overalls sprinting while occasionally peeking over his shoulder. He stumbled to a halt, spun around, and held out his hands as if waiting to catch something. Sure enough, that leather ball dropped squarely into his open palms. He jumped in celebration as his friends cheered and applauded.

"What do you want with them anyway?" Tattoo asked. "Why are you dragging me into this?"

Speedwagon was quiet, but he couldn't stay like that. "Dio Brando murdered Dario, Mr. Joestar's father, and burned down the Joestar Manor. He's been on Scotland Yard's most wanted list for some time now."

"So you two knuckleheads are gonna find him? I feel safer already."

"We could do without your sarcasm, wanker."

"Come now, Speedy. You know just as well as I. Scotland Yard is useful for two things: arresting the innocent and freeing the guilty. As soon as someone outside Ogre Street is wronged in any way, the police always come here first. Sometimes they're right—I ain't saying everyone here is 'misunderstood'—but they often grab the first sorry bastard they come across. They're always here, that lot."

Jonathan met Tattoo's hardened gaze once more. The giant marking that darkened his appearance gave off an air of toughness and intimidation, but deep in those eyes was fright, the same kind of fright Speedwagon had in his.

"Let me tell you something, Mr. Joestar," Tattoo declared. "Jack the Ripper has escaped the law's clutches for many months now. Scotland Yard's been crawling around here and Whitechapel since the murders, and he ain't never been caught. If Dario Brando's son committed murder and arson upon a rich man's home while avoiding capture on Ogre Street, then I think it's safe to say that he's not gonna be found unless he wants to be."

Tattoo was right on the target. No matter who they turned to on Ogre Street, no one knew anything of Dio's whereabouts. A few recalled Dario, but they knew just as much as Tattoo's father had. Some heard of Dio's crimes, but they shook their heads when Jonathan showed his picture. He was like a phantom, his brother, moving among the shadows quietly until he took form to strike or spook.

Nothing came up for a fortnight. Jonthan and Speedwagon set out every other night to scavenge the nooks and crannies of London. Speedwagon (against Jonathan's wishes) skipped a couple shifts to continue their search. Jonathan went to school/work in the mornings and to the streets at night; exhaustion rapidly took its course. Erina lost sleep through it all—he could see her in the back of his mind, staring anxiously out the window.

Tensions were high and progress was low. Jonathan was close to thinking that maybe he hadn't seen Dio in the first place, that it was simply his imagination getting the best of him.

And then he felt a tug on his sleeve.

He glanced away from his book. A familiar pair of wide, dark eyes stared back at him. He recognized him to be the freckled little boy playing baseball in Ogre Street. Warmly he smiled, shutting his textbook.

"Good afternoon, sir. Quite some time has passed since we've last seen each other, has it not?"

The boy smiled and nodded. He looked almost the same as before: messy hair, baggy overalls, blackened feet, but today he wore a dirty white shirt beneath his overalls. It pained Jonathan to see such a young boy already in such a difficult situation.

"I saw that man you're looking for," the boy said.

Jonathan blinked. His brain halted all activity just like how a singing violin screeches to a stop when a string suddenly snaps.

"That man in the photograph you keep showing everyone? I saw him the other day."

"O-Oh? Is that so?"

The boy nodded again, and Jonathan bit the inside of his cheek. He wasn't sure how to go about this. True, he was at a dead end in his investigation, and he could use all the help he could get, but a child? This was much too dangerous.

"Do you remember the street he was on?" Jonathan asked. "Or his surroundings? What was he near to?"

"I can show you. It's not too far from here."

"I appreciate you greatly, but I don't want you getting involved. That man shouldn't be approached so casually."

"Don't worry, he's not there now. I checked."

Jonathan furrowed his eyebrows. "You checked?"

The boy lightly kicked at some fallen leaves between them. "I saw you sitting on this here bench, and then I remembered that night you were telling everyone you were looking for your brother or cousin or whatever, and then I remembered again that I saw him through the window of that haunted house down the street the other day, and so I ran over there just now to see if he was still there, and see if I could bring him to you." He looked up with a neutral expression. "But he's not there no more."

After telling him once more never to contact Dio, Jonathan inquired about this "haunted house."

"Oh, it's haunted alright! People say the lady that used to live there hung herself now haunts the place. You can hear her screaming in the middle of the night and see misty orbs floating pass the windows. Elliot Baker once said he saw the front door burst open and a pale lady in bloody rags with a rope around her neck standing in the doorway. Her eyes were completely black and her jaw was missing. He could see her tongue just hanging there."

He shuddered violently at the tale. Jonathan pursed his lips in thought. He was positive that the details of the haunting itself was formulated through the imagination of a child, but he didn't immediately dismiss the idea that the house was in fact haunted. Perhaps his time spent with Baron Zeppeli opened his mind to other possibilities, or maybe it seemed like Dio to stubbornly reside in a place he desired, no matter if it was falling apart or haunted by ghosts.

Reluctantly, Jonathan said to the boy "Show me where this house is."

Fifteen minutes later, they were standing across the street, staring at a run-down, wooden shack. Square and uncharacteristic, it sat on the corner, long forgotten, left to the affects of time. It was two stories high yet narrow, and only had two windows (from this side of the road anyhow). Even though it was midday and sunny, there seemed to be a particular darkness about the place as if monsters slept here until nighttime arrived.

"I saw him through there," the boy said, pointing at the second-story window. "Looked like he was searching for something." Jonathan sensed the boy's eyes on him. "How tall are you?"

"198 centimeters," he answered slowly, his gaze dragging along the crippling structure. How odd that Dio would choose such an "unextraordinary" place to dwell in. If there was one thing Jonathan knew about his brother, it was his taste for the luxurious and lavish, so if he frequented this house often, it must've held some sort of value to him.

"How much do you weigh?" the boy asked. "I bet it's more than my father, and he's tall too—"

"Stay away from this house, alright?" He wasn't even aware that the boy had said anything. His gaze tore away from the second-story window. "Thank you for bringing me here, but I've got it covered from now on. Tell your friends to be careful around here too."

"Oh, don't you worry, mister! They say they'll go up and touch the doorknob, but they never will. Not since what Elliot Baker saw." He shivered once more.

Jonathan couldn't help but smirk. "Thank you again for all your help. I never would've found this place if it weren't for you—and I don't even know your name."

The boy smiled widely, and Jonathan saw that missing tooth at the corner of his bottom lip. "Poco. And it was no problem at all, mister…"

"You can call me Jonathan."

"Mister Jonathan."

He glanced down at Poco's dirty bare feet again and then asked "Is there anything I can do for you, Poco? Anything you need or want in particular? Think of it as returning the favor you did for me just now."

Poco put a finger to his chin as he looked around, as though the answer was somewhere among them. A sparkle then brightened his gaze. "You can give me baseball lessons. With your help, I can blow those other kids out of the water, and then everyone would want me on their team."

Jonathan smirked. He remembered that feeling from boyhood well—the desire to fit in. Jonathan was lucky that his hobby of sports helped him gain attention from the neighborhood boys. It was a tricky age to be, on the verge of childhood and adolescence, but he had faith that Poco would make the transition well.

"Deal," Jonathan said, sticking out his hand.

Poco went to grab it, but dropped his jaw when Jonathan's hand nearly swallowed his own. Grinning, he shook it as hard as he could, his arm flapping wildly while Jonathan's bounced loosely. They both laughed, and the sound was like a dusting of hope at gloom's front door.