Amadán Dubh

Number 1 fact about majiks: They hate humans!  'Why?' is a fun question! We’ve been told by Uroro that Majiks have existed way longer than humans have, in peace. Then they started to be hunted by witches (aka humans), ending their peaceful era. Thus began the war of Majiks vs Humans.

Thing is, I call bullshit. Other than the fact that Uroro is a liar I have a firm belief when it comes to these sorts of hundred-year-long war tropes: Whatever the original problem was, it has long since become meaningless to modern-day problems. Most Majik say they hate humans, but give the common answer of how “their weak, and ugly blah blah” not many have an actual reason. While reading the manga, I found four reasons as to why some Majiks hate humans: A)Their part of Team World Hater B) Humanity might’ve wronged them in some way C)They want to gain infamy among the human-hater Majik D) They hate humans simply because they can.  And I stuck with these reasons up until Uruwashi’s Trial.

Something interesting I noticed after finishing and rereading the manga is that a good number of the Majiks seem to glorify the idea of battling with witches. Uruwashi, when she was introduced, said that “being challenged by a powerful witch is a mark of pride” and so on.

This made me think back to other Trials in the manga. For example, Raiko, when he mentions wanting to stand at the top of all Lightning-Majik, talks about how terrifying his trial is and seems pretty excited about fighting witches. Then there’s that time Uroro talked about the expectations of Majik and witches fighting, making it seem fantastical; hell, he was excited himself to fight Desacrass up until Ichi came in and ruined his fun.

This leads me to believe that Majiks don’t hate humans and never truly have. But they do want to fight witches and have that spectacular battle whenever faced with a worthy opponent. We see this point-blank way back in the first chapter with the original Water Majik. When it appeared, it gave that girl its trial and treated it like a game of sorts. ‘Drink my water!’ But why would anyone want to do that? ‘You’ll acquire me and be able to use magic!’ Oh, that’s cool! It was fun for them. A little scary for the humans, but the reward is worth the risk!

CHAPTER 67: Take You To Burn - Part 1

All-Kill adjusts his cufflinks. Steam continues rising from him like an otherworldly mantle. Yeon-in closes one of his blazing eyes and squints the other before turning the black jacket flung over the back of the lawn chair. After a few seconds, All-Kill picks it up, feels it, then sighs in relief. “It didn’t shrink. Good boy,” he says, slipping the jacket on. “This one is my favorite, after all.”

He turns back to the women on the other side of the pool, silhouetted by the inferno engulfing his backyard. The two sets of rivals stare each other down, standing still. Shizuka is the first to move. “Mom… In time like these…” she whispers, “there’s only one thing to do.”

T’onga keep her eyes on All-Kill, but listens intently to Shizuka. “Yeah? What’s that?” she asks, then quickly turns at the sound of high heels crunching on the stone ground. “Eh?”

“RUN AWAAAAAY!!!” Shizuka yells, already disappearing around the corner of the house.

T’onga stares at her go for one second, glances quickly at All-Kill, then scrambles to follow. “H-Hey, wait!”

Yeon-in growls and stares at the ground beneath T’onga’s feet. However, it takes too long to charge, as by the time it combusts, T’onga has already sprinted to the corner of the house. He barks in frustration and charges around the pool.

A Tibetan wolf is capable of running at 50-60 km/h at short distances, easily outpacing the greatest human sprinter. Because of this, All-Kill simply walks after Yeon-in, confident in his faithful pet’s ability to catch the interlopers. However, when he reaches the front yard, all he finds is Yeon-in alone, looking around confusedly. The women are nowhere to be seen. 

“Oh, that’s right. The girl can turn invisible, can’t she? How annoying,” he mutters, walking over to his front door. He whistles and clicks his tongue, beckoning Yeon-in to him. The wolf complies and with his master’s consent, bites his trouser leg. All-Kill crouches. With one hand, he grips his door handle tightly. With the other, he summons BLACK KEYS and stabs it into the ground, then turns it.

The earth almost seems to shudder. In the next moment, everything not bolted to or growing out of the ground begins sliding down the sloped driveway. All-Kill’s own parked car collides with the now closed gates, all friction in the ground removed. A squirrel appears from the bushes, frantically trying to scramble along the stony ground, but finding no purchase.

All-Kill holds fast to the door handle and Yeon-in to him. Soon, his desired result appears. He hears a woman’s voice grunting as she collides with the ground and spots T’onga sliding past him on her belly. Shizuka skates after her as if on ice, trying to help her up. 

Abruptly, All-Kill turns his ley in the ground again, returning friction to the soil, causing Shizuka to bowl over and collapse on top of her mother.

Yeon-in wastes no time. He barks, his eyes blazing, and the two women are instantly engulfed in flame. He draws closer to them, staring, intensifying the flames, watching them scream silently, their skin blister and blacken.

Suddenly his ears twitch. Something is wrong. He looks to the right and finds he’s not standing by the front door at all, but in the driveway. Further, All-Kill is not by his side. He faces forward again, only to receive a cruel kick to the muzzle… from T’onga!

Yeon-in whimpers, scurrying away from the attack. His lips curl back to reveal his teeth, then his expression drops, a pained whine escaping from his throat. All-Kill stands silently before him, staring ahead in utter surprise. His body is wreathed in flame. He hunches forward, slumping against the wall of his house, seeming to inspect his own burning body. Yeon-in did set someone alight, but not who he intended.

The wolf tries to run to his master, but T’onga doesn’t allow him to. She tackles him from the side, punching his throat to make him cough. 

They land with a thud. Yeon-in struggles, ready to rip and tear with his teeth, but T’onga clings to his back, restraining him in a choke hold. She forces him to face away from All-Kill, where Shizuka stands.

“The illusion worked!!” T’onga thinks, exerting all the strength she has to keep the struggling animal down. “They were already under ACHTUNG BABY’s spell the moment they reached the front yard! With All-Kill out of commission, we have our opportunity to eliminate Yeon-in!!”

Shizuka, her thoughts running concurrent with her mother’s, watches the wolf splutter and choke. “It’s Stand is powerful, but it needs time to generate enough heat to produce a flame! As long as we stay out of his sight, we can do this!!”

T’onga squeezes tighter. “In less than two minutes, he’ll pass out from lack of oxygen, then I can kill him easily! I can do it! I can do it! All-Kill’s already down! I can do it! Just two minutes, and we… we’ll have our freedom!!!”

Even as the thoughts enter her mind, dread chills her blood. Her fears are confirmed when Shizuka calls to her, “Ah! Mom, watch out!!!”

T’onga looks up and sees the impossible: All-Kill standing over her, glaring at her. He is on fire, but he isn’t burning, his skin is pale and unscarred beneath the licking flames. It doesn’t appear that he’s even in pain, standing upright as unbothered as a man on an evening stroll. The BLACK KEYS are in his hand.

She releases Yeon-in before All-Kill even moves, and still barely avoids being pierced by the key. Yeon-in inhales gratefully and rises slowly to his feet, whining apologetically. T’onga dashes back to Shizuka’s side, turning sharply to stand between her daughter and their enemy.

“That’s impossible…!” Shizuka exclaims. “How? Is he immune to fire somehow?!”

All-Kill turns to them and slowly places a hand on Yeon-in’s head, petting him. The flame engulfing his hand catches on the wolf’s fur, but Yeon-in doesn’t react with pain. Just like his master, the fire merely catches without burning him. “I’m as susceptible to Yeon-in’s fire as anyone else,” the Korean boss announces. “It’s just that this particular flame isn’t doing its job right now. Or more accurately, I relieved it of duty.”

T’onga frowns. “…You used BLACK KEYS as soon as the fire caught.”

“That’s right,” he says, summoning the key on the end of his chain and spinning it around. “BLACK KEYS deactivates or reactivates the ‘function’ of whatever it pierces. The ‘function’ of fire is ‘to burn’. Stripped of that, all there is light and smoke. Like an abandoned castle. Beautiful, perhaps, but hollow. Worthless.” He then fixes his eyes on the young girl. “Kind of like you, Shizuka.”

Her eyes narrow. “What’d you say?”

“Don’t talk to her!” T’onga shouts at him, then turns back. “Don’t listen-”

“You don’t mind if I call you Shizuka, right?” All-Kill says, patting out the already dwindling fire on his arms and head. “It’s not as if it’s your real name. It’s just what the Joestars decided to call you. T’onga hasn’t told you what it is, yet, has she? But that aside… your Stand really is quite neat. Controlling light, making little illusions, turning allies against each other. But of course, there’s no real power behind it…”

“You piece of…” Shizuka hisses.

“Stop!!” T’onga shouts. She raises her hand to block Shizuka, “Don’t listen to him! He’s trying to make you lose your cool! Don’t let him-”

“A fake name… A fake Stand… and a fake family,” the boss declares, the fire on him now put out. At the last line, Shizuka shudders. “Seems to me that everything about you… is a lie.”

T’onga tries once more to block her, but Shizuka moves before she can. Her rage takes hold and she charges past. ACHTUNG BABY appears and splays its hand, but BLACK KEYS pierces its palm, spearheading the chain attached to it. The humanoid Stand doesn’t flinch, however, instead unleashing a frantic strobe light, a hail of bursting flashes directly assaulting the Korean boss’s vision.

All-Kill raises his arm to shield his eyes. After a moment, he peeks over it and winces, his vision blurred by dazzling floaters. BLACK KEYS has slipped out of his target’s hand, both women now gone. Yeon-in trots to his side, shaking his head woozily. “Good boy,” All-Kill says, petting him without looking. “This hasn’t been a good night for you, huh?” He looks back at his burning back yard and sighs. “This is drawing too much attention. We’ll need to finish up soon… We can’t stay in this house anymore…”

“Oh no, you don’t,” he says, giving chase. Yeon-in follows, shaking the last of the daze from his head. Together they run inside through the kicked down doorway, catching a glimpse of the women as they run into the living room. 

All-Kill sprints through the room just as they’re reaching for the door to the kitchen. He kicks the low table in the middle of the room, catching them on the backs of their legs and falling onto the table, shattering it.

Shizuka rolls onto her side. All-Kill approaches her slowly, watching her get up slowly, using the nearby couch armrest as support. He pauses when she starts to laugh.

A low chuckle, with none of her usual happy-go-lucky cheer. “‘Neat’, you said? ‘Neat’? Yeah… Yeah, my illusions… they are pretty neat. Even if they’re just images, all I have to do is show them to you. Your mind fills in the rest. You create the sounds and sensations for me.”

All-Kill’s eyes narrow beneath his glasses. T’onga rises from the floor and lifts her face to him… but it’s not T’onga. ACHTUNG BABY’s face appears framed beneath the cascade of dark hair. The T’onga disguise fades away, revealing the Stand’s true voluminous form.

“Damn…” All-Kill says, watching ACHTUNG BABY click its finger and the Yeon-in at his side fade away into nothing. Neither he nor T’onga were ever in this room. It was just the two of them.

“You’re at your best when you’re together. That’s what Mom said,” Shizuka smirks. “I still think we could’ve taken you, but why do things the hard way…? What else was it you said?” she asks, her smirk dropping, “Fake name? Fake family? You’re one to talk, you bastard! You’re gonna pay for what you did to my friends!!!”

CHAPTER 34: House of Pain

It’s a hot day, and humid, the sea wind swirling over the city, leaving everyone in their tank tops, open shirts and short shorts feeling breathless and damp. T’onga Kim wears her jumpsuit and dark fur coat. Her expression is inscrutable behind reflective aviators. She walks quickly, yet appears not to sweat at all. She only stops, begrudgingly, for a red light.

A young woman happens to stop at the same light, pushing a baby in a stroller. Upon stopping, the infant screws up its face and begins complaining. First whimpering, then crying openly. The baby’s mother pushes the stoller back and forth and makes shushing sounds in an attempt to calm it. T’onga stares down at the child, flicking up her shades. Their eyes meet, momentarily, before the soft face scrunches up and resumes crying again.

“Hey…” T’onga says, addressing the young mother.

“Huh?”

“Could you shut your kid up? It’s getting on my nerves.”

The mother stares at her, open-mouthed, and  T’onga keeps her withering gaze level, until the stoplight turns green. Without a moment to lose, she starts crossing the street, leaving the mother shocked and offended. By the time she comes back to her senses, the light has turned red again.

“Until Dust makes his move, it’s important not to draw any attention to ourselves,” All-Kill explains in her memory, “The preacher man’s already 99% sure of our hostile intent, but that remaining 1% of doubt is all that’s keeping him from cracking down on us right now. Changing our behavior in any way will seal that 1% , so until I give the word, no action is to be taken. Until then, it’s business as usual.”

“Business as usual,” she says aloud to no-one in particular. A gaggle of businessmen, executive producers perhaps, pass by her, boiling alive in suits and ties. They don’t seem to hear her. A pair of teenage girls come after them, enjoying their youth during summer vacation, with their expensive handbags and skimpy clothes. They all would be horrified to learn what ‘business as usual’ means to T’onga. Anyone would be, were they to meet someone on their way to commit a murder.

She walks for another 45 minutes and reaches her target: a somewhat dilapidated bungalow in Lincoln Heights. She eyes it from across the street. After checking no-one is looking, she approaches. The sun begins to dip low in the sky as she creeps around the side passage, keeping low to avoid being spotted. She hears low voices coming from inside, and lays her hand flat against the peeling white paint. 

“HOUSE OF PAIN…” she whispers.

The small, hairy creature emerges from her and latches onto the wall. It scurries confusedly about for a moment, like a verminous animal, then returns to her.

“No good, huh? Must be a window open, or something…” She moves, keeping low as ever, to the backyard. She mutters under her breath the whole while. “Oh yeah, HOUSE OF PAIN, ‘sure-kill Stand’, the ‘ultimate assassination weapon.” Ultimate pain in my ass is more like it. What good is a superpower if it only works on closed spaces?”

The backyard is overgrown and vacant of any occupants. Satisfied, she inspects the back wall, and discovers the cause of her difficulty. A shattered window with jagged shards of glass poking out from the pane.

“Of course I can’t just close it over. No, that’d be much too easy. Fucking typical-”

The sound of footsteps approach and she rolls out of sight. A young man, Latino and wearing baggy clothes storms out of the back door and looks left to right. Seeing nothing, he retreats sheepishly inside. T’onga presses her ear to the wall, listening for their conversation.

“…nyone out there…?” a deep, man’s voice asks.

“… nah, don’t think so… yo, hermano, I don’t know ‘bout this…” replies his companion, higher-pitched.

“… fuck you mean, you don’t know? You don’t want out no more…?”

“… Course I want out, but shit, can’t we just, you know, be cool ‘bout it?”

“… You know damn well we can’t! We ain’t ever gonna get another chance like this, esé! With Phantasma gone, we can finally start runnin’ things again. Once they find out we’re moving our own product again, they’ll ice us like we ain’t even shit. I’m sick o’ working for those cabrónes. I told you, my boy in Sacramento can hook us up, then we’ll be running things…”

“… I got it, man, I got it, aight? I mean this. The money, man. If they gonna fuck us up just for tryin’ to leave, the fuck they gonna do after we rob ‘em?…”

T’onga listens, until the sound of creaking floorboards under footsteps signify their moving away. She moves then as well, slipping off her fur coat and folding it into a ball under her arm. 

Terror, disguised as anger, tinges the voices of the men inside, which she still could hear as she peeked through the shattered window. This was a phenomenon she is quite familiar with, having observed it in dozens, perhaps hundreds of people. To her, all people are the same: animals essentially afraid of dying.

This terror motivates every choice they make. The desire for wealth and social status. The urge to produce offspring. The dream of stardom that draws so many to Los Angeles, all motivated by the singular wish to never die, but to go on living, one way or another. To never disappear.

She stuffs her folded up coat into the shattered window, closing the gap. Abruptly, a locket of polished pewter slips out of one of the inside pockets, getting caught by its loop and dangling in front of her. She shudders upon seeing it. Not with fear, but surprise. As if she had forgotten it was in there. 

“… You were scared, too, weren’t you?” she whispers aloud, addressing the polished locket swinging from the dark fabric. “Of course you were… Ditching the boss, running across the ocean to start your own crew. You must have been terrified… so then, why? Why did you do it at all?”

CHAPTER 33: Jump Around

BEFORE HOTEL CALIFORNIA, IN KOREATOWN…

The stoplight on the corner of West Olympic and Irolo turns red and a dark green 2018 Audi A6 stops accordingly. After a minute, the light turns green and the Audi turns onto Irolo, gliding past the Terra-cotta shopfronts, emblazoned with bold Korean characters. Men with graying temples tend these stores. Some of them happen to look out the window at the right moment and fall quiet as they recognize the car as it passes.

25 years ago, a number of these same men took up firearms in defense of their homes and businesses, against those that would riot, loot and burn. They can tell you about those days, how the city of Los Angeles cannibalized itself, the great plumes of smoke that rose into the sky. They can tell you about the young man in thick glasses who stood among them, different from the rest. But they won’t. They watch the glossy Audi pass by, and say nothing.

It pulls into the sidewalk on Wilshire Blvd. All-Kill steps out of the driver’s side. T’onga clambers out of the backseat, shielding her eyes against the sun glaring through the grey-brown clouds. Grimacing, she inspects her dark fur coat and brushes the left side vigorously, trying to dislodge the thick grey hairs clinging to it. 

She grunts as a large dog trots out of the backseat, shoving her out of the way. If one were to inspect more closely, they would see it’s not a dog at all, but a wolf with piercing amber eyes. It pads to All-Kill’s side. He reaches down and scratches it between its ears, then approaches a blocky building, stepping out of the heat. T’onga follows, in silence.

Without knocking, they step into an apartment on the third floor. Dust and empty coffee mugs line every surface, and old movie posters cover the walls. Sang-ok sits on a couch in the living room, leaning forward watching a technicolor Kung-fu film. A woman in a white, Chinese-style outfit exchanges blows with a bare-shirted man, his torso covered in scars. Another woman stands at the side, the close-ups on her airbrushed to illustrate her beauty, as she clutches her chest when the man is kicked to the ground.

“That movie? Again?” All-Kill asks.

The young man starts at the sound and turns sharply. Seeing his mentor, he exclaims, “It’s not a movie, it’s a film! And yes, again! Every time I watch, you can pick up on something new! Like, look right here-”

“Save it. Pause it, time for a family meeting.”

Reluctantly, he pauses the film and follows them into the kitchen. “Is this about what I think it is?” he whispers to T’onga.

“I know as much as you do, man,” she replies. 

All-Kill peeks through the blinds at the street below, then closes the shutters. T’onga hops up to sit on the counter, and Sang-ok leans against the fridge. The wolf sits at All-Kill’s feet as he addresses his lieutenants.

“I spoke with Dust.”

“Ok…? How’d it go?” Sang-ok asks.

“About as well as you might expect. His preparations are almost complete. Before long, the group that dispatched Phantasma will be dead… and we’ll be quick to follow them. He already suspects us of betraying him, and that’s enough for him to want us gone. He is afraid of us. Because of that, he’s never been more dangerous.”

Sang-ok glances at T’onga, who raises an eyebrow in response. “Boss, listen…” he says, “Can you please try not to look so happy when you say stuff like that? It’s really weird.”

All-Kill’s grin spreads half an inch, before he brings his face under control. “It is, huh? Says who?” he says, his mouth still upturned in a smirk. The wolf raises its ears, its tongue lolling out. “All our patience is about to pay off, people. All our hard work, all our frustration is about to come through for us. Dust can’t afford going against us until he deals with the crew that beat Phantasma, so the ideal time to strike is now. Within the coming week, we’ll be in charge of the entire West Coast underground. Not Dust, not the Congregation, but the Daesang!”

“Sounds great, boss…” T’onga speaks up at last, “But the preacher man’s not dead yet.”

“You’re absolutely right,” he replies, his smirk dropping, “This is the hardest part, coming up now. I need you to be at your best.”

“So you’re sure, then? You’re going to have Tong-tong do it all by herself?” Sang-ok asks, skeptically.

“Sounds like you’re doubting me, Gok,” T’onga retorts.

“Hey, what did I say about you using that pet name?!”

“Well, don’t use mine then!”

“Whatever…” Sang-ok brushes aside, slumping in his chair. “I’m just saying you might need back-up! You’ve never seen Dust-nim’s Stand, but I have!”

“Back-up? From you? No thanks.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“I mean you’d just get in my way.”

“People!” All-Kill, raising his voice an octave. They both fall silent. “You know I hate bickering. This is important. Sang-ok, I’m glad you’re showing concern, but I don’t think we need to worry about T’onga at all. She’s the perfect person for this job. I’ve known that, since the day I found you…” he says, turning his attention to her. He approaches, and she doesn’t shift from her position. “This is the most important thing I’ve asked of you yet. The biggest job you’ll ever do: dispatching the most dangerous man I know. I believe in you. But I need you to understand that if you fail, then it’s the end for us. You must not fail. Do you understand?”

T’onga holds herself steadfast, not letting any particular emotion come out from her. “I understand. I’ll do it. I’ll kill Dust for you.”

His smile returns, softer this time. “Good…” Abruptly he turns, facing the both of them again. “Well, now with the serious business out of the way. Gok, what were you telling me about that movie? Sorry,  film.”

Sang-ok’s eyes light up. “Wha- you mean it? Oh ye- um, yes! You see, the whole idea is that the hero and villain are supposed to oppose each other, but also complement each other at the same time, so they’re polar opposites but also twins, and the way they do that is…”

Sang-ok’s voice trails out as he leaves the room with All-Kill in tow, leaving T'onga alone in the kitchen. She jumps from the counter and opens the fridge. She pulls out a strawberry yogurt. She frowns at the lurid pink of the mixture. 

She had tailed Phantasma all the way from East LA to LAX. She knew she would be coming for Moya, so before the masked woman had arrived, she peeled ahead and waited near the overpass. That was when she saw them. Moya and the girl with the bright dyed hair. She was too far to hear what they were talking about, but through her binoculars, she could read their lips.

Her lip-reading was rusty, so she could make out only two words, but the words rang in her skull like church bells after a flood.

T’onga.

Mother.

CHAPTER 32: Hotel California - Part 4

Moya, in horror, watches as Marsellus rises from apparent death, muttering something under his breath. She takes a step back, nearly stepping right into one of the open mouths, which snaps at her, flicking a red tongue. She scowls, and stamps her foot down onto the mouth, shattering its teeth. “Fuck this,” she decides, and turns for the door.

But the door is changed as well, savage teeth sprouting out of the edges and snapping aggressively. There is no longer any escape, it seems. Moya looks all around, and shudders at the sickly sound of the elevators DING open. But rather than people emerging through the door, instead a cascade of blood, several hundred gallons, spills into the lobby, advancing on her with frightening speed.

Before it hits, a clawed hand appears in her periphery. SATURN BARZ, struggling through the distortion affecting its body, swipes upward, and the blood explodes into red mist. “The stairwell! Go, quick!!” Moya heeds him, dashing for the emergency stairwell. WITCH MOUNTAIN stoops, pulling Jerome along with it. Moya slams the door behind her and leaves the lobby of horrors behind. 

“What the FUCK was that?!” Moya exclaims after WITCH MOUNTAIN destroys the lock on the emergency exit, locking it shut.

“Keep moving,” Kilo answers, gradually regaining functionality in his limbs, but still carried by Moya’s Stand. “The whole building’s an enemy, and the bellboy won’t stop coming for us.”

She scowls, but follows his advice. She readjusts Shizuka in her arms, and WITCH MOUNTAIN lifts Jerome up by his waistband, holding both him and Kilo like heavy luggage. “What do you mean, the building is an enemy?” She asks, beginning to run up the stairs.

“I don’t get it myself, but somehow, the hotel itself has a Stand ability. It gets you high on all this good shit, makes you comfy, then it gets inside your head and sucks the soul right out of you. Or, it makes you a slave. Even if we kill the bellboy, we’ll still be trapped here. And then we’ll become just like him. We need to demolish the entire building.”

“Brainwashes you with comfort, huh? Explains why these two succumbed to it,” she gestures to Shizuka and Jerome.

“… Yeah. That habit of taking things at face value, it’ll be the death of her one day.” he agrees wearily.

With her shoulder, she opens the stairwell door to the second floor and walks in. “Taking a building down is a tall order, even between the two of our Stands. And since it looks like the bellboy can neutralize Stands with his ability, we’re gonna have to get creative. Can you walk yet?”

“Yeah, put me down,” he says, and WITCH MOUNTAIN does, allowing him to stand shakily on his own two feet. They stand facing each other, each breathless.

“It makes sense that you’d be immune, too,” Moya declares.

“What?”

“You’re so mistrustful. I bet you’ve never had a good thing to say about anything in your life.”

“… Is that your idea of a compliment, officer?”

“No it’s not, punkass.”

They smirk at each other, then turn at the sound of creaking floorboards. Like an image out of a dream, Paul Mann emerges from around the corridor. “Y-you–!!” he sputters upon seeing Kilo.

“… That’s Paul Mann. I know him, he’s some big shot real estate mogul,” Moya says.

“He’s the Congregation’s secret political backer. Dust hid him here after Phantasma died,” Kilo explains.

“… He’s fucking what?”

Mann begins to jog in the opposite direction. Moya drops Shizuka and Jerome to the floor. After a moment of shellshock, she sprints after him and dive-tackles him to the floor. “Is that true?!” she screeches, holding him in an arm bar “Are you really working with Brother Dust?!!”

“Who are you people?!!”

“Is it fucking true?!!”

“Gaagh, ok, yes! He approached me with an offer, he’d help me get out of a little legal trouble, even assist in my political campaign! In return, I’d look the other way on his more sketchy affairs! It was necessary, I– I have a vision for this country! Sometimes men have to make hard choices for the good of th- AAOWW!” He wails as his shoulders cracks, nearly falling out of place.

“Do we have time for this? Right now?” Kilo says, observing. Moya reluctantly holds off from breaking Mann’s arm, and releases him.

“You stay right where you are, got it?!” she shouts. Mann responds by raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “What’s the plan?”

“I’m working on it… I need to get outside. I can’t do anything while I’m inside the building. The hotel’s got control over everything inside it.”

“Then we gotta get our asses up to the roof.”

“Not us,” Kilo says, shaking his head, “There’s at least a dozen people in this building. You need to get them outta here. I have an idea, but it won’t leave any survivors. I won’t have innocent people dying because of me… What?”

“Ah, nothing,” she says, shaking herself out of staring at him. She turns her face away, trying to hide her surprise as she retrieves Shizuka and Jerome from off the floor., “Are you sure we should seperate? What are you going to do while I’m evacuating?”

“I’m gonna be killing a god,” he says, then turns without another word, leaving Moya aghast. She hesitates momentarily, then moves. 

His insistence on preserving innocent life took her by surprise. Never had she imagined that the furious man she met on the beach could say something so righteous. “I’ll trust you, Kilo Staples,” she thinks, preparing her search for afflicted guests, “because you chose to trust me.”

                                                             ***

Halfway up the stairs to the seventh floor, Kilo watches the 7 at the top of the stairs split in two. The wall cracks and bulges, opening to reveal a mouth full of dirty teeth and drool. Marsellus emerges out of this opening, covered in saliva. The smell of the hotel’s insides hangs off of him, reaching Kilo even meters away. The bellboy’s face twitches between a smile and a scowl, his movements are jerky and strange. “D-d-d-did you think you had lost me, s-s-sir?” he asks, CALIFORNICATION emerging next to him, crackling electricity.

“Nah, I didn’t,” Kilo responds. CALIFORNICATION moves, dashing down the stairs. SATURN BARZ waves its hands, but this proves to be a feint, as it delivers a sharp kick to the stairs in front of it. Instantly, the surface of the stairs turns to liquid, reaching up to where Marsellus stands. 

The bellboy yelps as he loses all traction with the ground. CALIFORNICATION disappears, and its master slides down the stairs like an impromptu water-park. SATURN BARZ strikes the stairs again, and they solidify back into solid concrete. It crackles and traps Marsellus on his back, halfway down.

“Damn you!! E-even if you immobilize me, my Stand is faster than yours! It has a wider range than yours! You cannot defeat me!”

Kilo answers him with a kick to the face, before he climbs onto the guard rail and leaps straight up off of it, clambering up to reach the fire escape door to the roof.

Marsellus struggles and curses out, as CALIFORNICATION reactivates within him, generating electricity from the inside out.  Water drips from the ends of his concrete prison, and he struggles, inching forward until the stone finally cracks enough that he can break free.

Kilo is about to touch the metal door handle. In the instant before he can, CALIFORNICATION slams its fist into the wall, directing arcs of static electricity to travel through the metal and electronics, up the stairs and infusing into the doorknob. Once his fingers close around it, the power moves up his arm and shoots him backwards into the guard rail.

“AAH!” he shouts, as much in frustration as pain. “SATURN BARZ!!” He summons his Stand, and it evaporates the door with an “URAAH!!” Clutching his quickly numbing arm, he runs through the doorway, stepping out onto the roof. He stumbles and falls, and sits up on his knees. The night sky is above him. He breathes the outside air. 

“Enough,” comes the voice from the stairwell, “t-t-there is no longer anywhere to run! Your stay at the Hotel California will never end!” Marsellus steps into the door frame and leans against it. He is damaged, his skin blistered and cut, his left eye bloodshot. Yet he keeps going, driven by mad devotion for the sinister building that possesses him. 

Kilo turns, digging his fingernails into his right arm, trying to awaken feeling in it. “You know what?” he declares, “I been thinking about what you said earlier.” SATURN BARZ emerges, sans a right arm. Nevertheless, it stands tall, beginning to stamp its foot rhythmically. It raises its one arm into the night air, reddish-brown vapor building in its palm. Marsellus summons CALIFORNICATION, but cautiously remains where he is. 

“You said giving into the hotel frees you from struggle. What a load of shit. I heard you squealing for Dust to come save you earlier. You know what?” Kilo continues, “I think all this is, is that you was too much of a pussy to fight for the life you wanted.” SATURN BARZ swipes downward, and the vapor expands, rising into the air. With each swipe of its claw, the vapor builds into a great cloud, which rises into the air.

“A smokescreen?” Marsellus says, shaking out of his daze, “Did you not hear me? There is nowhere to r-r-run!! It doesn’t matter what you do to me or this Hotel, you’re DOOMED!!!” 

“I’m not aiming to bring you down, ya little bitch. You ain’t worth it…” He says with a smirk, as the cloud of vapor ascends into the air. “You ain’t nothing but a puppet… the idea is… to cut off the hand holding the strings…!”

Marsellus bares his teeth and seethes, ready to unleash a torrent of electricity at Kilo. But, just then, he feels small drops of water hit the back of his outstretched hand. “ What the?…” he murmurs. He looks up, and the droplets fall from the cloud created by SATURN BARZ, hanging overhead.

“Rain…? Is this it?” he asks snidely, as further raindrops begin to fall on the roof around them, “Make it rain a tad, and then… what? Make the pipes rust?”

“You’re a native, right, aren’t you?” Kilo retorts, “Then you outta know, one of the worst parts of living here is all the fucking smog. Some days you can barely breathe…! And every so often, all that exhaust builds up, gets high enough, and it comes back down…” He winces as a raindrop lands on his cheek, and quickly wipes it off. He watches with satisfaction as Marsellus recoils, then grimaces in pain.

In horror, Marsellus stares at a hole that has formed in his hand, the flesh burned and blistered. It has been burned straight through, an injury replicated in his Stand’s hand. In the very spot where the raindrop landed.

“When all those fumes built up over weeks of traffic get high enough, sometimes they come back down! As acid rain!” SATURN BARZ manifests and shields its user from the raindrops, as all around him, they burn holes straight through the roof of the Hotel California

A bass moaning sound can be heard. The ground beneath them contorts, pelted on all sides by burning rain. The acidic cloud grows ever larger, and the clean concrete and brick architecture morphs into slick, organic flesh. 

“N-no! NOO!!” Marsellus cries, apparently ignorant to his own flesh being gradually destroyed by the rain, his uniform falling in pieces off of him. CALIFORNICATION, too, degrades, its wrought metal body melting into useless scrap.

                                                       ***

Downstairs, Shizuka bolts upright, leaping out of Moya’s arms and rolling, suddenly wide awake. “What happened?!” she cries, looking all around.

Jerome wakes at the same moment. “Oh, finally!” Moya exclaims, patting him on the back as he grasps his bearings.

“W-What’s going on? Wh… You! The cop!”

“Moya?! What are you doing here?” Shizuka exclaims, noticing her for the first time.

“No time to explain! Let’s get moving!” she shouts, shoving a man in front of her hard on the shoulder.

“I-I’m going, I’m going!” the man protests, revealing himself to be the lawyer from the room across from Kilo’s. He pulls his son along by the hand, desperately trying to keep him calm. A full procession of such people, all guests and prisoners of Hotel California, trail after Moya. 

Paul Mann remains reluctantly by her side, his hands held behind his back by WITCH MOUNTAIN, a force that he cannot see. Many of them appear to shake their heads at the same moment, as if waking from a dream.

“Where’s Kilo?” Shizuka asks, following Moya, “What happened with the old man in the hallway?”

“I don’t know anything about that, but Staples is taking care of things. Looks like whatever he did worked…” she replies, then pauses, spreading her hands wide and bringing everyone to a halt. 

A bulge forms in the ceiling in front of them, as if a load of water has been spilled and is deforming the plaster. After a moment, the bulge bursts and liquid spills out of it onto the carpet. There is a chemical scent of burning where the fluid interacts with the fabric.

“What in the world?” exclaims Paul Mann, and similar murmurs of confusion go up among the gathering. From all but Shizuka, who stares at the acid with terrible understanding.

“We- We need to get out of here… Now!” she implores Moya, who herself begins to understand upon seeing Shizuka’s face.

Chapter 30: Hotel California - Part 2

Kilo Staples stares at the crack in the ceiling, stretching from the corner and arching to the center of the wall. He is unhappy with his current arrangement. He lies on the utmost edge of the king-size bed. To his immediate right, Jerome  suddenly rolls onto his back, throwing the thin linen duvet cover off of them both. His black pajamas are revealed, patterned all over with cannabis leaves, “Smoke Weed Err’day” embroidered on the front breast pocket. On his back, mouth open, he begins to snore. Kilo stares at the ceiling.

Past him, on the opposite edge of the bed, Shizuka Joestar sleeps on her side. A tanned shoulder peeks from under the covers, simply dressed as she is in her usual button-shirt, underwear, and her facepaint carefully removed.

Kilo will not be getting any sleep at this rate. There is enough space in the bed to fit another six people, and he feels like he will continue to sink into the mattress, like quicksand, but he can’t shake this anxiety off of him. He gets up, careful not to wake his companions. He pads to the impressive balcony, his chest bare against the breeze and lights a cigarette.

Neither Jerome nor Shizuka seem to have any problem sleeping in the same bed, no matter how big it may be. Nor do either of them seem to pay attention to how obviously strange the hotel is. With a building this big, the meager skeleton crew they had seen seemed ill-equipped to take care of everything. Yet all seems well, at least according to Paul Mann, who stands out as a bizarre, almost otherworldly character.

“Something isn’t right about that guy…” Kilo murmurs, taking a drag, “Damn it, what’re they thinking? Don’t they realize the kinda shit we’re in? No telling when the next attack is coming, and they just wanna hang out. Takin’ a load off is one thing, but this…”

Exhaling in frustration, he releases a cloud of smoke and flicks the cigarette to the floor, crushing it underfoot. “Nothing I can do for now, I guess,” he says. He steps back inside and out of the conjoined bedroom into the common area.

 The television looms over the wide couch like some kind of bottomless maw. A flick of a button transforms it into a window of flickering light, a portal to the lurid realm of late-night television. Kilo stares at the senseless images flickering past his vision…

In a quarter-second, Kilo realizes he dozed off, then leaps to his feet, listening intently for the sound that woke him: A thick, wet thud from just outside the room. He approaches the door, careful that his footsteps make no noise. Then, sensing movement behind him, he turns sharply. 

“It’s me,” Shizuka whispers, barefoot on the carpet, lit only by the flickering static from the television.

Kilo raises a finger to his lips and grasps the door handle. Slowly, he turns it. He holds his breath. The door clicks and he throws the door wide, striding into the hall with SATURN BARZ ready, Shizuka and ACHTUNG BABY close behind. 

They are the only ones in the hallway. Kilo clicks his tongue, a little disappointed at finding no enemy to harm. Shizuka, facing the other direction, gasps. He turns, and sees the cause of Shizuka’s shock.

A body slumps against a wall, dressed in a red blazer, dropped towels scattered over the floor. SATURN BARZ rolls the body over, and Kilo grimaces as his suspicions are confirmed. It’s the older bellhop. Crouching, Kilo hovers his hand over the old man’s mouth and nose.

“He ain’t breathing,” he says. He reaches to check for the man’s pulse, then jerks his hand back, yelping in pain, “YAAAGH!!”

“What happened?!” Shizuka exclaims.

“Augh, nothing…!” Kilo says, clutching his hand, “Just some static electricity, it shocked me. I’m fine. Go wake up Jerome and call an ambulance. Then we outta here. I don’t like this.”

Shizuka nods, and dashes back into the room. Kilo shakes his hand, scowling at it. His hand is not fine. Though outwardly, it is undamaged, pins and needles sear through him, rendering him barely able even to bend his fingers. Through force of will, he manages to form a fist, and within a few moments, feeling returns to his hand.

Restored to functionality, Kilo cautiously taps the body with the back of his knuckles, but there is no shock this time. Here, he notices the card clipped onto the old man’s belt, and finds himself oddly drawn to it. Unclipping it, he stares at the card and frowns deeply at its contents.

The man depicted in the photograph on the ID card is, without doubt, the same man lying on the floor in front of Kilo. Both share the odd, wine-colored birthmark over the right eye, in the uncanny shape of the state of California. But the man in the photograph must be around Kilo’s age, over fifty years younger than the one lying before him, with a full head of frizzy brown hair and smooth skin.

Joseph Luther

Position: Hospitality officer

ID no.: 019467213

Issued: December 2015

Expires: January 2018

“What in the hell is this?” Kilo mutters.

He unclips the card and stands, staring at it, just as Jerome pokes his head out of the door, rubbing his eye and yawning. “Yo, man, what’s the deal? I needs my beauty sleep-”

“Did you make the call?” 

“The what-?”

“The ambulance, Jerome! Did you call the ambulance yet!?”

“Oh, right, right. Yeah, I did. It’s comin’. Man, why’d you make me do that?… You’re just gonna cause a big scene, Kilo… Gonna ruin the good vibes comin’ from dis place…”

“Never mind that. Look at this,” Kilo says, handing him the ID card, “What you make of it?”

Jerome takes the card with some umbrage, inspecting the card with a tired scowl. This fades as he recognises the face on the card. “But that’s…”

“Yeah.”

“There’s no way it’s the same guy! It’s gotta be his grandson or something! The picture’s only from three years ago!”

“Leave it. Get your shit, Jerome, we’re leaving now.”

“This don’t make no sense, how could… Hey, you guys! You can explain, can’t ya? Things like this can’t happen here, can they?”

Kilo turns sharply, his eyes falling upon the two figures that have suddenly appeared behind him. He recognises them instantly as the elderly man’s colleague: Marsellus and Martha. The woman grips Luther’s ankles while the big-eared man slips his arms under his armpits. Together they begin to lift his body and carry it down the hall.

“Stop!” Kilo roars, pointing at them. They stop immediately, looking at him with innocent faces. “Don’t move! Put him down right now! Where did you come from!? Where were you planning on taking him?! Answer me!!”

Martha speaks after a moment. “We’re terribly sorry if our colleague inconvenienced you in any way, sir. Here at the Hotel California, we strive to provide the utmost care in guest hospitality. We urge you to return to bed-”

“I told you to put him down! Your colleague might be dead, and you’re just gonna carry him away? I asked you where you’re taking him!”

“If you require it, sir, we’ll be happy to provide you with some sleeping aid, or if not, may we invite you downstairs to enjoy-”

“I’m not going ANYWHERE, and neither are you, until you answer my questions!!”

“Sir,” Martha says, more insistent now, “I’ll have to ask you to lower your voice. You may be disturbing the other guests.”

“Are you trying to be funny?! Huh-?!”

“Kilo, let it go, mayn,” Jerome says, languidly before yawning deeply.

“What…?” 

“The staff’s takin’ care of it, let’s let ‘em take care of it. You know I needs my sleep. Let’s go back inside, yeah? That bed was so comfy…”

“What the hell are you talking about? We’re not going back to bed, we gotta go!”

“Go where, mayn? I don’t got anywhere else booked. Beside, not like anywhere else’ll compare. It’s such a lovely place…”

He yawns again, and Kilo narrows his eyes. “You… keep saying that. Y’all keep saying that. ‘Lovely place’, or ‘such a lovely place’. You and Shizuka, and the staff. Even the big corporate guy. Why? Why always that specific phrase?”

“I’m tellin’ you to just let the staff take care of it, Kilo. This is their jobs-”

“Ever since we got here, things’ve been nothing but suspicious, but neither you or Shizuka have noticed. Only I’ve noticed? Am I the only one with any sense left?!?”

The door directly across from the trio’s room and a white man in a vest and sweatpants steps out, rubbing his surly face. It is the man from earlier, who came to reception straight after them, with his young son in tow. “Would you please keep it down out here? Do you have any idea what time it is?!”

“Get back inside, man, where it’s safe!” Kilo shouts.

“Excuse me?!” the white man replies, scandalized, “Are you threatening me? I’ll have you know I’m a lawyer, buddy. You so much as look at me wrong, I can bury you under so much litigation that you’ll-!”

“I don’t care what your fuckin’ job is!” he yells, turning, exasperated, “Shit’s complicated enough without you gettin’ involved!” He means to say more, but falls quiet. Beyond the lawyer’s shoulder, he sees into the room.

“H-hey, w-wait a minute, what do you think you’re doing? D-don’t come near me, stay ba-” the lawyer stammers as Kilo approaches, pushing past him and into the room, “Stop! You can’t just waltz in here like that! I’ll call the cops!” Kilo doesn’t listen to him, but inspects the room in wonder.

The lawyer’s room is an exact replica of his own, the so-called “Presidential suite.” The television, the sofa, the pictures on the wall, all are identical. Storming into the bedroom, he sees that even the crack in the ceiling is replicated.

The young boy on the bed rouses awake, blinking at him. “Hey… you’re that man… who flew that one time. On the freeway, at the airport,” he mutters absently.

“Stop!” his father yells, “Get out of there! Get away from my son, you– Ahh!!” his shout turns into a yelp as Kilo grips him by the strap of his vest and pushes him against the wall.

“How do you have the Presidential Suite too? Answer me, now!”

“What are you…? D-downstairs, at reception! The lady, she said that this was the last room available! Sh-she even gave me a discount on the price!”

“Same thing…”

“What?”

“She said the same thing, to us.”

“But… why? She lied? Why would she lie about that?”

“I don’t know,” Kilo says, releasing him, “But I’ll find out. Listen: get out of here. Something isn’t right in this place. Take your son and leave this hotel. Don’t bother checking out, just grab what you can and leave!”

“Are you gonna fly again?” The boy asks, climbing out of the oversized bed.

“I’ll send someone flying,” Kilo answers, striding out of the room. When he leaves, Marsellus and Martha have disappeared, along with Luther’s body. 

Shizuka has come out of the room, tiptoeing past Jerome reclining against the door to his Presidential Suite, barely awake. She, too, appears to be sleepwalking. “Don’t go… just come rest, Kilo…” she says, pawing at his wrist, gripping him weakly. 

“You and Jerome go inside,” he says, taking her shoulder. “I’ll be back later.”

He marches and marches down the dark corridor, but he never seems to get any closer. Though he travels in a straight line, the hallway goes on and on, impossibly long. “I knew it. I knew all along!! This hotel isn’t natural,” he growls, half to himself, half at the retreating staff. “This has to be an enemy Stand!!

“If I take out the User, then this whole place will die with him… That bastard… That bastard, I know just who it is! There’s nobody else!!” Kilo walks past the elevators and throws open the door to the emergency stairs. He’s quick to reach the top floor, the penthouse of the Hotel California. Without a second to lose, SATURN BARZ slams its palm on the door and it instantly explodes into vapor, which Kilo strides through.

Behind the now non-existent door is Paul Mann, sitting at a desk in a velvet robe, leaning over paperwork. He looks up from the desk, with a smile. “Ah, look who it is!! Kilo, my boy!! That’s a fine trick you did with the door, tell me, what brings you to me at this fine hou-WHOAA!!” He shouts as SATURN BARZ grabs him by his gown and lifts him up into the air. 

“Cancel the Stand ability!! I KNOW you’re the User, so do it!!” Kilo demands, before throwing the portly millionaire into a bookcase.

Mann groans as he struggles to get himself back up. “…Alright, alright, that how you wanna play it…?” he says, rubbing his back. “Fine. I-I never thought they’d go this far, but fine, I can take it… So! Who sent you? Was it Brown, huh? You tell that asshole I’m not budging! Tell him to keep that office warm for me, I’m not damn well budging! I will become Governor of this fucking State!!”

SATURN BARZ delivers a kick to his gut. “Don’t bullshit me!! Who are you working for, huh!? The Congregation!?!” Kilo lifts Mann up in the air again with his Stand ready to toss him around however many times. “You’ve got one chance before I turn you into a smear of red paste on the wall!! Cancel the ability, and let everyone out of the hotel!”

By now, Paul Mann has lost all his mojo, as he kicks his legs in the air, his voice trembling. “Ahh! Stop it! I don’t know what you’re talking about!!”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“H-h… How are you doing this? You’re not touching me, but…! Please, just put me down!!!”

Despite wanting to punch a hole through this guy’s stomach, Kilo doesn’t sense any malintent or deceit from Paul Mann. His Stand waves its hand in front of his face, but the Mann’s eyes take no notice of it. “He can’t see it… He can’t see SATURN BARZ. He’s not the User.”

Chapter 29: Hotel California - Part 1

“Marsellus!” cries a woman’s voice. The big-eared black man turns towards the reception desk, where a middle-aged woman is stationed. “What are you doing standing around for? Go and collect our guests’ luggage!” She claps twice, quickly, “Luther! You come out here and help as well!”

At the call, an elderly white man appears, wearing the lobby boy uniform, with a large red birthmark over his left eye, uncannily shaped like the state of California. He and Marsellus rush to take the luggage off the hands of the grateful driver. Even between the two of them, it is a lot to carry, arranging them into a tower of cases. The old man struggles especially, breathing heavily, shaky on his feet. He must be at least 80 years old.

In spite of Marsellus’ help, the tower inevitably begins to topple, just as the pair pass Kilo, the bags threatening to land on his head. Their descent is suddenly halted as SATURN BARZ appears, pushing them back in place with its back and shoulders. Kilo walks past, following Jerome and Shizuka, who are still rapt in awe of the hotel.

Kilo looks all around the lobby, frowning at the immaculately polished tile floor, the fine art, the architecture that seems to glow. Even the small decorative pool is gorgeously clear, without a single flaw. He wrinkles his nose and sniffs, catching up to his friends at the reception desk.

“You’re in luck, honored guests,” says the receptionist, “This just so happens to be our last vacancy for tonight. We hope you enjoy your stay.”

“Ohmygosh, Jerome, I can’t believe we’re gonna stay here!!” Shizuka exclaims in awe and excitement. “It’s such a lovely place!!”

“What did I say?? Is this place tight or what?” Jerome says, chuckling to himself, happy he’s bringing number one fan somewhere nice. He collects the room key from the woman standing behind the reception desk. The pin on her magenta blazer says the name “Martha”.

“If you say so,” Kilo assents, “Yo, you said you booked at the last minute right? Between this and getting your house fixed, what kinda dollars are you spending?”

“Don’t ask questions when you ain’t prepared for the answers, my man…” Jerome says slyly, keeping his golden grin.

The elevator dings open, and the trio catch their breath at this sight within. The occupant of the metal box ducks under the rim of the entrance and stands to his full height, towering over Kilo. The man is big in all directions, his crisp blue suit failing to contain his protruding bulk. He may have trampled right through them had he not spotted them at the last moment, his leathery face darting down. 

“Well!” he booms, “new guests! Pleasure to meet ya!” His hand shoots down and grabs Kilo’s hand, shaking it with the grip of a champion. Talking the whole time, he moves to do the same to Jerome, rattling his whole body with the force of his greeting. “Real genuine pleasure to meet my future constituents! I’m sure you don’t need me to introduce myself, but why shouldn’t I, this being our first official meeting!” He pauses in his stream only to stoop and plant a kiss on Shizuka’s hand. “Paul Mann’s the name. Businessman, and future governor of California, Paul Mann! Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourselves?! What brings to this lovely establishment?!”

“Oh uh, we… my crib’s getting refurbished so we hanging out here for a while…” Jerome stutters.

“Ah, I’m visiting from New York…!” Shizuka chimes in.

“Are you real?” Kilo asks.

“I’m as real as you are, my friend! Well, if it’s a vacation you’re after, you certainly came to the right place! I’ve lived in this great state my whole life, and I’ve stayed in every hotel from San Francisco to San Diego, and this is without a doubt the best I’ve ever been in! It really is a lovely place! Listen, I’m heading off to supper now! If any of you find your way down to the dining hall, you be sure to come on over, so we can have a proper conversation!” 

“Uh… sure, we’ll do that…!” Jerome says, raising a thumbs up.

“I’m looking forward to it!” declares Paul Mann, who it seems to only declare things, not say them. He leaves, waving at them as he heads across the lobby. It is Marsellus that breaks the trio out of their daze, beckoning them into the elevator.

“We are not eating with that guy,” Kilo says as they step inside, making a declaration of his own.

The bellboy presses the buttons Kilo catches sight of two people entering the hotel: a man and his son. They are the same man and son that have appeared in proximity to the gang the whole time, though neither party is aware of this.

“I can’t believe any of this!” the man mutters loudly, storming towards the empty reception desk, “So we broke one TV, they can just buy another one… Where do they get off kicking us out…? Hey, hello?! Anybody there?! I need a room for me and my son, right now!”

The woman, Martha, quickly slides behind the reception desk. “Apologies for the delay, sir,” she says, “How may I–”

“A big TV!” the kid shouts, “I wanna big TV, tell her Daddy! I wanna watch Fist of the North Star!”

“I got it, I got it!” His father responds, “You heard him, big TV. And thick walls, while you’re at it. I don’t want to have to listen to the neighbours banging in the next room, comprendé?”

Kilo, watching this scene unfold from the elevator, scoffs silently. “Too bad for you,” he thinks, “They booked out just about now.”

“Certainly, sir,” Martha says in her phonograph tones, “We have a room exactly suiting your needs. You’re in luck, it so happens to be our last vacancy.”

Kilo frowns and starts to say something, but then the elevator doors slide shut in front of him, closing with a metallic crunch.

                                                             ***

Shizuka’s first action upon entering the room was to bound inside, throw off her shoes and leap onto the king-size bed, squealing as it rebounded her two feet into the air before landing again, sinking into its soft embrace. All this, before Marsellus the bellboy could finish saying “Welcome to the Presidential Suite.” 

“Dope,” Jerome says, immediately running to open the mini fridge, then flicking on the television.

“We didn’t ask for a suite, we wanted a double room,” Kilo says, grimacing.

“I’m afraid this was the only room we had available, sir,” Marsellus explains, never dropping his photographic smile, “And after all, we have nothing but the best for the one and only C-King.”

“Word! This is the good life, Kilo!” 

“Indeed. As your companions have already found out, the Presidential offers a king-size bed, and interactive multimedia system, a fully stocked drinks cabinet. In addition,” the bellboy continues in a speech that is clearly rehearsed, “you’re provided with complimentary 4G WiFi and panoramic views of the Beverly Hills area. Last but not-”

“Inglewood.”

“… I beg your pardon?”

“We’re in Inglewood,” Kilo says, “Not Beverly Hills. You’re off by 10 miles.”

“… My mistake. Please forgive me.” Kilo says nothing in response, as Marsellus produces a bottle of wine from one of the cabinets underneath the TV monitor. “As a final feature, a bottle of Châteauneuf Du Pape 1969, a premium French red, compliments of the house.”

“That sounds so fancy!” Shizuka exclaims, rolling off the bed and skipping towards him. The bellboy produces three wine glasses and places them on the table next to the TV. He pours with practiced efficiency an equal amount into all three. 

The bellboy places the bottle on the table. Jerome and Shizuka pick up their glasses. “The Hotel California invites you to enjoy your stay. If there’s nothing else, I will take my leave–”

“Hold it,” Kilo says. Marsellus stops in his tracks, and turns to see Kilo raising the wine glass in his face. “You drink first.”

“Kilo–!” Shizuka protests.

“Hold it. Go on. Drink.”

Marsellus raises a hand. “Ah, sir, the wine isn’t for me. As I said, it’s complimentary for guests–”

“Call it a tip. How often do you get a break, anyway?”

“Sir, I appreciate it, but drinking is strictly prohibited on the job. I’d have to consult my supervisor if I were to–”

“It’s one sip. You ain’t gonna fall down drunk…” Silence falls, for a moment. “Either you drink, or we’re out of here.”

Silence falls again, tenser than before. Seconds tick by, agonizingly slow. Kilo levels his glare at the bellboy’s photograph face, which betrays no emotion at all.

“If you insist, sir,” Marsellus says finally, taking the glass. Without hesitation, he tilts his head back and sips the wine. He savours the taste for a moment, then swallows. He exhales, handing the glass back. “A gorgeous vintage. Will that be all then, sir?”

“… Sure.” Kilo says after a moment, taking the wine back and laying it on the table.

“In that case, if you have any further need of me, I’m one phone call away. Please don’t hesitate.” Marsellus exits the room on this note, closing the door behind him. 

“What the hell was that about, man!” Jerome yells, punching Kilo’s arm. Shizuka follows suit, kicking his shin. “You made us all look bad! I gotta be sure to give that guy a huge tip…!”

“I was making sure there wasn’t anything in the wine.”

“There was no need to be so rude. You have to be nice to the service staff!” Shizuka yells.

Kilo grits his teeth. “Do I need to remind you that we are in the middle of some gang war shit?”

“War?” Shizuka asks.

“Don’t tell you’ve forgotten already! Less than a day ago, you beat down one of the leaders of the Congregation! There could be Stand users in this hotel right now, waiting for the order to kill us all! We don’t have time to relax!”

“You’re being paranoid, Kilo!” Shizuka talks back. “What are the odds that there’s a gang assassin that just happens to be at this hotel, out of thousands in all of LA? This hotel is such a lovely place, there’s no way anything bad could happen here.”

“Bad shit can happen anywhere, at any time, to anybody…” he replies, somewhat melancholic.

Jerome sighs and steps forward. “Alright, alright. Tell you what, we stay the night, then come morning we find a new place. That sound good? If we move around, it’ll be harder for them to track us down, right?”

“…It’s a start.”

Jerome nods, smiling kindly. “Well, while we here, let’s try out that fucking restaurant the big guy was talking about!”

“I want fried rice and butter chicken!” Shizuka chimes in.

CHAPTER 27: She’s Trying to Make a Devil Out of Me

Shizuka emerges from her blanket of darkness, waking with a jolt. The first thing she sees is Moya staring down at her, a worried expression melting into relief. “Moya?” she mutters, looking around.

She is lying on a narrow bed in an enclosed space with white walls. Equipment of various purposes line the walls. It takes her a moment to remember first what an ambulance is, and another to realize she’s in one.

“Hey, Shizuka,” Moya groans, falling painfully into the seat next to the gurney, rubbing her side. Her right arm is in a sling, and she is covered all over in hastily applied bandages.

“… Ph-Phantasma, where–!? Where is she–?!”

She sits up to receive a flash of red and blue light in her face. From beyond the doors at the back of the ambulance, she can see the exterior of the gym. Gathered in front of the entrance is another ambulance, a police squad car and an imposing steel paddywagon, LAPD emblazoned on its side.

And there, despite towering over the officers, Phantasma appears incredibly small. Her head hung low, her ankles and wrists cuffed together. Her mask is gone, and the face that hid beneath is that of a middle aged woman, lined and framed by a surprising amount of dark flowing hair, streaked with grey.

“Whu–?

“You can relax. She’s done. I don’t know how you pulled it off, but you saved us…” Moya says, calming her. Shizuka sinks into the bed, her head suddenly light as air. She barely hears her friend speaking. “You kicked the fight right out of her. They say a fight’s only done when one opponent’s lost the will to win, and I never thought I’d see that happen to Phantasma. She lost everything… even this.” Moya raises her still-functioning left hand, and in it is a silver disc.

Shizuka peers at it, taking a moment to register its shape and form. Squinting, she sees the vague outline of a humanoid figure reflected in the silver material. But it is not her reflection, nor anyone else’s.

The figure moves slightly, as if alive within the reflection. In that instant she recognizes what it is, despite never seeing one before, and snatches it from Moya’s hand. She stares. “Where did this come from!?”

“… Phantasma’s head,” Moya says, puzzled, “Like I said, you knocked it right out of her. Her Stand ability’s in this thing, apparently. ABRAXAS is gone for good now.”

“Then this really is…! Do you know what this is!?”

“Do I know what…?” she paused, then taps her forehead with her finger, “Sure I know. I’ve got one too.”

“What!!? But where did…! How?” She springs up, sitting straight on the stretcher, clutching the disc.

“Whoa, easy. You’re still injured…!”

“Moya, you have to tell me! It’s important!”

“… Brother Dust. He gives these to everyone he deems worthy. I don’t know where he found them, but they’ve been the key to his power since the beginning… I assumed you got your Stand the same way, just from a different source. Your family, I’m guessing…?”

She shakes her head. “I was born with my abilities, I’ve never even seen one of these discs in person before. But my nephew told me about them. There was a man, years ago, who used these to give people power and sent them to kill the Joestars. But he’s dead! He’s been dead for almost six years now… Where did he get these?” she says, looking up at her friend. Moya has no answer other than a scowl directed at Phantasma.

A paramedic appears and hops in the back of the ambulance. Before he can say anything, Moya steps out, taking the disc away from Shizuka as she goes. “Moya…?” she says, but gets no answer. The ambulance doors shut and the vehicle drives off, blaring its siren.

Moya, her body damaged all over, limps with purpose towards the squad cars. The officers are pushing Phantasma into the paddy-wagon. “Wait!” Moya calls, and the officers turn.

“You’re injured, Detective,” says one of the officers, raising a hand, “Let us take care–”

“Shut up! You… What is this? Where did you get it from? Where’s Dust keeping them!?” she demands, shoving the disc in Phantasma’s face. The masked woman says nothing. “Nothing to say? What’s the matter? You had so much to say before! Where are your grand fucking declarations now!?”

Receiving no answer, Moya presses harder. She steps closer and gets into her face, which remains impassive. Humbled, but still with a hint of dignity. “What was it all for? What the fuck did you do it for!?” Moya shouts, before the ache in her body catches up with her and she sways on her feet.

“Easy, Pezzente!” calls the officer. “You know the procedure! We’ll get her back to the station, then we can start asking questions! You’ve done your part for the day, Detective. Let us do ours.” Moya steadies herself, still waiting on an answer from her former mentor.

“…For you,” Phantasma says softly. Moya freezes in place and grits her teeth. Almost doubled over, she does not turn around as the luchadora is stuffed into the back of the paddy-wagon. The paramedics pull Moya back to the ambulance, as the wagon rumbles to life, and drives away.

                                                       ***

Her story was not a special one, she had grown up poor in Tijuana, worshiping luchadores on an old television set with bunny ear antennae, dreaming of standing among them. She was simply one of the few who achieved that dream.

Phantasma stares at the wall of the paddywagon. Her escorts are divided from her by a thick metal grate. She makes no attempt to speak to them, and they do not address her.

The masks drew her in, originally. Luchadores hid their faces, their true names. In doing so, they became more than simple athletes. To her, the mask was a talisman, crafted from transcendent material. Like the shamans of ancient times, in wearing the visages of the gods, became those gods, made flesh and blood. Gateways, through which she could abandon weakness. Abandon humanity.

But it was false. The masks she wore were polyester and spandex things. The matches were little more than games, entertainment for children. She was not a clown. She was extraordinary, forced to dally with the ordinary. She would not be held back by weaklings. And so she was not.

In her first title match, she hit her opponent just a bit too hard. A single palm shot to the chest. The challenger coughed, then sputtered. She kicked her legs and choked. And then she died. It mattered little. There was a place for her among the cartel, and before long, that place was at the very top. Mexico City became too small, so she extended her hand north, to San Diego, San José, and Los Angeles.

But Brother Dust, at last, shattered her illusion. She was no superhuman, no demigod. Just a foolish woman in a mask. There was power in the world beyond her comprehension. But he promised. By his hand, she would be granted that power. She would finally achieve that which she had pretended to have for so long.

Phantasma feels her face. Her flesh and bone, her human face. The one she had tried to escape from, but never had. It had been lurking underneath the entire time. She cannot remember what it looks like.

“Hey, Burnley, what’s the matter?” Says the cop in the driver’s seat, breaking Phantasma from her trance. She can hear them from behind the partition. The cop glances away from the road to pat his partner on the shoulder.

“I don’t know,” Burnley groans, hunched over, clutching his guts, “I just got this cramp out of nowhere.”

“Nnh, now that you mention it, my head kinda hurts all of a sudden,” the driver rubs his temple, squinting at the road, “Ah, shit, it’s bad…! I don’t think I can drive like this. You think you can take over?”

“No way, man! Feels like my guts are tearing themselves up! God damn you, Rick, I told you we should’ve gone to Taco Bell, but you just had to try the local cuisine, didn’t you!? Oughh, Jesus, it hurts…”

Burnley leans forward, pressing his forehead on the dashboard and groans. A gurgling noise comes from his gut, so loud Phantasma can hear from. The cop starts belching. She grimaces, and turns to the wall again. She turns back sharply at the sound of Burnley belching, followed by a loud splattering.

The dash in front of Officer Burnley is soiled by a frightening quantity of blood and chunks of flesh. All of it vomited by the officer, who stares at it with dumbfounded horror. His partner, Rick, shouts at him.

“Burnley!? Burnley, what was that!? What happened?!!” The driver cries, his face similarly covered in blood, flowing from every orifice on his head. His eyes are all white and flecked with red. “I can’t see! Burnley, what’s happening?! I can’t fucking see anything!”

She listens hard, trying to discern what is happening, when a trickle of blood pours from her nostril. She dabs at it with her fingers and stares at the blood, only then noticing her hand shaking. “What? What is this?”

It is not just her hand. Everything loose in the paddy-wagon is shaking violently, as if caught in an earthquake. Burnley succumbs first, his whole body convulsing as though he was possessed. Then the driver succumbs, shaking so hard he can’t even speak, let alone drive.

The wagon swerves off the road, the driver’s foot stuck on the accelerator, Phantasma notices only now the convulsions in her body. Like her insides have acquired minds of their own, she feels her insides writhe, her blood vessels bursting.

As the paddy-wagon picks up speed, she slides to the back and kicks at the bolted door, again and again. For all her titanic strength, the door does not give. Dull pangs of pain run up her leg.

“No!! NO!!!” she shouts, kicking desperately, “I CANNOT DIE THIS WAY!!!”

The paddy-wagon mounts the curb and swerves, flying off balance and flipping in the air. The pedestrians have barely enough time to duck before it crash-lands upside down, halfway through the window of a fashion store.

Before Phantasma has the chance to think, ACHTUNG BABY emerges. The outside light shines in, reflecting off the metallic overturned equipment. Where before it would manipulate the rays like a guitarist plucking his instrument, now it pulls on them like a fisherman pulling in a net. 

Concentrating the light, focusing it into the lenses of its master’s shades, a shining, impossible triangle forms and rotates in the lenses. Even blindfolded, Phantasma senses the determination emanating from her girl opponent. 

“ACHTUNG BABY: ULTRA VIOLET…!” Shizuka declares. 

There is an audible pew, the compressed light fires out of her sunglasses as an ultra-thin beam, striking Phantasma right between the eyes. 

After a moment, the blindfold around the masked woman’s face smolders, then bursts into flame. Phantasma shouts in surprise, releasing Shizuka and tearing away the burning cloth, scrambling away. “Cocky little perra!!”

Phantasma stumbles backwards, and Shizuka falls into a crouch. Her shades fall away from her face and hit the floor, revealing her eyes. She fixes Phantasma with such a glare of determined fury that is gives the masked woman pause. Then, she raises her hand, ACHTUNG BABY readied above her, and snaps her fingers.

From her Stand explodes a ring of light, copies of the rings that encircled Phantasma before, but far bigger and many. The light encircles the entire gym, using the reflections of the gym equipment to enclose both of them in a geometric cage, emblazoned with sapphire eyes flashing blinding light.

“What are you doing!??” Phantasma shouts, even as her very nervous system feels the strain of the strobe lights. “Even if you use this again, you’ll be caught in it as well!!” 

Shizuka does not answer, but instead turns up the intensity of the strobe. Her hands shake and her eyeballs twitch. 

“You were drowning in despair just a moment ago!! What happened!? What changed!?!!”

Phantasma’s muscles shake and her eyes begin to roll into her head. Gritting her teeth, she draws on supreme effort to work past the seizing effect of the light and summons her power. “ABRAXAS!!!!”

The bubble expands, and the light disappears, but the beginnings of the seizure remain. Struggling against them, Phantasma moves forward, fist raised, only to slip. She rolls her eyes downward, seeing the floor is covered in a puddle of black oil. “It can’t be…!!”

Behind her, Moya weakly raises an arm. “… witch mountain…” Blindfolded, Phantasma could not have seen that earlier, it had not been Moya’s hand gripping her, but WITCH MOUNTAIN’s, all covered in oil. 

“The oil is a separate material from the stand…!” Phantasma think, her mind reeling as she stumbles to get back up. “ABRAXAS cannot eradicate it, even as it does to its creator…!!” She is soon struck out of these thoughts by a flying kick to her diaphragm that throws her on her back. She falls, and she looks up to see Shizuka crouched on her chest. The Joestar princess now stands above her, raising her foot. 

Coughing sharply, Shizuka leans back against the ropes. “The ultimate technique…” she murmurs, then she kicks her legs, flipping up and over the ropes and landing on the ground below the ring. Immediately, she turns tail and runs in the opposite direction “…RUN AWAAAAAAAY!!”

For a full second, Phantasma stands stock still in the centre of the ring, listening to the sound of Shizuka’s feet get further away. Then, every blood vessel in her body seems to engorge as she is overcome with a boiling rage. “GRAAAAAAAAAGGH!!” she roars, vaulting over the side of the ring and storming after her. Still blindfolded, she ploughs right into various exercise equipment, knocking them over. 

“INSOLENT GIRL!!! To think I offered my respect! When I catch you, I’ll shatter every bone in your body!!” she bellows, “You’re too injured to get anywhere fast! And your footsteps and breathing are so clumsy and loud, I could find you even if you were invisible!”

“Does that mean you’ll take the blindfold off!?” calls out, rolling backwards over a weight-lifting bench, pulling it down as she goes.

“RAAAGH!!!” Phantasma kicks over something metal, and reaching for it, finds it to be a folded-up chair. She grabs it, and hurls in the direction of Shizuka’s voice. It catches her in the shoulder and she yelps in pain. 

Phantasma hears this, of course, and begins to storm towards her, only to be held back. Shizuka looks, and sees Moya gripping her leg. Without looking down, Phantasma kicks her hands away and stomps down on her collarbone. Moya curls in pain, groaning wearily. Shziuka grimaces, but keeps moving, until she makes her way back to the ring. The entire state of the gym is in even more disarray than when they first arrived, with the metallic equipment and weights and chains all haphazardly thrown around. 

“Is this all your technique is worth, Shizuka Joestar?” she says, coming for her. “Running around like a headless chicken!?!” 

Shizuka tries to dodge as Phantasma lunges for her, but the luchadora is too fast. Even blindfolded, she manages to catch the Joestar girl, slamming her into one of the corner posts. Shizuka bears the pain in her back, before Phantasma picks her up and tosses into the center of the ring, with the effort of a girl throwing her ragdoll across the room. Now laying on top of the glass shards, Shizuka braces her herself as the gang boss kneels onto her, slightly blocking the shaft of light from the window above. “Your efforts were in vain,” Phantasma snarls at her. “Every trick, every technique, including your final one, were a complete waste of time.”