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slowd1ving · 3 months

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PENDULUM ✦ . 　⁺ xv.

MERCURY (GLAZE)

"Take my brain so I can feel like before, I'm ready to be someone new, I'm ready to be someone new." wc: 13k

JOJO'S BIZARRE ADVENTURE MASTERLIST

PENDULUM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART ・゜NEXT PART

(The gym smells like many things: concrete, canvas, chalk and leather. Underneath it all, the sweaty reek of desperation lingers in the mats and sandbags held up by rattling chains. You’re unnoticeable in the clamour; despair doesn’t ooze out of your pores, and you’re certainly not filled with motivation on this excursion.)

(It’s been months since you’ve last talked to your mother, but the gym flyer she handed you lies crumpled in your pocket. It’s a tacky thing, clearly designed by someone trying to drive off their clients as much as possible. You can hear it, though; these are the sounds of a pummeling.)

(The design’s shit, sure. But that mastery of graphic design evidently went to something else.)

(Gloves against skin. Metal links grinding against each other. Bodies, toppling over into the canvas like dominoes.)

(You don’t quite see who’s in the ring. They’re standing over their opponent in dim lighting – the overhead fluorescence flickers and goes in the metal rafters with a practised resignation. It’s a grim sight.)

(“You here to box, kid?” The instructor is past forty. Age lines his face – don’t let it fool you. Take notice of the sinew corded like steel beneath the skin. His flesh is a book of his experiences; countless scars forging new lines in his story, while his hammer-like fists write tales for his opponents.)

(He says your mother’s name, and it’s like he’s finally speaking a language you understand.)

(“I have your flyer, mister,” you unfurl your clenched hand. The graphic red letters written in the Impact font have already faded beyond recognition. Water damage. It’s serious, ruining your first impression.)

(Or not.)

(He bursts out laughing.)

(“It’s Coach, not mister.”)

(The lights behind him blink back on. You can finally see the face of the girl in the ring.)

(No, it’s Lorelei. It’s Lorelei, and her gloves are as red as those huckleberries from a year ago.)

. 　⁺ ✦

You swore as you slipped beneath the water.

“Fifth place – Mr. Brisk and Irate! He’s been setting a steady pace since the first stage – bets for this mysterious contender just keep piling up–”

Really, you hadn’t expected to see those boxing gloves again. You’d seen them before at Martha’s ranch: too distracted by the sunny smells and wildflowers and the sickly mare at your feet to actually pay attention. They were ridiculous, sure. They caught your eye, sure. Had you taken them seriously? No.

“80 points to that crimson blur! Group Four – a born-and-bred ‘loosa from San Diego – is made for precisely this purpose. For those who don’t know–”

Who would? Honest, you hadn’t taken the gloves personally; it wasn’t like you avoided boxing at all. Depeche Mode was a video game avatar; it punched in pixels, repeated the same one-twos and jabs and hooks until its HP hit zero. You didn’t mind controlling the character – it had been years since you quit, after all.

It was just… different. In an actual fight, you could smell the blood and see the sweat glimmering on his skin.

You were the pixels. The gloves awaited you – the allegorical customisation of your in-game incarnation. There was no avoiding the past.

It wouldn’t have been a problem if it was Depeche Mode, impersonally wearing them on your behalf; that was different. You thought you’d let go of all the bitterness and resentment. You were wrong.

In the spacious bathtub, the warmth flowed over your head like amniotic fluid and all was forgotten for a moment. Time had stopped – a perfect wormhole. Closed eyes made remembering that void all the more easier.

“It’s Gyro Zeppeli – right before the second stage finish line – it’s Gyro again! He jumps into the lead.”

It had been a close margin today. Nevermind the fight earlier – the end of this stage was just as vicious as any snapping enemy.

They’d swarmed, with gritted teeth and knives in their eyes. Their claws gouged ravines in their wake; they were furies descended to earth as the mares of Diomedes, ready to eat the flesh of their rivals.

Dang, you had thought at the time. These guys are really something.

Bodies clashed against bodies, fur against skin and rider against rider. It was an amorphous mess – the desert heat had fused flesh together into a shapeless entity known as ‘competition’. It was a self-cannibalising thing: all teeth and bloodlust, no actual consciousness. Ride for your life, it spoke – no, it howled – ride or else you die here.

So you rode, hard and fast in the saddle. Sweat dripped from your face, your arms, your back, your legs; the reins were slicked with it, but you couldn’t give up.

If you faltered in the middle of that pack, they’d consume you and leave you behind. That was the ‘instinct’ that steered you straight and true.

“Only a straight plane of six hundred metres left! This rough terrain – the unmerciful heat! The riders have travelled one thousand and two hundred kilometres since the race started eighteen days ago!”

Had it really been eighteen days? It felt like a lifetime within a lifetime. You’d been born at the starting line: crawling for survival. The peak of your life rose in your fights and your tears, like a ticking metronome of joy and disaster. And here, you’d die and be buried under the stars, ready to be trampled for the rest of eternity by desperate hooves.

“As we near Monument Valley, yet again the most skilled racers are gathering at the front – it’s a replica of the first stage!”

Spearheading the group was Zeppeli – his cloak licked through the air like a flame, clean and bright. Jostling at his side was Diego and Johnny; both hunched over their steeds as if they were merging into one beast. While Sandman sprinted by you, you still lagged behind them all by about a horse-length – not that you really wanted anything to do with that body of motion.

As you stuck to the back, Diego glanced towards you – it was a miniscule turn of his head, barely worth mentioning. But you could see the contempt in his eyes: ‘that first stage was luck, nothing else’. You could see it in the self-satisfied quirk of his lips: ’ s tay in your lane’.

You fought to keep your sanity.

Stupid bastard. It wasn’t like you were in this race to stand out. It wasn’t like you were in this race to win. That was the only thing that kept you tethered – but you were agitated, more than usual.

“Now Diego Brando is picking up the pace, while Sandman continues to fly across the land with those insane legs!”

The wind washed away your resentment. Tabloids – physical manifestations of your anger – were being swept past you in a torrent of grey pages and black, smeared letters. Your fingers plucked one out of the air; it was as tattered as the one you saw all those months ago when you first arrived at San Diego beach. Perhaps that was why you stuffed it into your bag strap. It was a sentimental sort of day, after all.

Johnny’s blue lips moved as he animatedly talked to Zeppeli. You couldn’t make their conversation out as the wind stole their words away, but strangely, you didn’t feel the urge to eavesdrop using Depeche Mode. Maybe it was because the Stand was all tuckered out from the fight, because you hadn’t heard a peep from the spirit since the fight earlier.

“Diego Brando finishes in first – first place goes to Diego Brando! Johnny Joestar in second, Sandman in third, Gyro Zeppeli fourth, Mr Brisk-and-Irate fifth!”

As you crossed the finish line, you caught a glimpse of Zeppeli’s face. His sweat-streaked expression was aghast: eyes wide with shock and mouth slack with anger.

“Huh?” His tight grip on the reins loosened. “Hey! What’s he saying, Johnny?”

You could hear him loud and clear, even with the deafening cacophony of the crowd and your pounding heartbeat.

“Wait a second – Johnny, why’d you finish before me?”

Slowly, his voice was drowning as you picked up speed.

“Johnny, you fucker! Just you wait!”

The wind greedily swallowed his angry cries.

The third stage has begun – from Monument Valley, trailing through the Rocky Mountains. It was a little over five hundred kilometres – by your generous estimations, it would take a week to get to Cannon City.

“And they continue on! The front line refuses to stop with no plans for a break – each rider straight into the third stage!”

If there was some sort of town that marked the end of the second stage, you would’ve stopped to recuperate. Alas, all you could see for a radius of several dozen miles was the trademark red sediment of Monument Valley. Your throat was coated with the dry dust: lungs hazed and burning as red-hot as the ground.

That view had haunted your nightmares almost nightly; the clay-red sand that had been the womb of this tragedy. No wonder you were so sick of it.

You could’ve camped outside – tucked away from the crowds a few miles out. But no, you chose to keep riding, chose to leave this cursed ground behind. After all, at some point you’d be in the Rocky Mountains; the loamy soil and sweet grass would be your oasis.

In the blistering heat, you lost yourself. Maybe you slipped into the realm of dreams, maybe your soul was jostled out of your body entirely by the saddle – all you were cognisant of was that the sun had catalysed the sudden change.

One minute, the bright star was watching you from high in the arc of the sky; the next minute brought with it the breath of dusk in gentle violet puffs.

You rode hard, until the horizon of orange was broken by the jagged spires of the Rocky Mountains. No, to be more accurate, you could make out the faint pricks of the mountaintops against the twilight sky. Nothing more, nothing less. It had actually been the faint, clean air that woke you from your stupor; your lungs had desperately swallowed the cold oxygen with a trance-breaking fervour.

Finally, you were free from your delirium.

“Your limit is the stratosphere,” you muttered. It was a poor attempt at motivation. “Mine is the universe.”

The lucidity made you painfully aware of several things. First was the abhorrent dampness of your jacket; it clung to you like a starved man did to his plate. Secondly, poor Group Four’s faltering pace; after your stint as a fighter, she’d been left under a crag for a little over an hour. Your guilt was eating away at you, and it wasn’t hard for your resolve to point towards finding a nice stable for her to finally rest in, or at least a patch of grass to replenish her energy.

Besides, you were just as exhausted as her. If it could revitalise you, you’d eat as much grass as you could too.

“Hey girl,” you crooned, switching your reins to one hand in the Western riding style and scratching the back of her ears with the other: a poor substitution of an apology. “I’m sorry for leaving you behind today. You know I’d always come back for you.”

Her ears flicked at you irritably, but the snort she let out sounded more affectionate than exasperated. Yes, human. I understand, human. Fetch me my carrots, human.

“Be on the lookout for any hotels or buildings you see on this path, alright girl? We’ll book you straight into a hay-filled stable.” The words had her neck perking up – whoever said that conversing with horses was stupid should’ve seriously evaluated and presented epistemic evidence for their claim. Stupid Diego.

“It’s not his fault he doesn’t know how to conduct a study,” you soothed your frayed nerves. If there was a sea of tranquillity, yours was more of a piddly pond – nay, a puddle. “I’d accept a PEEL paragraph from him, even.”

Depeche Mode, if we’ve passed any hotels and you haven’t said anything, I’ll kill you myself.

“Stupid Diego,” you tacked on as an afterthought.

[Look at all these tumbleweeds and tell me that again.]

Cadet, be on your best behaviour and scout for a hotel. I’ll find a way to shoot you if you don’t.

[Yes, sarge. You’re absolutely right, sarge.]

Was it paradoxical to beat yourself up? Should you actually manage to spar your spirit in your dreams, you’d absolutely wrangle your basest self into a perfectly compact sphere.

Be ready, you threatened. I’ll bring my gun into my dreams.

[Yo, sarge! I think I spotted something behind that dune.]

Be not ready, you rescinded, shifting your weight to your heels so you could stand in the saddle. Though the motion was purely (read: impurely) for reconnaissance, the wind buffeting your sweat-dampened body was a luxury you couldn’t resist. You groaned as you limbered your muscles: sinew creaking with each stretch.

“Where?” It was a short utterance, yet filled with such post-stretch bliss that even Depeche Mode paused briefly.

[Over yonder.]

Why the hell are you suddenly talking–

You spotted it then. Just like your Stand had told you, the gentle crest of the sand swept away the modest manor in your peripherals. Well, it was barely a manor – rather, the warm orange exterior and stone paving made it appear larger than life itself.

“What fascinating architecture,” you mumbled, observing the arches and pathways leading into the courtyard that maximised natural airflow through the sienna walls. Is that clay, or stone? The coolness left behind by the arid day left this cosy place looking more and more enticing.

“Slow down, girl,” you whispered. She eagerly headed your verbal command, lengthening her gait to a slower amble without any pulling of the reins.

When you dismounted on the sun-warmed sandstone, you could distinctly feel at that moment every bit of weariness hit you like a freight train. Your legs wobbled, to the point where the only thing keeping you in the vertical plane was the solid mass of Group Four.

“Fuck,” you heaved, feeling around for where the gauze on your stomach sat. Despite your bravado earlier, you hadn’t completely healed yourself. You’d learned it the hard way – there was a limit to how much you could use your stand without depleting your energy fully. You’d fought, healed, healed some more – all after hours of continuous and strenuous riding.

Is it affected by stamina? Man, you really should’ve done more cardio back at Vincent’s.

In case of an emergency, you couldn’t afford to lose the precious few scraps of time you could buy yourself.

“‘Tis naught but a scratch,” you narrated solemnly, feeling around in your pack for your coin purse. It was a shallow laceration, caused by that stupid hook from earlier. Actually, it had been a lot deeper when it first hit you – Depeche Mode had treated it to an extent where you wouldn’t bleed out nor get infected. It was simply sore: an incredibly irritating nuisance that threatened to cause you to explode in annoyance.

“Esteemed guest, would you like to rest your weary head?”

You blinked. A well-dressed man had appeared soundlessly in your field of vision, garbed in a light suit of a shimmering, cream-coloured fabric. Entranced, your eyes followed the red ribbons tying back his long, rippling hair – crimson splashed against muted Prussian blue strands, standing out against the ochre of his skin. They swayed through the breeze– Focus, you fool. You summarised your analysis as such succinctly: tall, twentyish, with shrewd eyes that gleaned information from people like picking meat from bone.

“Um,” you replied intelligently. “If I say yes, you won’t suddenly use that as a euphemism to kill me, will you?”

“No?” Those shrewd eyes became baffled at your delirious question. “This is my hotel? Why would I do that?”

Why are you phrasing it as a question and not a statement? That’s the real issue here.

“And has that ever stopped anybody?” you probed. Better take him by surprise and fight him here, while I’m still conscious. You stumbled slightly, jolting when he took the reins out of your clenched fists with a buttered ease that left you reeling.

“I suppose not,” he uttered: surprise forgotten. “Though, I assure you, my clientele are safe here. I don’t know what you’re thinking currently, but you’re free to leave if you still don’t trust me.”

“Oh. My bad,” you sheepishly glanced away. “Pretend this conversation never happened, please.”

He exhaled wryly. “Naturally.”

“What name would you like to book under?” His black eyes reflected you in their depths. He already knows who I am. There was no way he didn’t – if the saddle cloth hadn’t alerted him already, the sanguine fabric dripping from your shoulders gave you away immediately. Still, the polite smile he acquiesced let none of that through.

“Mercury,” you decided, half on a whim. Your mind was frozen – those syllables had floated to your lips, unbidden. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Sir?” He thumbed the leather of the reins thoughtfully. “Don’t I look alive with a youthful glow to you?”

“Sorry,” you muttered. I can’t exactly call you mister. It feels rude, now that I’m tired enough to think about it.

A beat passed.

“No worries,” he cleared his throat. Now that the conversation had lulled, you took your time in watching him. I don’t think it’s a trap.

[Yeah ‘cause you’re looking at his face.]

“Bersha. That’s both my name and the name of this hotel,” his smile creaked methodically as it adjusted to fit his face. You understood it was a lie, as much as you understood the lines of your palm. You give me a false name, I give you a false name too. It was the law of equivalent exchange.

“Bersha,” you tested it out, letting it spill into the dusk. “I’ll be in your care.”

[Well, duh.]

Perhaps, if you had been any less tired, you would’ve noticed the other saddle in the honey-coloured stables. If you had been any more observant, you would’ve noticed the bright black eyes staring at you from a stall you thought was empty.

You might’ve even noticed the star on the horse’s forehead, concealed by a pale mane that did naught to hide it.

But you were hungry. You were hungry, and you were exhausted, and you were struggling to breath from the crude amalgamation of pain and weariness you felt. While Bersha quietly untacked Group Four, you sat on a hay bale with your head in your hands and your eyes shut – blind and deaf to your surroundings.

If Depeche Mode had noticed, it stayed quiet.

If you had just spoken up, it would’ve made my evening so much easier.

. 　⁺ ✦

Bersha wasn’t exactly a conversationalist, you quickly grew to realise. He had the looks to get away with it; you’d witnessed it countless times in your future while in the city. A pretty face to yap at, to absorb all your worries while you felt listened to, understood. They never saw the stone-cold expression lurking behind the skin, nor the irritation clamping the mouth shut – only a docile echo chamber that was nice to look at. Unfortunately for the both of you, you weren’t a conversationalist either, which left a rather tense silence weaving amidst the cicadas.

You wavered slightly behind him. With his hands clasped lightly behind his back as he walked, he looked the very picture of leisure. Can he feel the awkward silence? I refuse to believe he can’t. If he did, he certainly didn’t show it; his footsteps were quiet, yet utterly assured. That was not the sound of an awkward man.

Within the span of those few minutes to the foyer (because of course there was a courtyard within a courtyard and only then did you reach the reception area), you lived countless lifetimes and nothing at all. Boredly, you occupied yourself with absorbing the lay of this place. Despite its size, the structure was humble – warm orange sandstone created a skeleton that was reminiscent of a riad, perfect for the unflinching heat of the desert.

When Bersha slipped past you to stand behind the polished amboyna desk, you almost missed the awkward stroll to this place. From his pocket, he slipped on thin wire glasses and took a cream coloured ledger; flipping open to a page half-filled with entries. Distractedly, he unscrewed the ink bottle with his teeth, using his other hand to rifle through the small drawer in the desk to look for a quill.

“Mercury, Mercury,” he muttered, rattling off a string of numbers that might’ve been today’s date. It was dim in the foyer, but astonishingly cosy with the warm lamps that lit the desk and the walls. You fought the urge to rock back and forth on your feet.

“Room twenty-one.” Like magic, he somehow managed to produce a key from the locked cabinet by his side in record time. It was a simple, elegant thing: heavy, adorned with only the small ‘21’ on the leather tag.

“Thanks,” you prepared to turn around after you took it, only for his hand to catch your sleeve.

“I’ll escort you there,” he said suddenly. Just like that, the feeling of dread for that awful silence took root once more. Your look of hesitation must’ve been apparent in the set of your brows, for he let out several exhales that might’ve been laughs.

“Don’t worry,” he added. “I promise I won’t be as quiet this time.”

[He really knows how to word things that can be misinterpreted so easily.]

“No, I understand how tiring working with customers is firsthand,” you shook your head. It was your turn to laugh – what the hell was this absurd situation? It hadn’t even been half an hour since you first met this stranger, so what was all this?

“Please,” he grinned freely now, and your breath caught in your throat at the unabashed flash of teeth. “Compared to some of the other guests today, talking to you is proving very interesting.”

“Should you really be saying that to another client, though?” you scratched at your ear in wonder. For all his earlier professionalism, it seemed genuine company was hard to come by in this remote place. You pitied him. In a way, he reminded you of your stint at the Ferdinand Institute – situated on the desert highway, you often spent long hours working with no new stimulus to keep your mind occupied.

“Who cares?” His smile had only grown. “Are you going to send a telegram to a newspaper about it? Talk to my boss?”

“You have a boss?” you pondered, too tired to question his tone.

“Who do you take me for?” he purred, leaning back on his desk. He looked much more in his element when he discarded the polite, stuffy cadence. “I am the boss, remember?”

“Must be nice,” you commented vapidly. Really, what was with all these managerial people treating you like an old buddy? First it was Dr Ferdinand, who acted much like a batshit family member on multiple occasions; then it was Vincent, who behaved like a gruff, affectionate grandfather; then it was Franklin Grantz, that business mogul who was just batshit in general; and finally, this guy.

Your eyes lit up with realisation.

They can smell the intern in me. Of course, that explained it.

“It really is.” He slid off the edge, pushing you with the leftover momentum. “Let’s go to your room, why don’t we?”

[Him and his ambiguous wording.]

“Sure.” Discreetly, you checked the time. 21:27.

“We serve a late dinner from nine to eleven-thirty,” he cheerfully explained. His hand was still delicately perched on your upper back, yet you somehow found you didn’t mind the contact. With the cool night air washing over you, his palm contained an unparalleled warmth.

“Bersha,” you tested out once more – his fingers twitched, almost imperceptibly. “How stocked is your bar?”

“Very well,” he replied smoothly: smile all sharp as though you could forget about his brief lapse in composure. “You need something to take the edge off too?”

“No,” you lied. He could probably tell. “Just wanted to sample some.”

“Of course.” Obviously, he feigned ignorance. Who did you think he was? “We’re here, by the way.”

When the door swung open, you hadn’t expected much. Boy, were you mistaken.

The deep, creamy scent of sandalwood floated through the space as you moved across the patterned tiles. Though it was spacious, the rich, gauzy fabrics pinned across the walls and red-burning lamps made the space appear a lot smaller and more comforting than it was. On the left hand side of the room were two long, arched windows that boasted stealing a piece of the sky – it connected to a small balcony, and your throat constricted at the thought of observing the familiar firmament by your lonesome.

When you tore your eyes away, your eyes caught at the large bed in the centre; those colourful, gauzy fabrics canopied the dark frame, while the mattress was stacked high with various pillows and blankets that could probably rival any hotel in this time period.

“You’re not even seeing the best part.” His voice was low enough that you could feel the words more than hear them; his breath ghosted faintly over your neck and almost made you shriek out in surprise. “Look to your right.”

There, standing proud in the corner, was a simple bathtub. Your eyes widened, however, at the sight of the taps on its edge – working plumbing was truly a sight to behold in this day and age.

It was a simple room, by all means. The clutter was not a clutter, and everything was designed to look as relaxing as possible. But you could tell – all of this furniture and fabric was of some of the highest quality possible.

“Fuck,” you breathed, already feeling your shoulders slump in what you could only imagine as bliss. “Bersha, you wonderful, wonderful person, you.”

“Hotel Bersha caters to all crowds,” he waved off magnanimously. “This is nothing.”

“Of course,” your words had the same, airy depth his had. Still, you could read between the lines and look at the delighted preen of his crinkled eyes – his aversion to being professional didn’t diminish the love he had for this place.

“Come find me in the foyer after you freshen up – I’ll take you to the dining room,” he instructed, already placing a warm hand on the door to leave. Then, hesitantly, his clear voice rang out in the large suite once more. “Unless you need my help locating the foyer once more?”

[Tough luck. I’ve already memorised the route.]

“I’ll be fine.” Were you imagining the slight droop of his shoulders? Fucking hell, finding someone as lonely as me is so surreal. “But don’t worry, I won’t make you wait long.”

“I’m not worrying.” A pause. “If you lack clothing, for any reason, there are some simple garments in the wardrobe in multiple sizes.”

How’d he know? You wondered for a brief few seconds, before concluding that the papers had never shown you dressed in anything other than your jacket, the same dark shirt, cargos and your chaps. There was no other conclusion – the only clothing you really had regular changes of was underwear and some looser garb you wore while your riding clothes dried.

“Thanks.”

When the door lock clicked shut, you remained static in space and time for a long moment. Even when the strap of your bag hit the tiled floor, it couldn’t break you out of the trance you were in.

[This is surprisingly pleasant compared to the other buffoons we met earlier.]

Yeah.

It was odd. For once, you allowed yourself the luxury of existing – breath in, breath out – rather than being.

Even as you filled a small porcelain basin with cold water, your mind was as placid and still as an undisturbed pool. While you’d normally discard your clothes on the ground after a tiring day, your emptied mind actually permitted you to fold and carefully place your clothes onto the tallboy that stood proud beside the wardrobe.

[That’s unusual.]

Damn right.

You wiped your body leisurely, starting at your naked face and gradually making your way down where the sweat had most affected your ability to move comfortably. It was a soothing ritual: slow and methodical like what Vincent had attempted to beat into you.

“Ain’t no point in screwing over your first attempt when it’ll take you twice the time to fix it later.”

As you checked in your bag pocket for the soap you’d use later, your fingers caught on a square of barely-opaque black fabric you’d purchased a few days before. Thoughtfully, your skin rubbed against the soft, breezy material. You’d originally bought it to have a spare of the jet cloth that covered your face, but it seemed you’d forgotten all about it.

Fuck it.

It was longer than your usual, and far lighter than you’d expected. Who cares? It would make eating and drinking much easier than the other. You only live once, anyway.

Peering into the cherry-wood wardrobe, you could see swathes upon swathes of jewel-toned fabrics, each differing in cut and make while being of undeniable quality. Simple garments my ass, you sighed, before picking two pieces at random based on how they ran across the nerves of your skin.

The shirt wrangled in your hands rippled, water-like with the way that cream fabric twisted and flowed from finger to finger. Despite its plain cut, it had its own charming flairs that accentuated the lines of your body seamlessly. You lifted the edge up slightly – the gauze beneath had just been changed, but you either had to wait until tomorrow to heal it or find another way to ease the pain.

Willow bark, perhaps. If you could connect the threads to biology classes, you faintly remembered the salicin compound being used in aspirin.

Tiredly, you began pulling on the muted red trousers you’d selected from the hanger in the wardrobe. Perhaps it was an unconscious decision on behalf of your sentimental mind; red had pervaded your senses for the past few months, whether as blood, your jacket, or even just the cherry-coloured stools at Vincent’s.

It hadn’t just been a few months, had it?

Red had been on your mind for years.

Shaking your head, you finally pulled out another puzzle piece from the tallboy – an elegant pair of gloves, far removed from the stained things you wore while riding. Like night and day, these pearlescent gloves could not be any more different if you tried.

Lastly came the accent: a long, breezy scarf that draped sanguine over your shoulders and down in the valley of your elbow. You really couldn’t help it – your body had moved instinctively. Curse this. How many times had you seen your mother winding and adjusting her luxury scarves over her tailored suits? Your easy motions were instinctual – a psychological need maybe, or a sociological one, to imitate the person who’d been with you from birth (however absent she had been onwards).

Your smile was wry. These were thoughts to share with a therapist, not to ruminate over as you headed to eat. Still, even with the slightly depressing atmosphere, you couldn’t deny you cut a striking figure in the borrowed clothes. The silhouette was simple, yet looked effortlessly put together; had Bersha studied fashion alongside his promising interior design career?

[You clean up surprisingly well.]

I’d say the same to you, but we both know that’s a lie.

[Just take the compliment, you little shit.]

The keys bit into your clothed palm as you grasped them tightly.

“Ah, ‘Mercury’, you’re already done–” The end of his question trailed off hesitantly; it fizzled out into the dark foyer like the smoke from a long-extinguished candlestick. Silently, you fiddled with the edge of the shawl wrapping around you.

“You look–” his cadence was notably rougher. “–wonderful.”

His wire glasses sat crooked on his nose. Harshly, he shoved the ledger he’d been skimming over into his cabinet; you could distinctly hear the heartbreaking sound of quality paper crumpling.

“Thanks.” You stuck your thumb up experimentally. “Your taste in clothing’s great.”

“Isn’t it just?” Rather than walking around the desk, he deftly swung his legs over the top and hopped from the ledge. You might’ve been mistaken, but the impression you got of him clinging in your shadow was one of a very enthusiastic leech. “What do you want to eat?”

I’m tired.

Something easy to eat.

I feel faint.

Something light on the stomach.

I’m injured.

Something with nutritional properties.

“Fried onion rings,” you requested shamelessly. Saliva was already forming exponentially with each food you named. A neat graph – rate is proportional to amount entered. “Fried potatoes. Stir-fried chicken with noodles. Beef stew–”

Your stomach gurgled. These aren’t anachronistic, are they? Well, if you really wanted to be anachronistic, you would’ve ordered something like a burger. Or a soda. Or–

“Fucking hell, you really don’t hold back.”

“I thank Hotel Bersha for being so – ah – able in catering to all customers,” you replied, shameless once more.

“You’re really shameless, you know that right?”

“I do.”

“Ha,” he sighed. Yet, strangely, you couldn’t feel disappointment nor exasperation in that short sound. Rather, the tiny aberrations of soundwaves at the very end sounded like a chuckle. Your eyes snapped open, and you peered back to see the smile from his face disappear that very instant.

“Our hotel chef is capable of delivering those,” he coughed, averting his gaze.

“Are you laughing at me?”

“Of course not,” his lips quivered out. “You’re my dear friend, are you not?”

Briefly, your breath caught in your lungs. Friend. The word had flowed out of him so easily, like water running its course. He said it so simply, and maybe it was just that simple all along.

“I…” you trailed off. What words could’ve ever explained the inexplicable? That torrent of emotions, like a broken dam, were struggling to stay contained.

“You treat all your clients like this?”

A feeble joke. You could barely contain the small, warm smile on your own face – disguised by the veil, but he could no doubt see the stretch of your cheeks with those shrewd eyes.

“‘Course not!” Be merry. Be the cheer who brings joy to others. “Since you’re my friend, and they’re not.”

“I suppose you’re right.” A formal acknowledgement. Friends. You lagged your gait by half a pace, just so you could walk shoulder to shoulder.

“Oh? Are we already here?” The door was still a dozen or so metres off from where the two of you were positioned in the corridor. Astonishingly, his gaze was evasive once more; it seemed the young owner of the hotel was a rather bashful man.

“Did you suddenly become shy?” you teased, voice lowering appropriately when you detected the hum of hushed conversations beyond those polished wooden doors.

“Of course not,” he slid in front of you to press the wrought iron handle – almost nonchalantly. It might’ve been the dim lighting. It might’ve been the shadows playing tricks. It might just have been the musings of a hallucinating, sleep-deficient mind. It might’ve been all three factors, yet your eyes nonetheless picked it up. A subtle red-maroon hue where his ears had been sienna previously.

Trick of the light. Deny it as you would, it seemed your palms were experiencing a white-hot warmth as well.

Fuck. Why didn’t I notice this earlier?

You thanked whatever god existed that the gloves you wore were opaque.

Those shitty tattoos–

[I was under the impression you quite liked them? What changed?]

– those shitty tattoos were beginning to glow under your gloves!

Did it change when you grew flustered? Fuck, fuck.

The colours from the lines bled into the white faintly – a canvas, stained with chromatic incandescence and light diffraction. A canvas, set free from human limitation and instead taking on shape as a soul. Free from its mortal coil. Utterly embarrassing.

You didn’t warn me about this, you rat!

[Oops.]

You took a deep breath. Two, three. The blood crept back into the wound.

You were ordinary once more.

“What’s the hold up?” Those accursed hands formed a triangle on his upper back, pushing him from where he stood grounded at the open doorway. Go, before I become the Human Torch.

“Nothing, nothing.” Even after you moved your hands backwards through space, he still leaned back into them.

A lightbulb sparked then in your mind. Edison had created a miracle once more.

This guy was as touch deprived as you!

[Now that’s an achievement.]

Shut the fuck up.

The room was longer and narrower than you’d expected: wooden furnishings, no windows, and a door on the other end of the stretch. If you had to compare it to anything in the modern world, you would’ve named an omakase joint, though the tall shelf of liquor and glasses directly behind made it seem more like a fusion bar.

“The actual dining room is connected to the bar,” Bersha quickly explained. “I figured you might want a drink before eating.”

Ordinarily, it would’ve been a problem to drink on an empty stomach–

“I’ll take you up on that.”

[So you can use me to be a drunkard, but you can’t heal yourself?]

–but you could use Depeche Mode to prevent any alcohol poisoning.

Or not.

I’ll only have a drink or two, you rationalised.

“Take a seat, then,” he grinned, ducking behind the counter and opening the door concealed by the overwhelming shelf of drinks. “I’ll quickly talk to the chef whilst you get comfortable.”

“Sure thing.”

Your thumb shot up. He disappeared, and your hand shot down just as quickly.

I won’t get drunk, so don’t make any moves. If you actually used Personal Jesus, it was very likely that you’d collapse from exhaustion – therefore any usage would have to wait until you got back to your room.

[Good choice.]

You slumped into a chair roughly in the middle of the long bar, propping an elbow up on the glossy sepia counter. It was faint, but you could smell the woody scent of varnish and tree mingling into one organic entity.

Maybe it’s not a good idea to take a depressant.

With your recent emotional turmoil, you’d probably end up drowning yourself in the bathtub. You’d strictly keep to small amounts of alcohol, just enough to taste the burn.

“Oh? You’re following me all the way out here, are you now?”

It was a familiar voice. A distinctly jarring, grating voice. You didn’t look. The hallucination would sort itself out soon.

Nah. Can’t be him.

“See, I knew you were obsessed, but this is a bit much.”

Can’t hurt to check. Your eyes slowly meandered to your left–

You shrieked. If you had any more energy, you would’ve sprung from your seat and dashed madly away in fear.

“What the actual fuck?”

Standing before you was none other than Diego Brando. True to his distinct style, he wore pressed cream trousers and a loose-knit, teal sweater; you were thoroughly fascinated with just how bad his taste ran. Though he’d sported a self-satisfied smirk at his words, it had crumpled slightly at your horrified proclamation.

You might’ve exaggerated it for the theatrics, but jokes aside, you were properly horrified. Instead of relaxing this evening, you now had to deal with this buffoon.

Depeche Mode, don’t detoxify me even if I get blackout drunk. Don’t let me deal with him sober, I beg of you.

“Argh, my eyes!” You wailed, mimicking the clawed motions of grabbing them. “My deadliest weakness – terrible – koff – fashion sense – koff – has arrived!”

Best act like a madman right off the bat.

He ignored you.

“Sorry about that,” you cleared your throat. “I think I’m allergic to bad taste. Hayfever season, you know.”

[It’s September.]

He tried ignoring you once more, but you could see the faint vein in his forehead protruding and the tension in his jaw. Your vindication was feeling pleasantly soothed; you’d get the last laugh this time. Really, why had you avoided him all this time?

Ah. That was right.

If you aggravated him needlessly, he could make your life extraordinarily difficult. Money. Influence. Reputation. These were the cards he wielded. Well, money and reputation were of no consequence to you – no matter what public image was, it wouldn’t affect your work in the shadows.

That left one card he could match against you. His very own Joker – influence. You needed that, and you couldn’t let him figure that out. Pointlessly aggravating him had its own risks, but you honestly didn’t think he’d figure you out from that.

And it wasn’t like he knew who you were.

“Anyways,” you commented vapidly, changing the topic to its previous state. If he wanted to get his punches in, you’d let him. You didn’t hold back with your smile – it was all under your veil, after all. You’d get your revenge for him having the last word at the weapon shop, then again at those stables.

Here, you really had nothing to lose.

It had been different in the future. At university, status and intimidation were nothing new to you. Your family didn’t come from money, nor did it exert any considerable influence over regional politics.

There was nothing to gain from standing up for yourself. Just everything to lose: your studies, your friendships, your potential for the future.

“Why are you here?” Perfect. The optimal amount of disgust to make it seem like you actually had things to lose in this exchange. You really were a natural thespian.

Now, there was nothing to lose here, and everything to gain.

“Don’t be shy – you can tell me you were stalking me,” he simpered. Now that you thought about it, didn’t you see a flash of that ugly blue in the stables while you were half-unconscious?

You quickly grew agitated. Was it just you, or was Depeche Mode’s nook in your sternum growing increasingly colder?

Depeche Mode. You’re dead.

“Must be all your pent-up feelings of jealousy and inferiority after I placed first,” he slid into the stool next to yours – unconsciously, you leaned to the right while keeping a wary eye on him. ”Are you that hung up over that ten point difference between us?”

You knew how to deal with people like him: those who used their oily charms to probe for weakness, then ruthlessly used that shortcoming against people they wanted something from. You had to be their antithesis.

An eccentric fool. A madman with nothing to lose. Someone who took each careful piece of flattery as a threat and each provocation as nothing more than a feeble breeze.

“Come now, why do you know how many points I have, you creep?” you scoffed derisively. “Even I don’t pay attention to that.”

That’s right. His god-given talent as a jockey meant nothing in this argument.

I’m not here to win this race.

“Your name is right below mine in the papers, dimwit. I didn’t ask to see your ugly alias, but here we are,” he doubled down, both defensive and offensive.

“Sorry, I don’t really care about the papers. How does it feel to beat a total novice at racing?” Your cadence drew out the syllables for longer. Sincerity. It sounded sincere, but you had aptly demonstrated it was anything but. “The first stage was just beginner’s luck – sorry if you took it personally.”

“Hah! Weren’t you the one getting all pig-headed about second place?”

You shrugged.

“Why’d you take it seriously? It’s a big deal to beat the so-called Prince of Jockeys, but a given vice-versa.” It was true – of course some irrelevant extra would flaunt getting an edge over a riding celebrity like Diego Brando; that was if they either had a death wish or seriously had no regard for the consequences. Unfortunately for him, you were the latter. “Didn’t your management team tell you to ignore the trolls?”

“You little fucker–” his hands twitched – you could tell he was fighting the violent urge to strangle you there and then. “Watch as I thoroughly humiliate you–”

He’s this close to losing it, you savoured. You could taste victory on your tongue: pooling with a sweetness you hadn’t thought possible.

“Oh, you’re into that?”

A shift in expression towards the incredulous.

“Take me on a date first, why don’t you?”

A furious sneer, pulling at his lips.

“Don’t worry, I won't kiss and tell,” you cooed.

The final nail in the coffin. His fate was as good as sealed. The last word.

“You bastard–”

He might’ve lunged for you at that moment. The possibility was certainly there. Unfortunately for Mr Diego Brando, that future never came to fruition.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything?” Your saviour’s voice cut through the tension as easily as a flaming sword through butter. Immediately, the man to your left stiffened; composure seeped back into his flesh. Just like he was taught. Excellent. You’d ended up with the last word, and you’d thoroughly established yourself as a crazed bastard.

“Bersha! Perfect timing.” The warmth in your tone was unmistakable. With the sudden lustre in your eyes that hadn’t been present mere moments ago, even with the perfect lighting, was it really so impossible to believe you’d gone mad?

“Oh? Making friends with another client?” He tilted his head, but you could clearly see the shit-eating grin beginning to emerge on his face. This fucker – did he think you were so gullible as to not recognise signs of eavesdropping?

“Nah.” You carefully contemplated your next words then lowered your voice as if to whisper – conveniently overlooking that the target of your whisper was sat right next to you. “I’m not interested in lunatics.”

Diego’s face was going through the five stages of grief: puce, scarlet, wax-yellow, corpse grey, and finally a wonderful shade of light green that looked rather fetching with his sweater.

Fucking hell. If you died now, you’d be happy.

You could hear his mental cogs whirring: a furious debate as to whether to leave or not. Only two people were there to witness his shame, yet one was the owner of the hotel and the other was someone who caused it in the first place. He could save face and ignore you, or he could prevent the further torment and simply leave.

You couldn’t bring yourself to feel much pity for him, even if it would cost you later down the lane.

“I’m just kidding,” you added, placing your chin onto your open palm in a final gesture of leisure. This, more than anything, was the real insult. You’d played him like the cheap plastic yo-yo he was; evident to all three people in the room. “He’s my – ah – acquaintance.”

You spared him no more than a cursory glance, the words he mouthed at that moment were clear as day: ‘you’re dead’. His glare was chilling, filled with so much hatred that it multiplied your first impression of him tenfold.

He genuinely hated you. He really hated you now.

But it didn’t really put a dent in your morale. If anything, you hated him and people like him as well. Oily bastards who felt entitled to everything, yet gave nothing in return. Once you gain your power, what will you use it on? Yourself, or the people you rule over? You were familiar with corruption.

Yet, despite it all, he still couldn’t leave. He was a prick, but he was a nosy one, and to keep up his unruffled (see: very ruffled) appearance, he’d have to stay and absorb whatever information he could about you. This was a valuable opportunity – you seemed to be friends with someone of influence, after all.

You’d capitalise on this strand of thinking. Sure, it seemed like you were networking to gain influence – which was what you’d initially avoided – but this type made you seem a lot more shallow and materialistic than you were. Good. You didn’t know what ties Diego Brando had with Funny Valentine, but this would create a hindrance you would absolutely capitalise on.

With him stirring up trouble for your imaginary financial and reputational prospects, the attention would naturally fall to your materialistic and greedy properties. But what if – what if – he caught on and ruined any standing you’d have with information organisations? What if – what if – he decided to purposefully spread information about you being cunning and clever instead?

Nah. He’s too prideful to acknowledge me like that.

He hates me. Fuck, these thoughts were like Chekhov’s gun – bitter foreshadowings of possibilities.

You shouldn’t have interfered with people who knew how to play the social game.

Shit, I can’t be sober for this.

“–a drink, Mercury?”

“Yes,” you replied, a little too quickly, a little too keenly. It was unintentional, but you cemented yourself as a mad drunkard even further. At the last word of his, you’d felt Diego’s gaze on you for a brief moment like the fleeting rest of a butterfly, before flitting away.

He had a clue now. You knew he’d dig for information – ceaselessly and thoroughly. He’d run into a few problems though: his contacts here would no doubt be weaker than those in England; you’d used false names constantly, even at Vincent’s; and finally, and most damningly, you had no identity here. No papers, no record. You’d never be in the annals of history, because nobody knew who you were here.

The most he’d get would be your employment with Vincent. Nothing more, nothing less.

It almost made you feel bad. Come to think of it, maybe there was a way to obscure yourself even further.

“Which drink?” he replied, patiently, when you didn’t specify.

A face covering drew attention, but it was necessary. If you had time travelled, there could be others, others who could possibly recognise you and foil your plans. But with the face covering, weren’t you extremely conspicuous? Fuck, you thought. The cameras of this time weren’t particularly clear nor good; you could capitalise on that too. You shook yourself briefly – you’d think about this shit later.

To slake your thirst, you needed the drink you’d been dreaming of for the past few months. Sure, cognac and vodka were swift in delivering that burning energy you craved – but that wasn’t good enough for today.

“A strawberry daiquiri,” you salivated. “With crushed ice. And a straw.”

If you recalled, the classic was formed in the rough 19th century in South America, while the version with strawberry puree was significantly more modern. Oh well. There was no use in keeping with the chronology when there were likely hundreds of drinks created at the hands of mixologists, while they simply weren’t revealed to the public.

“You’ve been to Santiago de Cuba?” He bent down to retrieve an engraved shaker. Ah, that must be the city where the classic originated, you thought. If you revealed yourself as a bartender, that would create unnecessary links between your identity and Vincent. “The drink is currently localised, is it not?”

“It is localised,” you acknowledged. “My friend recommended the drink to me–” On that disastrous trip to Miami. “–while I enjoy the taste of strawberries.”

You had the ingredients for the classic cocktail back at Vincent’s, but fruit was rarely ever accounted for in the budget. It was a miracle alone that you’d convinced him to include more citrus fruits in the quarterly books – the import tax made purchasing a lot more difficult than the modern world. Scurvy is no joke.

“Ah, that explains why I haven’t heard of that specific blend yet,” he shook his head. “It’ll require strawberry puree in the mixture, correct?”

“Yes.” You were pleasantly surprised at the appearance of wild strawberries on the counter behind the bar. Though you’d expected a rich hotel like this to have all sorts of ingredients, to produce the fruit so easily was rather impressive for this time period. Wild strawberries, you glanced thoughtfully. Were they homegrown? “Please make four.”

“Oh?” An eyebrow quirked upwards.

“Two for me, one for my friend here, and one for you,” you pointed at each person in question, crinkling your eyes warmly at Diego’s discomfort. “I’m not that much of a drunkard.”

Whether he stayed or left, you either got an extra drink out of it or his further shame. You could feel the hatred, piercing holes through sinew and flesh, reaching for your cerebral cortex and burning straight through it.

Beyond it all, however, was the desire to understand who you were. Understand your character, so he could crush you completely. It almost made your heart warm. You’d never been much of a threat to anybody before.

His resolution was hard as steel.

He stayed sitting.

[ He’s a masochist, isn’t he. ]

Bersha stayed smiling.

[He’s enjoying this far too much.]

The low murmur of company beyond the leftmost door accompanied the static silence of the bar.

This place seriously needs some jazz.

“Bersha,” you tested. Seeing as Diego didn’t react to the name, it must’ve been the same one he’d been given – great. It wouldn’t be any good if he started assuming more than what was actually tangible. “You’re interested in architecture, right?”

His eyes snapped up. The sienna canvas of his skin had been stained with strawberry juice, while the flesh of the fruit had been pulverised with cane sugar in the mortar. It was a surprisingly bloody sight, made all the more disconcerting by his brightening beam.

“Yes, yes.” He picked out a bottle of white rum, deftly flipping it from hand to hand. “I actually remodelled this hotel in the style of–”

“–a riad?” you interjected thoughtfully. “I noticed it earlier. It’s a good building for the desert.”

“Oh?” His eyes twinkled slightly. “I’ve had guests compare it to a patio Andalusí , but you’re one of the few to guess correctly. You ever been to al-Maghrib ?”

Morocco. In your time, the heavy restrictions made travel from America to any country nigh-impossible. Forget escaping. You dug your nails into your leg, hidden from view. Forget any ties to ‘your’ culture. The American Dream – homogenise under our President Funny Valentine.

Are you watching, Diego? Are you feeling more and more hatred for me?

“Unfortunately not,” you shook your head in regret. And it was regret, more than anything. It stung bitter at your heart. If it weren’t for Valentine, you would have travelled the world. You would have experienced the wonders of humanity and nature’s coexistence for yourself, rather than looking at it through sun-bleached photographs and the internet. “I’d love to, though.”

“Really? I could take you one day,” he offered. The scarlet liquid sloshed into the shaker – it stained the crushed ice and diluted through the white rum like blood in the water. “I could be your guide and translator.”

“I’d like that,” you leaned slightly forward, enough to catch Diego’s disgusted expression before he composed himself. How does it feel to third wheel? Feeling the urge to kill me yet? If Diego really was part of the Valentine network, the focus on you from him would be petty hatred and not because you were in alleged possession of a corpse part.

As he carefully decanted the rich crimson into glasses, you accidentally dropped the paper ribbon you’d been fiddling with to release your tension. It wasn’t anything special – just a thin scrap you’d been winding against your gloved fingers. If it was naked flesh against paper, you wouldn’t have been so careless either.

Regardless of would-haves and should-haves, the ribbon fluttering to the wooden floorboards was very real and an unfortunate event. Thus, you sliding off your stool was a perfectly foreseeable event. Retrieving the paper was easy. Ascending back to the world of gods was not. The movement pulled at the hastily dressed wound on your side, and you bit back all the curses you knew as you felt the bandages rub against it.

Worst of all, you could see Diego from your peripherals – he appraised you with a stone-cold neutrality that lacked any sympathy whatsoever. It almost made you laugh. You mustered up every ounce of strength you had and sat up in your chair with a serene expression.

“Here,” Bersha slid your two drinks onto your section of the bar, while sliding Diego his. Before you jabbed your straw into the harsh pink clouds, something suddenly clicked in your mind. Who said you weren’t a genius?

“Thanks.” You were pleasantly surprised hearing the man beside you mutter his gratitude as well, but that wasn’t something you were particularly focused on.

Anti-inflammatory. Pain reliever. Grows in Arizona, specifically the desert.

You’d buy Diya coffee forever. A few months ago, she’d taken on the role of material analyst for one of her friends who was planning on publishing a study on herbal medicine in North America. As luck would have it, she’d asked you for help – unpaid, on overtime, but you took it anyway as she was your junior in the grand scheme of interns.

Regenerative. Anti-fungal. Anti-viral. You could both drink it as chaparral tea or use it as an ointment – its phytochemical components allowed it for medicinal use. Any toxicity could be purged come morning.

“Creosote bush,” you mumbled, wracking your brain for any other instances of use.

“Sorry?”

“Bersha,” you named him seriously, idling with the icy glass cradled in your hands and a furrow in your brows. “Do you know if there’s any Creosote bushes nearby?”

Fuck. If only you’d remembered what it looked like.

“Oh? Aren’t you just filled with surprises,” he remarked teasingly. But despite the amicable facade, you noticed the knowing gleam in his pitch black eyes as he assessed you up and down as he walked from behind the counter to sit at your right side. “You won’t be able to find them now, but I’ve got the chaparral tea and some of its sap available in the medicine storeroom – I’ll send it up later for your use.”

“Thanks.”

It was silence once more – a reverent hush from you and a stony one from Diego – and you finally took the opportunity to exist in this tranquil place. Bersha was like a furnace on your right side, made all the more so by your pre-existing lean towards that area.

This was the ambiance you liked (though you still sorely craved lounge music to fill in those tiny puzzle pieces).

Red galaxies exploded on your tongue. After so long in the desert, the daiquiri was the water of the oasis. Your tastebuds sang at the strawberry nectar, while the tartness of the lime fought for priority in the back of your mouth. It was sweet, all the more so from the rum that hid behind it all. A quality white rum, you noticed with raised eyebrows. He knows what he’s doing. Almost undetectable – yet dotted throughout the landscape – were the notes of coconut and banana from the liqueur, an ode to the tropics.

This.

Diego could kill you here where you sat and you’d die happy. Correction, you could die happy when you finished your second drink.

This is nice.

“It’s a clever addition to the classic,” the hotel owner was the first to break the silence. “It adds more dimension to the sweet and sour balance.”

“Right?” With the straw, you could easily drink beneath the veil. You thanked all your lucky stars that straws were traced all the way back to three-thousand BCE; you would’ve cried had Bersha gotten you a piece of hay to drink from if you asked. “It was all I could think of in the desert.”

Diego exhaled sharply: a non-committal, on-brand response.

It took you everything you had to stifle the maniacal laughter that threatened to spill over from the proverbial pot. Who would’ve thought – you were drinking with someone who had such tremendous pride that he couldn’t leave an embarrassing situation without losing face, someone who wanted to strangle you and spit on your grave. What was even more absurd was the fact he was steadily sipping from the glass: a picture of calm that belied the storm beneath.

You sweated slightly. Who knew what monstrous thoughts he harboured?

Maybe this was his plan – to make things as awkward as possible for you. The lull in the conversation and that subsequent itchy feeling was a rather potent revenge; you got the feeling it was only the beginning.

Whatever. This was a piece of cake for you.

Enduring the silence was easy. Enduring the tipsy Bersha beside you was not.

This cocktail isn’t even that strong, you frowned – then it hit you. Just like at Vincent’s, the drinks had a higher alcohol percentage. There was no real regulation for strength; the realisation made you sweat slightly more.

[It won’t affect you as much. Think of it as a passive.]

Diego kept his quiet. He was almost completely done with his glass – a tumbler double the capacity of a usual cocktail glass – but it appeared he kept his liquor well. Bersha, however, did not.

“Fuck, Mercury,” he leaned across the bar, peering at you through soot-black lashes. “You really oughta write to me sometime.”

It was an innocent request. So, why exactly did it imply so much more?

[Dear lord.]

You wanted to bury your face in your hands.

“Yes, yes, I’ll write you letters.” you promised.

Sometime during the evening, Diego had left without a word; the chime of the door marked his absence. It seemed he’d gotten the information he’d been looking for. Or maybe the breathy borderline flirtations made by Bersha towards you grew too much for him to bear.

One does need to mind their limits while third wheeling, you nodded sagely. Or maybe drunkenly. If you focused, the beat of time from your palm felt more sluggish than usual.

You didn’t miss him.

What you did miss, however, was Bersha’s presence.

Once your food had come out, the man in question had eagerly introduced both the chef and the hotel manager to you – two men who appeared to be mirror images of each other. Same dark, curling hair, same arched nose and same polite smile that seemed slightly exasperated by their wonderful director. Their only difference was their clothing: a sharp suit versus a clinical jacket made for cooking.

Their brief surprise at their boss being hammered next to you was quickly absolved when you asked if they could help you take him to where his room was. At that moment, though they only appeared a few years older than Bersha at best, they looked more like good-natured uncles than mere colleagues.

“We told him to not get too drunk,” the chef shook his head. He slung the boss’ right arm over his shoulder.

“But he’s a bit of an idiot,” the butler finished. He slung the boss’ left arm over his shoulder.

Like a bizarre double act, the trio slowly exited through the doors to your right, and you were left with your plates of food: fried potatoes, fried onion rings, stir-fried chicken with noodles, and beef stew. Just like he said.

If you teared up, no you didn’t.

Food truly had the power to transcend all boundaries. For a minute, you were back at your crumbling apartment: takeout boxes on top of overdue bills, a shitty TV programme running in the background while you took a moment to simply savour each bite of greasy food. Alone, while your neighbours argued through the thin walls. Alone, while the tinny sounds of dialogue from the show played phantom family with you. Alone, while the knock on the door you waited for never came.

It was funny.

When it came to mealtime, you had nobody to sit with. Not even now.

It was funny. Hot tears raced down your cheeks, dripping uselessly into your noodles. You could taste the salt in each bite – felt the regret in each morsel. Nothing’s changed. This was all you’d ever known.

A dinner for one. Greyish peas, rolling off a fork. A Chanel handbag, resting primly on a chair that hadn’t been used in months. And lastly, the wretched actor on the stage – you. You with your microwavable dinner that had once been a novelty and now tasted like sawdust, in an apartment that was too big for a child yet too small for the mother who had left the nest.

Each potato was a dream crushed in your greedy mouth. Each onion ring was an eternal circle of lonesome. Each piece of beef torn by your canines was another person vanishing from your life. And finally, the noodles were the strings of fate you could never escape.

You bit. You chew. Methodically, with each flavour bleeding into one eternal bitterness and each sorrow overlapping, you ate.

It was a nice meal. Like all meals, it started and ended alone – devouring yourself and getting devoured in return. Ouroboros. Reborn from itself.

It was a nice concept.

You neatly stacked the plates, lining them up one by one into a Babel uncomprehended. Loss of communication. What a novel idea.

The final mouthful of alcohol. The bread and the wine.

Your last supper had concluded.

You resurfaced from the now-cold water with a gasp.

[ Pull yourself together. ]

How long– how long was I out?

[You moron. You went under for almost a minute without breathing. After that, cell death in the brain would have begun. Were you trying to die?]

No– I wasn’t– I wasn’t.

You heaved, pulling yourself from the wretched tub. Those borrowed clothes were soaked through, while the veil on your face further obstructed the oxygen that you so desperately needed. You ripped it off; it tore away easily, knot and all.

Inhale. A wretched, vicious thing. It clawed through your mouth and down your trachea – gasping – pleading for life.

Depeche Mode was silent, but its silence was grave and burdensome.

Exhale. The familiar, robotic motions of oxygen diffusion and the burning of your lungs began. Your legs shook as you stood in the bathtub and stepped out.

Your eyes snagged on your reflection: a pitiful thing, dressed in drenched scraps and the bright moonlight. A glum countenance, streaked with tears and the remnants of a scream, greeted you from its ornate frame.

You turned away, plucking the shirt from your body until your skin was bare and true. Mindlessly, you applied the creosote sap that had been sent to your room; it shone silver in the face of the light. Detached as you were, you couldn’t even feel the sting.

Trancelike, your body moved to the tall windows that led to the balcony.

It’s not fair.

Your eyes reflected the constellations, while your tears captured the galaxies far beyond.

I don’t want to be here.

The cool wind buffeted the waterlogged clothes still wrapped around your body.

But I don’t want to die like this.

You stood in that void for a long time.

. 　⁺ ✦

He hated you.

It had started off with mild interest. You, who were clearly uncaring or plain ignorant of the intrinsic politics that ran through this race, versus him, who breathed such intricacies in on the daily like a quality cigar. Yet despite your crude and uncouth behaviour, he could see that determination to see something through. He could respect that.

To the esteemed Baron,

Diego took a long drag of the cognac on the small glass table; he could hardly feel the burn with how much fury buffered away at his heart. He understood rudeness; the man parried and used it as a means to survive as a scrawny stableboy. Know when to pick fights and stand your ground. It was a lesson that had been beaten into him from a very young age.

I hope this missive finds you well. I trust you’ve taken care of our ‘press’ing matter? As it stands, there appears to be another; these troublesome wretches just keep finding me, after all.

In the beginning, he was willing to forgive a fellow stray dog like him. You, with your cheap clothes and fierce, familiar eyes; uncomfortable with his presence yet still willing to assert your mind. Yes, he could use you. The mark of poverty and desperation was on you: exploitable.

Do you recall when we spoke about your vassals in the States? This time, I will need the ‘books’. One of my competitors is proving to be quite the infuriating conundrum.

He’d kissed your hand. He’d done it many times, to ladies and men who could match you a hundredfold. They sickened him, but you sickened him more. You reeked of bravado – insufferable bravado. Yet, that small, disgusting gesture allowed him to spot just what lay beneath it.

( “Pawns that have no use can be disposed of.” )

You thought you were so clever. A flimsy disguise would never fool anyone. You were foolish, and that was your undoing.

Did you think you’d concealed your traces effectively? Did you think you could humiliate him and get away with it? Did you think you could hide behind that man forever?

He’d seen those familiar lines somewhere. Those colours, those swirls just at your wrists where your gloves failed to cover. Familiar, how? He closed his eyes contemplatively.

Mercury, Mr Brisk-and-Irate. Competitor C141. I am telling you, the middleman, to negotiate for any and all information there is from your guild.

He despised you. Every time you opened your mouth, it was clear you looked down on him. Acting oblivious, then insulting, then pure degrading – did you think he was an idiot? Who did you think he was? You were a nobody, tolerated once by him since he pitied you. Did you think that gave you a right to talk down to him?

“I mean, yeah, since you’re pretty short,” he could almost hear your voice, nails against the chalkboard. He shuddered in disgust.

At least Johnny knew his place. He was pathetic – snot-nosed and snivelling with his brother alive, and a coward without. A coward, who pretended he knew what the world was and was sorely betrayed by reality once he truly found out.

He’d been looked down upon before. The man who mocked his mother when she refused to sell herself to him. Those cretins who made his life hell in the Joestar estate. Those pompous, shit-faced fucks who had the gall to call themselves nobles.

How ludicrous. You had no reason to look down on him: no power, no class, no money. That irritated him more than anything else. It was easy to convince himself you were simply a madman, yet that perturbed him. He was missing something.

The cold night air blew through the large balcony windows and momentarily disturbed his focus. It angered him, until he opened his eyes and saw movement from the balcony diagonally above from him.

A figure emerged on the terracotta stone, seemingly in a trance. Soaked trousers clung black to drenched hips, while a waterlogged shawl rested on his waist. They bared their naked torso to the empty universe, enduring the harsh wind with a blank expression. No, it wasn’t blank. Tears dripped down a miserable face: mercurial in the moonlight. It was a face of infinite sorrows.

He had half a mind to call out. Yet, contrary to his expectations, the person stayed looking at the stars. An immovable statue glowing with silver streaks in the pearly light rays had emerged. His breath caught.

The ink on his quill bled into the page.

This vulnerability – he’d seen similar faces, sobbing and pleading with him, curled and writhing on the floor where they belonged. But this, this mixture of pride and serenity, made vulnerable only by your tears and half-clothed body – this was new. Was it your dignity, or was it a complete detachment from yourself?

From your state, he guessed the latter. Judging by your drenched clothes, it seemed you’d gone for a swim in the tub. Still, even the detachment present above him held its own sort of dignity. You didn’t flinch at the boreal night, nor did you so much as wince. It was rather like looking at an abandoned mannequin: devoid of life save its final art that humans had clothed it in.

The wind stirred his curtains further, revealing you fully.

He froze.

Those clothes, he knew. Those eyes, he recognised. Those lines, decorating your hands and forearms, he could call to mind even without you present. That stupid rider.

But that key piece was your face.

He could still remember the sensation: a warm shoulder, colliding with his own like a brutal accident on the track; an angry face, lit up only by the oil lamps that dotted that small hallway; and finally, your impudence from the very beginning.

“Watch it,” you had snapped, then scurried off like a rabbit the second he glared at you. It had been hilarious at the time – no, really, he was laughing. Was this revenge for what happened back then? For a menial labourer, you really were optimistic.

“Ha!” he let out, practically writhing in disgust. That was you up there? He’d wasted precious time because he was staring at you? It revolted him. He could feel bile coat his tongue. To think, the person he’d laughed at and the person he abhorred were one and the same. It was poetic.

Yet, despite his revulsion, he couldn’t help but stare a little longer. It was like watching a train crash – or not being able to tear your eyes away from a corpse no matter how hard you tried – a type of morbid fascination that compelled his eyes to trace across you.

He didn’t think you were a madman any longer. What was that bar in San Diego called again?

There was something calculative about it all. It was like him, and he hated every bit of that realisation. After humiliating him, you dared covet what was his?

This – this was the moment where you’d shed all of that. There’s something making you vulnerable. He just had to find it and exploit it.

I’d also like to find out information on all the workers at Vincent’s, specifically about any labourers. There aren’t many to look out for, considering the on-scene evidence I gathered. If possible, please allow your vassal to contact me directly. I need this information quickly.

Why did you conceal your identity? With the rate it was going at, any information pertaining to the masked rider was astonishingly sought after. Who were you?

After finding out your motives, should he reveal you to the press, or should he savour his revenge? No, he had to savour it. If he leaked your information too carelessly, it would certainly chase you away.

Blackmail. His lips twitched into a smile.

It wasn’t enough, this time, to send someone to do his dirty work for him like he had with that reporter. He needed to get his hands stained for this; in this lawless no man’s land, he’d get involved directly.

Your colleague, Diego.

. 　⁺ ✦

Bersha came to see you in the early morning, bearing breakfast as a token of apology. The greyish tone of his skin was apology enough – you didn’t particularly mind his closeness, but it was unexpected to say the least.

“Sorry about yesterday,” he groaned, massaging his temples. “This is exactly why I stick to serving drinks and not actually drinking them.”

“It’s fine,” you mumbled through a pastry and through your repaired veil. It was exquisite – light and buttery with a flakiness that pleased your tongue immensely. “Happens to all of us.”

“I can’t stay for long, since I need to manage the rest of the morning rush soon,” he continued. If you looked closely, you could see the resigned set of his lips and the wistfulness in his eyes.

Speaking of managing a hotel…

“Wait a fucking minute,” you muttered, desperately wracking your brains for all of yesterday’s memories. “I haven’t paid for anything yet, right?”

No wonder something felt off. No wonder you’d felt that nervousness yesterday.

But despite your apprehension, the man in front of you wore nothing but a smile. Well, no, he still had his clothes on. Correction, he wore nothing but his clothes and a smile.

“It’s fine. Just write me letters, sweetheart.”

Your hands were shoved deep into your pockets. This man seriously needs another class on economics and business studies to stop operating at a loss.

“Will do,” you muttered, evading his affectionate eyes. Don’t do that.

It was only when he’d left that you released the tense air lodged in your throat. He’s going to be the death of me.

“Fucking hell.”

As you ate, you tried your best to ignore the glowing lines on your hands.

[Look at the newspaper quickly.]

It was only at Depeche Mode’s hurried insistence that the light finally died down. Just like that brat had said, you had a ten-point difference between you and the leading player – Diego Fucking Brando. You’d tried your best to skim past it, but it had been impossible to tear your eyes away.

But that wasn’t the thing the Stand urged you to look at.

Rather, its attention was fixated upon the photo of the next destination of the race: a curling mountain, seemingly artificial with the way the peaks were formed.

[Does it not remind you of anything, you idiot?]

You paused, shovelling more of the fruit down your throat before glancing again.

“No?” you garbled. But before you could fully focus on your food once more, that corpse arm flashed through your mind again. Movere crus.

That stupid peak was shaped like that last word – crus.

[See, dingbat. I knew you had it in you.]

Wait, you chewed thoughtfully. If the corpse parts had the clues of where the others were hidden, you could use that to your advantage. Find out where the others were, and fob them off onto people not affiliated with Valentine. There were bound to be other parties who wanted the corpse, right?

I’ll wait for them to appear.

You knew exactly where you were headed next.

Your destination was one and the same as all those corpse-seekers.

. 　⁺ ✦

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