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Chapter Text

1880, Ogre Street, London

Bang. Bang.

Robert can imagine the sound perfectly. How it would have echoed through the dismal alleys of Ogre Street. Would they have yelled? Hollered out indecipherable screams as the filthy peelers shot at them. Robert didn’t see the shooting with his own eyes. If he was there, he would have jumped in front of those two boys and let the bullets barrel straight through his torso.

Kempo Master and Tattoo were their names. Not their real ones. People usually kept that type of thing a secret, especially when you’re a thief on the run in lovely ol’ Ogre Street. Robert would reckon that those two kids were no older than 15 or 16, shot dead in a dank alley by some sloshed-to-death policemen. The two boys were caught by the cops trying to pilfer from some blue-blooded bint parading herself through the streets.

Caught by some dirty peelers and beaten before being shot in the head. Left in the alley to rot. The thought almost makes Robert sick. Robert would say that he and the two boys used to be associates— friends, even.

He remembered seeing them only last Friday, when the three of them were nicking fancy watches from any daring gentlemen that went down Ogre Street’s path. Robert remembers how Kempo Master and Tattoo were teaching him how to do a proper pocket-pick.

“It’s all in the wrists.” Robert remembers Tattoo saying, swinging a beautiful pocket watch in the air as the old bloke who once owned it kept sauntering forward, unaware. Robert was older by at least a year, but he deemed it necessary to learn from more seasoned thieves if he wanted to join the Ogre Street gang. Tattoo and Kempo Master had laughed as they stalked a posh little boy with rings that shone like the sun.

Now they were dead.

“—Speedwagon?”

Speedwagon. That wasn’t Robert’s real name. He had to make it up when the older gang members had asked for a last name. Robert never knew his parents, but he would bet his right arm that their last names weren’t Speedwagon. He looks down at the voice that had called him, and is met with the piercing gaze of a young girl.

“Portia, what’s wrong, luv?” Robert asks. Portia wears a look that could rival a lion. She was the one who had delivered the news to him, but she didn’t allow even a single twitch in her brow as she told Robert of the two boy’s deaths. Portia’s a strong girl. Robert knows that she was just as saddened as him over their deaths.

Portia is one of the more long-serving gang members, like Kempo Master and Tattoo. She wasn’t scared o’ nothing. She even told everyone her real name, chuffed enough to believe that nobody would ever try to meddle with her. So far, nobody had dared to.

She scowls at him, but the façade disappears for a moment as she looks around her before her eyes land down to the baby she is holding in her arms, “The streets are getting colder, Speedwagon.”

Robert knows she’s not just blabbering to him about the weather as she continues, “Look at those damn kids,” she remarks, looking at the younger gang members. The children were solemn and quiet, different from the usual tittering and hubbub the younger lot were known for, “Stealin’ to make up for the single shilling they earn at work.”

The baby in Portia’s arms stirs. The baby— her younger brother, gazes up at her as his tiny curling fingers grip her sleeves, “They’re too scared to go out there again. Don’t want to get shot up like dear ol’ Kempo and Tattoo.” Robert looks at her sharply for her morbid use of words.

Portia is deathly quiet before she speaks again, “I’m leavin’ tomorrow.” Portia says. Robert’s eyes widen, “—To where?” he asks. Portia had always spoken about leaving the gang, about how she would one day live a beautiful cottage in a green field. Robert didn’t expect to hear the news of her leaving right after knowing of his fellow gang members’ tragic deaths.

“Windknight’s Lot. I can’t keep living like a lowly thief. Can’t keep nicking and expecting the peelers not to shoot at me. Just look at what happened today,” Portia explains as she looks down at the baby in her arms, “Poco deserves better than this. If I don’t change, then we both die in these London streets.”

Robert is silent before replying, “The gang’s going to miss you for sure. Especially the young’uns.”

“Don’t matter. They’ll be dead soon,” Portia replies as she shifts her hold on the baby, “You take care of ‘em for me, Speedwagon.”

Portia gives him a solemn look before she leaves. She waves as she speaks, “Or perhaps they won’t die after all. Maybe you can change a little something about yerself.” She laughs a little as she walks into the night, muttering to Poco as he sleeps in her hold.

Robert stares at her retreating figure. Change something about himself. Portia was a tough girl, and now she’s leaving the street-life behind. Robert smiles. He’s happy for her, for her bravery to start a new life in the far-off mountains south of London. Robert takes a gander at the dimly lit street he’s situated himself in.

The shadows of various wood-built homes and tall Victorian businesses loom over Robert. The road smells faintly of sewage and rubbish, and Robert’s nose wrinkles as he sees a rat scurry into the dark alleys. Its eyes glow red amidst the black and its fur is coming off in certain places of its body, its raw pink skin visible.

The streets are quiet, with most of Ogre Street’s daily dwellers hidden off in their little homes. Robert gazes at the mismatching roofs of the rookery, trails of smoke permeating into the air through their little chimneys. If Robert squints, he can just about see the light still erupting from the windows of the brothel.

Evening has just begun, and the street lamps are flickering on and off as moths draw close to the light. The ten or so young’uns are still loitering around the streets, looking at each other with dazed sadness as they contemplate the deaths of their old friends.

The boys will be too spooked to nick anything in the following days. The only money they’d have will be the low wages earned in those sweaty factories. Their wages wouldn’t be enough to buy even a small loaf of bread. With nicking, it was easy to provide for a starving family.

Robert knew in his heart that all these lads had joined the Ogre Street gang to provide for their poor families. Portia had it easy. She had no other family besides Poco, so leaving the Ogre Street gang behind is a cinch for her. 

Robert knew that she was scared. Everything that happened to Tattoo and Kempo Master will haunt the minds of all the younger Ogre Street gang members. This was why Portia decided to leave the gang—the thought of being shot and left dead to rot all alone must be scaring all these kids to the bone.

What were these lads going to do? Stealin’ was the only proper way to earn money in these parts if you were from a skint family. The lads weren’t like Portia. They had to go home and provide for their families, nicking everyday just to get by. The lads couldn’t just decide to leave one day and start a new life in the mountains.

If the young’uns were scared because of Tattoo and Kempo’s deaths, it would only get worse when they hear that Portia had run off. ‘The bravest girl in the gang running off in fear,’ the lads would all think. They might stop nicking altogether. Robert can’t blame them.

Robert sees the younger gang members start disbanding as the evening grows darker. The young’uns were probably heading home to their slummy homes and families. Robert doesn’t expect to see them next morn, though.

They’d wake up and hide in their sheets all day, thinking about the blood dribbling from Tattoo’s head or the way Kempo Master’s pupils are rolled deep into his skull. Robert shivers. That’s enough of that. A scrawny lad in a newsboy cap strides past Robert, looking down at the ground like he’s about to be sick. Robert lands a hand on the boy’s shoulder to stall him.

He fishes out 5 shillings from his ratty pockets and flashes them to the lad, “Why don’t you give this to your mum and have a nice cooked breakfast tomorrow mornin’?” The boy smiles, his grimy cheeks stretching to accommodate his wide grin, “Thank you, Mister Speedwagon!”

The boy’s Cockney accent rings throughout the empty street as he runs off. Robert smiles, but soon frowns when he remembers that those 5 shillings were originally for his measly supper. Robert sighs, but decides that he can survive one night without his usual meal of gamey meat and old mash.

The lad probably needed that dosh more than him, since the boy would be too scared to nick any money for the following days. Robert wishes he could offer all the young’uns money. Robert laughs to himself at the thought, ‘Maybe I should become an oil tycoon first before having such thoughts,’ he thinks as he strolls home.

The street grows more and more shrouded in darkness as he walks further into the slums where his meager home is sitting. Robert stares at the sky above him, surprised to find that there are no stars. A damp smell makes its way to Robert’s nose, and he feels the wind go still around him for a moment.

“Oh, bloody hell—” Robert starts to say as raindrops start speckling the cobblestone road. The damp smell grows ever stronger as Robert begins sprinting, his eyes scan the streets for the nearest edifice with something large enough to hopefully shield him from the rain.

The drops of water cascade downwards swiftly, becoming long streaks that barrel into the ground. Robert sees a flash of lightning slice through the large clouds’ black visage. Not long after is the sound of rumbling thunder, so loud that it ripples across the shabby structures of Ogre Street. Robert shudders as a particularly strong gust of wind blows past him.

His shoulders are getting battered at by the strong rain. It soaks through his threadbare jacket, the cold water making its way towards his waistcoat. Robert tries to run faster, his eyes desperately searching for somewhere to wait out the storm. His stomach suddenly lets out a twinge of protest, and Robert feels the pangs of hunger begin.

Robert’s eyes land on a closed barber shop. He dashes over and stands beneath the terrace roof, and Robert listens to the sound of pounding rain against the shop’s slates. Robert wipes the lines of water framing his face with his equally-as-wet palm. His clothes are soaked and his long blonde hair is frizzled. Robert sighs as his stomach once again lets out a throb of hunger.

He feels a sense of familiarity. The feeling of nearly-painful raindrops slamming themselves into his shoulders, and hunger soaring through his body making him lightheaded. Suddenly, a memory resurfaces. An echo of cracked wood, soft whining from dying horses, and blood, blood, blood.

So much blood.

Robert closes his eyes and lets the memory drag him back as the rain grows ever louder.

1868, Somewhere in England  

“Excuse me, lad— but are you feeling well?”

Robert opened his eyes. The corners of which were crusty and his throat was cracked. His body was shivering against the cold stone sidewalk he had laid his body against, and Robert didn’t know exactly where he was. He had planned on going to Ogre Street to look for something to fix his cold. However, on the way there his body just decided to give out. Now he was lying on a sidewalk in God-knows-where.

Robert could have sworn he heard a voice call out to him. He decided to snub whatever it was though, since the streets were always full of gentlemen and ladies going about their day. They walked past him like he was a part of the regular London scenery. Robert could feel his stomach begin to twist in hunger. He pushed his fist into the space under his ribs, hoping that it would dull the ache.

Someone had suddenly leaned closer and laid a warm hand on Robert’s quivering shoulder, “Hullo? Little boy, are you quite all right?” the same voice from earlier asked, finally bringing Robert to full consciousness.

Robert willed his eyes to focus on the source of the voice. His gaze fell upon a young man, with kind bright blue eyes. Robert felt the man’s sleeve brush his arm, and he could tell almost immediately that the man’s clothes were of high quality. Robert also saw the man’s clean shaved chin and his pristine jacket, and recognized this man to be some burgher.

Robert cleared his raw throat, “I-I’m just getting some kip, sir,” he replied. He hoped that his voice didn’t sound too hoarse, “—Just caught a bit of the lurgy.”

The man looked at Robert with worry for a quick moment. The look made Robert feel rather angry. He was feeling absolutely brilliant. He didn’t need some nobleman to pity him. Robert had quickly tried to explain, “I’m just fine, sir. No need to worry.”

The man was silent before laughing under his breath, “It’s impossible for me not to worry, lad. A young boy like you isn’t meant to spend his days sick on the cold London streets,” the man knelt down, dirtying his crisp trousers and surprising Robert for a moment before he spoke again, “My name is George. George Joestar. What do you call yourself?”

Mr. Joestar stretched his hand towards Robert as he silently asked for a handshake, “I’m Robert.” He finally responded as he reached for Mr. Joestar’s hand and limply grasped it in his. Mr. Joestar smiled softly and asked in nearly a whisper, “Where is your family, Robert?”

“Don’t got one, sir.” Robert answered speedily without any hesitation. Mr. Joestar took some time to process this before inquiring, “May I take you anywhere, Robert? To the hospital perhaps—”

“No!” Robert exclaimed. He covered his mouth with his own hands in fear, shocked at his own tone, “I-I mean… it’s not necessary, sir. Truly, I—” his sentence was cut short when he began a string of foul sounding coughs, wet and damp in his already painful throat. Mr. Joestar placed a hand on Robert’s back, patting him gently while the loud coughs raked through his body.

If there was one thing that Robert didn’t trust more that the rich it was hospitals. He didn’t like to admit it, but the mysterious doctors, pointy needles and the wide echoing hallways that carried the screams of patients or devastated family members had always scared him.

“N-No—no need for a hospital.” Robert said after the surge of coughing. Now he felt rather foolish. Mr. Joestar sighed and said, “All right. No hospitals…” The man was quiet as he pondered something, “How about I bring you to my estate? You’ll heal much faster in a proper home. Perhaps I could treat you to supper on the way.”

Robert’s eyes widened. Was a rich stranger actually offering him a stay in a posh estate? Robert would be chuffed if he wasn’t so irate. Mr. Joestar wasn’t doing this out of sympathy. He was just pitying Robert. Looking down on him, like all the rich have always done.

“You… you may deliver me to Ogre Street, if it’s all right with thee.” Robert whispered, as he remembered his original plan. At least if he asked of this from Mr. Joestar then the man wouldn’t feel compelled to bring him to his estate, or even worse, the hospital.

Mr. Joestar gave him a look of shock, “Ogre Street? Why, that place is crawling with thugs—it’s a-a rookery!” He paused for emphasis, “It’s no place for a five-year-old boy such as yourself,” Robert flinched. He can’t bring himself to say anything, so he simply stared at Mr. Joestar’s ocean blue eyes. Mr. Joestar contemplated in silence for a long moment, then sighed, “Well…Ogre Street it is, then.”

Robert was taken aback before he smiled at the man before him, “Thank you, sir! Oh, thank you,” he said with genuine joy. At least he wouldn’t be freezing on the side of the road or terrified in a hospital’s stiff bed. Just then, Robert’s stomach twisted again, “— And, I’ll take you up on that offer for supper.”

Mr. Joestar smiled and stood up, and Robert noticed how very tall the man was, “Of course. We can stop for a meal at the next town.” Mr. Joestar answered as he motioned with his fingers for Robert to stand up as well.

Robert stood slowly as Mr. Joestar took off his dark jacket and draped it over Robert’s small frame, “It’s best to keep warm when you’re feeling under the weather,” Mr. Joestar explained as he began walking ahead. Robert relished in the warmth as he followed.

Mr. Joestar walked past the sea of strangers and looked behind him every once in a while, to ensure that Robert was still following him. The two reached a carriage built of dark wood, with a family emblem painted in gold on the door.

There were gold embellishments crafted onto its body, framing the carriage’s corners and stretching until its roof. The roof was covered entirely in rich gilded sculptures and the lamps were lined with carved designs that Robert couldn’t decipher.

Robert could see the shadow of a woman sitting inside. Mr. Joestar leaned towards the window and whispered something to her. The woman said something in return, her voice soft and almost chastising. Mr. Joestar quickly responded, talking over her. Robert saw the lady’s shadow give a curt nod and he saw Mr. Joestar smile proudly to himself.

“Robert, I’d like you to meet my wife, Mary.” Mr. Joestar announced, turning around to face the boy. He swung the carriage door open at the same time, allowing Robert to see his wife’s face. Mrs. Joestar had dark brown hair that was pulled into an impressive braid, her clothes that of a proper lady, with jewelry and corsets and other words that Robert didn’t know yet.

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Joestar.” Robert said, not knowing what else to say. Mrs. Joestar smiled at him gently, “It’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance as well, Robert. But please, call me Mary.” Her voice had a type of diction and pronunciation to it, like all the words that fluttered out of her mouth were constructed with utter perfection.

Robert gave her his best smile as he nodded. Mr. Joestar smiled as well as he stepped back to allow the boy passage into the carriage. Robert planted his foot onto the carriage step and hauled his body to the back seat. He sits adjacent to Mrs. Joestar— or Mary, as she requested him to call her as such. Robert just then notices the baby that Mary is holding.

Its head had a mop of black hair, and Robert was expecting it to be asleep. Except, it decidedly wasn’t as it looked at Robert with wide, almost inquiring eyes. Robert smiled at it, not knowing what else to do. The baby continued staring at him with no reaction whatsoever, making Robert feel slightly exposed. Robert could hear his own belly rumbling within the enclosed walls, and he hoped that Mary couldn’t hear.

The interior of the carriage looked just as posh as the exterior. The seats had velvet red fabric, and the windows had black curtains that could be drawn. There is a large map of England hung up on the wall of the front seat, facing Robert. The carriage was rather dim, and Robert’s eyesight blurred from the sudden change in lighting.

Mr. Joestar entered the carriage as well, after having told the coachman where they were heading. The man sat on the front seat, which is facing Robert, and knocked against the carriage’s walls. The coachman then whipped the reins and the horses spurred to life.

The baby continued staring at Robert with an intense gaze, making the other boy feel uncomfortable in his seat, “His name is Jonathan.” Mary informed him, and the baby’s eyes whipped up to look at his mother for a moment, “He-he keeps staring at me…” Robert said, trying to dust off some dirt from his shoddy blouse.

Mr. Joestar laughed heartily, “Well, he is a babe. The only thing he can do is stare.” Mary smiled and gave her husband an almost unimpressed look as she replied, “I’ve recently read that babies might stare at things they fancy for long amounts of time.” she gave Robert a reassuring look, and Robert smiled back at her.

“Would you like to hold him?” Mary asked. Robert was stunned into silence for a moment. How did the Joestars survive all these years when they trusted bloody everyone? You weren’t supposed to allow a street boy to even gaze at your son. However, Jonathan had started staring at Robert once again and he decided that he might as well agree.

Robert nodded and he was handed the baby. It was only when he felt Jonathan’s warm body wrapped in silk against his fingers did he remember that he had never held a baby before. Robert struggled with where to put his hands, and suddenly Jonathan felt less like a baby and more like a slippery garden toad.

It was like Jonathan could sense Robert’s anxiety when the baby boy started crying. His tiny face scrunched and cheeks red as he wailed. Mary laughed sweetly as Robert panicked and thrusted Jonathan back to his mother. Mary took hold of Jonathan hastily as she rocked him in her arms. In her rush, she knocked over a travel bag.

The bag dropped to the carriage floor and Robert saw something rather strange-looking tumble out of it. It could be best described as a mask. Its face was carved out of what Robert would call stone. Besides the usual eyes and mouth of a mask, there were also sharp, pointed teeth engraved into the face as well as a spiral on the left side of the mask’s forehead.

Mr. Joestar picked up the dodgy-looking mask and stuffed it back into the bag without thought, but Robert couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Excuse me, sir…But would you mind if I asked about that mask?” Mr. Joestar opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by his wife.

“Why, I bought that mask during one of my travels.” Mary explained, Jonathan finally quieting down and returning to his past state of staring at Robert, “There she goes, yakking on about her mask,” Mr. Joestar said and laughed. Mary kicked his leg with the toe of her heel, her face amused, “I’ll be resting a bit. Wake me when she’s done with her tangent.” Mr. Joestar had continued, leaning against the walls of the carriage and closing his eyes.

“Oh, that’s codswallop.” Mary said haughtily as she pulled the mask out of the bag again. Robert felt mildly amazed when she held Jonathan with one arm and held the stone mask with her other.

“I had acquired this mask when I was in Italy,” Mary had a look of pure excitement on her gentle face as she told Robert about her mask, “The man who was selling it told me that it had been found on the shores of Rome,” she was dazzling as she smiled at Robert, and he began to feel his own cheeks flush at the undivided attention she was giving him.

“Wouldn’t the man just be trying to trick you? He’d say anything to flog that ol’ mask away.” Robert asked, and considered using this trick against some daft pilgrims next time, “Oh, I had thought about the possibility, yes.” Mary said with perfect diction.

“However, there was something about that mask that simply drew me to it.” she continued, looking at the mask in her hand and examining the carvings in the stone, “What do you mean?” Robert whispered to Mary as she rocked Jonathan gently in her other arm.

“Even if that man was lying, why did he make a mask that looked like this? So strange and foreign…” Mary explained, “If what he said was true, then where did this stone mask truly come from? How did it end up in the vast ocean? This mask was just shrouded in mystery… I couldn’t help but be entranced.”

Mary was quiet before speaking again, “Perhaps, if that wasn’t enough to interest you, there’s also the matter of fate.”

“Fate?” Robert asked, confused. At that exact moment, he heard rain begin to pour outside the carriage, pitter-pattering against the wooden carriage’s roof.

“Yes. Does it not seem like a fluke? That mask was found on the shores by that exact man, and sold to me, the exact moment I was travelling through Italy,” Mary looked at the mask wistfully, “It was fate.”

Robert nodded at her, with wonder in his eyes. For a moment, he couldn’t feel his own hunger as he listened to Mary intently.

“I still wonder to this day who created this mask… and what it was meant to do,” Mary had continued to say, “I truly hope that this mask’s purpose will be revealed. Hopefully, one day.”

Robert smiled softly upon hearing the story and took a gander at the scenery outside the carriage. It was lush and they were surrounded by thick trees. They seemed a longways from the chock-a-block area Mr. Joestar had found Robert in. Robert’s eyes landed on the large map of England as he listened to Mary go on about the dodgy mask vendor, tucking the mask back into her travel bag.

His eyes searched for Ogre Street within the map, as he hoped to find out which town Mr. Joestar found him in. Robert just wanted to know which town he had spent nearly a day in, but noticed something strange. The map detailed Ogre Street being situated in the south, where London is.

However, from what Robert could tell, they were currently travelling north. Why was that?

Unless.

Robert’s mind clicked. Mr. Joestar had lied to him. He wasn’t taking him to Ogre Street, he was taking him to some place in northern England. Where? The Joestar estate— or worse, a hospital. Robert shuddered at the thought.

He considered jumping out of the carriage there and then. Or waking Mr. Joestar up and begging him to take him to Ogre Street, perhaps shedding some tears to make the man pity him and have no choice but to agree. Robert opened his mouth to speak.

Robert suddenly saw the world grow bright within the dimly lit carriage. It was lightning.

“Woah!” Robert heard the coachman yell as a cacophony of whinnies could be heard from outside. The carriage suddenly stopped, shaking the interior. Mr. Joestar awakened from his brief rest, and looked around in panic before knocking against the carriage walls, “What is—,” Mr. Joestar started before the carriage suddenly swerved to the left.

Robert drew his face up to the windows, and could see a strong horse darting off towards the right, its reins had snapped and it was whinnying in panic as a terrible bout of thunder roared, “T-The second horse, it’s—,” Robert heard Mary saying as Jonathan cried in her arms violently.

The second horse was bolting to the left of the path. Robert’s eyes widened in shock as he took in the sight of a dreadful cliffside. In the second horse’s fearful state it was neighing like it was overtaken by madness, and despite the coachman’s whipping it only advanced closer to the drop.

“Dear, I—” Mary started, gripping her husband’s sleeve. She couldn’t finish an utterance before a claw of lightning struck a nearby pine. Robert was briefly blinded by a strong light as the bright bolt lashed at the tree’s bole. The branches were hurled to the ground, and the pine’s bark nearly stripped away. Robert could hear the coachman outside yell a ferocious cry for help.

The remaining horse that was tied to the reins was frantic as it finally stepped over the cliff’s edge, the carriage’s wooden wheels slipping against the muddy path, rolling towards the cliffside as well. Robert let out a ghastly scream, his still-sore throat ripped itself apart to accommodate his yells as his voice eventually broke off into silence, his throat no longer able to sustain him. Robert’s sight was finally back, and as he peered out the window, the scene that greeted him was horrifying.

Robert saw the bottom of the cliff, covered in scree and mud as it approached him hastily.

They were falling.

All of a sudden, he felt a warm weight against his back. Robert turned around and found himself face to face with Mary, with terrified tears in her eyes. And, as she clutched Robert and the baby Jonathan against her frame— she smiled a final time.

Robert felt more than saw her demise. As the carriage was slammed into the cliff’s depths, he heard the crack of the wood, and the sound of tearing velvet fabric was loud and obtrusive in his ears. Mary curled her slim body over Robert and the baby, bearing the entire weight of the roof as it crumbled apart and the once beautiful golden sculptures pierced themselves through her.

Mary gasped wetly as a piece of wood buried itself into her exposed back. Robert could feel her chest rising rapidly as she breathed through her pain. Eventually, her chest slowed.

Then it stilled.

Robert was planted under her, his body pressed up against Jonathan. The baby was shuddering and wailing so violently Robert was worried that it would die from over-exerting its body. That burning thought forced itself into Robert’s mind, and he suddenly believed that it might be true.

Robert shifted his body from Mary’s, and felt the rain start battering into his face. As he moved, he felt a sharp pain erupt from his back. He must have broken something. Robert decided not to move, and for a moment he just laid there. Unable to cry, unable to think or speak. Simply feeling the rain drumming against his rapidly rising chest and the bloody carcass of the woman that was speaking to him only moments ago.

Finally, he gathered himself to lay on his side as he leaned over and picked Jonathan up. The coat Mr. Joestar had draped over his shoulders fell onto the ground, soaking up the rainwater. Robert shuddered as he pried Mary’s stiff fingers from her grip on the baby’s blood-soaked silk. His fingers were shaking as he attempted to hold the baby in his arms. Jonathan wasn’t swayed, and only howled louder. His small body shivered in the rain as Robert did his best to shield Jonathan from the painful raindrops.

A groan.

Amid the cries of the Joestar heir, Robert could hear a familiar voice. He inclined his head towards the sound and found Mr. Joestar, lain across the muddy land. He saw the man’s chest rising and falling heavily. Robert sighed. He’s alive.

“Mmh—,” Robert eloquently said, only for his sentence to disappear into nothing. His voice was all gone. Used up when he had let out that feral scream. He cleared his throat, only to achieve the same result.

Suddenly, Providence.

Robert saw two figures in the distance. They are barely visible through the thick sheet of rain, but he could still make them out. Finally, someone was going to save them. He saw one of the figures carefully make their way down the cliff, the other figure following slowly.

When the two approached, Robert recognized them to be a man and a girl. Robert hummed to himself in relief. If they found Mr. Joestar, they would also hear Jonathan’s cries. Once they’re drawn towards the baby, they would spot Robert and help him as well.

He heard the voice of the man, and Robert could see that the man was middle aged, with a foul look on his face, “— This bastard must have died right quick.” Robert heard the man say. No! No! We’re still alive! Robert wanted to yell, but once again his voice failed him.

“Dario, the lady is dead,” the girl spoke, and Robert could see her put her hand against the carriage debris, “— but the baby with her, it’s still alive! I can hear it.”

Robert tightened his hold on Jonathan as the boy leaned closer to the girl. They were going to be saved!

“She must have protected it, with her body.” the girl continued to say. Robert was finally close enough to be seen by her as he emerged from the muddy wreckage, Jonathan still writhing in his shaky grip. Robert could feel his body start to betray him as exhaustion, hunger and pain travelled through his torso and limbs. He was ready to just collapse.

“Leave it be! Soon enough it will be dead.” the old man named Dario responded. Robert halted in his tracks, “Wh-What’re you doing?” the girl asked as Robert silently dragged his body back behind the carriage debris before he peeked at the man. Dario was clutching Mr. Joestar’s hand and was sliding his elegant wedding ring off.

“You’ve got eyes, ain’tcha woman?” Dario said as he finally dragged the ring away from Mr. Joestar’s finger, “I’m appropriating his jewelry!” Robert was repulsed by the sight. These people weren’t here to help them— they were nicking! And leaving behind a baby to die in the rain… Robert wanted to run forward and push the old bloke into the mud. He wanted to punch him and holler the two swear words Robert knew at him.

“Hm? What’ve we ‘ere?” Robert heard Dario muse to himself. The man was opening up Mary’s travel bag and inspecting her stone mask, “Evil lookin’ thing—” He said, reaching to pick up the mask. Robert’s heart suddenly picked up in pace as he imagined the man stealing Mary’s mask away.

Despite the pain and the tiredness, he felt something snap within him. Seeing that filthy geezer touching something once owned by Mary Joestar— a person with such warmth, kindness and personality. It almost made Robert sick all over himself.

Robert gently laid Jonathan on a flat stone, positioning it to be directly underneath a large piece of wood, hoping that the wooden piece was enough to cover the baby from the rain. Robert then charged himself towards the man. He wanted to say something, something to scare the man and the daft girl with him away, but his throat didn’t allow him.

Robert decided to settle with running across the mud, the holes on his broken welts filling his old shoes with rainwater. He nearly slipped on a particularly wet stone, but he didn’t let that deter him. His feet were making loud splashes in the mud, and it didn’t take long for Dario and the girl to notice him.

“Who the hell are—" Dario began to say. Robert didn’t let him finish as he plunged his small frame into the man’s chest, “D-Don’t… touch that mask—” Robert managed to say, sticking his slim fingers into the travel bag, hoping to grab the mask before Dario could.

“The mask? You mean this atrocious thing?” Dario announced, slightly out of breath as he pulled the mask away from Robert’s twisting grip, “What’s so grand about it?” He continued to say, pulling the mask closer to his face as he inspected it. Dario had managed to pin Robert down, pushing the boy’s face into the muddy ground.

Robert could taste the dirt as it entered his mouth, and a vague tang of blood as his cheek was shoved into his teeth. The inside of his mouth being pierced by the edges of his molars carried a dull throbbing with it.

“Stop—” Robert whispered. Dario laughed as the boy writhed on the ground, “Ya know, I wasn’t even going to nick this ugly piece o’ rubbish— but, based off your reaction I can safely bet that this thing’s worth a lotta dosh!” Dario began pocketing Mary’s mask, but Robert wasn’t going to let him.

The man’s grip on Robert’s head finally loosened enough for the boy to writhe his body away from the mud. The moment Robert finally got on his two feet again, he reached for the mask, inserting his fingers between Dario’s and trying to rip it away from the man.

“Why you little—" Dario started, grabbing Robert by the collar of his blouse, trying to drag the boy farther away. However, Robert wasn’t going to let him. Robert drew his body impossibly closer to Dario as he reached for the mask, “You stupid girl, get over here and help me!” Dario yelled, stretching his hand as far away from Robert as possible as he tried to hand the mask over to the girl.

The girl ran forward, and Robert drew himself up to his tiptoes. He ignored how the collar of his blouse was ripped from Dario’s hold on him. Robert was finally close enough to Dario’s face as the boy leaned in and sunk his small teeth into the man’s exposed cheek.

Dario roared a vile shriek, his gruff voice echoing through the surrounding woods as Robert dug his teeth even deeper into his cheek. Robert drew his mouth away, taking skin and flesh with him. Dario let out another howl as a part of his cheek was torn away.

“You— I’ll kill you! You bloody brat!” Dario exclaimed as he pulled out a large dagger, its tip glistening in the rain. The man quickly dragged the dagger across Robert’s face, leaving a bright red wound stretching from his nose to his jaw.

“R-Robert, what…” Mr. Joestar. Robert recognized the voice almost immediately. He turned his head so swiftly it made his head tumble. Robert saw the man trying to get up, fear and remorse evident on the Mr. Joestar’s face, “Robert— don’t worry, I’ll—” And then Mr. Joestar crumbled back down to the ground, groaning in pain.

“Ha! Nobody to help ya now, lad,” Dario laughed as he grabbed Robert’s arm. Dario was clutching onto him so tightly that he felt the blood in his arm stop flowing. Dario leaned in close, ready to leave another mark on Robert’s skin. Blood was spewing out of Dario’s deep wound, and Robert gagged as he tasted the man’s disgusting blood still left in his mouth. He spat it out, aiming for Dario’s eyes. The blood was sprayed directly into Dario’s face as Robert smiled to himself.

The blood was flying everywhere, and Robert thinks that he hadn’t ever seen this much blood before in his entire life. The blood even seeped into the mask, splattering onto the mask’s carved features, “Damn—,” Dario began to say. He was cut short when all of a sudden, the mask started to shake within his grip.

The mask surged forward, long egg-white spikes erupting from its edges. The spikes curled themselves into Dario’s hip, long and piercing. Robert was appalled as he covered his eyes with his own hands to avoid looking at the terrible sight. Dario let out another blood-curdling scream as the spikes dug deep into his skin, digging through his bones.

“Fuck! What the bloody hell—” Dario said as he fell to the ground, grabbing the mask and using all his strength to pull the mask out of his body. The spikes seemed like they didn’t want to let go, and Dario nearly wept as his blood began coating his fingers, making it impossible to get a good grip on the mask.

The girl was at his side, sticking her fingers in between the mask and Dario’s fresh cuts. Her fingers grazed the deep wounds in his skin as she tugged at the mask. Eventually, the spikes gradually slipped out of the huge gashes. Dario tossed the mask to the ground in fear as the girl helped him to his feet.

“Let’s get outta here, these people have somethin’ Devilish on their hands!” Dario yelled at the girl. The two limped away together, approaching the dark forest. Until eventually, the rain concealed them and they were gone.

Robert had been standing there, watching them both struggle with the mask. He couldn’t bring himself to move, even though he could hear Jonathan’s loud cries and Mr. Joestar’s pained grunts. What had that mask done? Mary talked about that mask’s purpose. Was this it?

Robert shook his head. He didn’t have time to wonder. He needed to make sure Jonathan and Mr. Joestar were feeling proper. Robert could feel the rain begin to slow, the raindrops beginning to get less harsh. Now, the kelsher was a simple drizzle, covering the land in a strange sort of mist.

The boy ran back to where he had left Jonathan, the deep cut on his face starting to burn slightly. As Robert felt the wound start to ache, he felt tears well in his eyes. It’s strange. After everything he saw today, it was the dull pain of a simple cut that first made tears gather in his eyes.

He found the baby, still crying. Jonathan’s skin was turning a slight blue, making Robert worry. Would it get a cold? Can babies die from simple fevers? Robert stepped forward and scooped the baby into his arms. Despite the baby looking as if it had no blood flowing through its body, Robert was feeling a strange warmth emanating from it. It was bizarre, when Robert looked at Jonathan, he could swear he saw a golden sheen surround the baby. But when he blinked, it was gone.

The rain was finally gone, and Robert could smell the blood better without the rain drowning it out. He walked over to Mr. Joestar, and could see the man’s face contorted in pain. The man looked like he was floating between being awake and passed out. His eyebrows were drawn and his young, happy demeanor from when they first met was all gone.

“Mr. Joestar?” Robert said, shaking the man, “Ugh— R-Robert, are you alright? Did that man…” Mr. Joestar began, opening his eyes. Robert felt a sense of déjà vu as he repeated his words from earlier that day, “I’m just fine, sir. No need to worry,” Mr. Joestar gave Robert the same worried look he had given him when they first met, “I’m so sorry, Robert.”

Robert cocked his head to the side in confusion, “Pray tell why, sir?” He asked. Mr. Joestar shook his head in disbelief, “I, a grown man had succumbed to his pain. While I leave a child to fight for his life on his own. I must be the most cowardly man to have walked this Earth.”

“No, sir. That thief is the coward.” Robert replied indignantly, his face twisting into an angry scowl. Mr. Joestar looked at the boy in silence for a moment, “You are a terribly brave lad, Robert.”

Robert didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t speak. Mr. Joestar then tried to sit himself up, but Robert pushed him back down. Robert didn’t want the man to see the state his wife was in, “Is… Robert, is Mary—” Mr. Joestar began, as if he had sensed Robert’s reluctance.

“She— she…” Robert couldn’t finish speaking. He felt like crying. He couldn’t help himself as his emotions finally took over, his eyes wracked with tears, but not allowing them to fall. His lips were quivering and his head felt lightheaded from the pressure of keeping his tears in.

“Fate is… most cruel.” Mr. Joestar said, his eyes drawing to a close. He was crying. When Robert saw this, it felt like he was finally given proper permission to cry, and so, he did. Robert shivered as his tears flowed freely.

“Oh… Robert.” Mr. Joestar said, raising an arm and drawing Robert’s head close to his chest. Jonathan was crying as well, pressed between Mr. Joestar and Robert’s quivering bodies. The gentle touch sent Robert over the edge, and he began sobbing out his remorse. It almost hurt, as his body hiccupped and pushed out all the tears and pain and fear he had been feeling.

Robert didn’t know how long it had been when the two finally stopped crying. Even Jonathan had quieted down, the baby’s exhaustion taking over as he succumbed to sleep. Mr. Joestar wiped his eyes with a muddy hand. Robert was doing the same, his eyes squinted and red.

“Robert… I am indebted to you,” Mr. Joestar said, “What?” Robert asked, his voice still shaky and his chest still heaving a tad bit quicker than usual.

“You saved Jonathan and I from those thieves,” the man said, Robert finally allowing the man to sit up. Mr. Joestar took the still sleeping Jonathan from Robert’s arms, clutching the baby to his chest, “Would you like to live with us, Robert?” the man suddenly asked.

Robert almost reeled back in surprise, “I-It’s just… You’re such a young lad. Living out on the streets all by your lonesome…” Mr. Joestar paused before speaking again, “I could give you a better life. You would never be hungry, or sick or—”

“I don’t need your help, sir,” Robert said firmly. Mr. Joestar was a kind man, but he was bloody daft, “You’re a liar, Mr. Joestar.” the man’s eyes widened when he heard this, “What do you—” Mr. Joestar began before he was cut off by Robert.

“You- you told me you were taking me to Ogre Street! But I saw that we were going the opposite way. I may be poor, but I’m not daft,” Robert said, his voice rising in volume. He couldn’t believe he was yelling at a member of the upper class, “Now your wife is gone. All because— b- because…” Robert felt like crying again when he mentioned Mrs. Joestar, but he pushed through to tell Mr. Joestar what he was thinking.

“— Because you wanted to help me!” He managed to finish, “If you had just taken me to Ogre Street like you were supposed to… N-None of this would have happened.” Robert was huffing after his outburst, and he could see Mr. Joestar gazing at him, his blue eyes looking at Robert with such gusto it almost scared him.

“Robert, you couldn’t control what had happened here,” Mr. Joestar said carefully, “Don’t you dare feel guilty, lad. No matter what you think you have done, I am still in your debt.”

Robert couldn’t believe this was real. Was this truly reality? Robert couldn’t recall ever meeting anyone with such kindness. Mr. Joestar was a giant among men, and so was his wife, and perhaps his son will be as well. The Joestars were different, different from any rich folk— any people, that Robert ever knew of.

Robert wanted to say, “Yes sir, of course! May I come to your estate and live with you?” But something was holding him back. Robert was a burden. He was a poor, weak little child. He couldn’t ever hope to help Mr. Joestar with anything. He didn’t even know how to properly hold Jonathan. The Joestars could offer him everything, yet he would still have nothing to give them in return.

“Thank you, sir. In regards to that debt…” Robert paused as Mr. Joestar listened to him intently, “— I’ll tell you if I ever need anything.” He finished. Mr. Joestar smiled at Robert, his eyes looking almost sad, “I see.” was all he said.

The rain was all gone, and the forest surrounding them was deathly quiet. The newfound quiet made it possible for Robert to hear the familiar sound of horses and wheels. There was someone travelling by the road. Since it was a carriage, it was most likely someone of the upper class, not a thief. They would soon be saved.

Robert inclined his head to look at Mr. Joestar, seeing the man look wistfully at the site of his wife’s death. There was a large pool of blood emanating from the crushed pieces of wood, and Robert quickly averted his gaze. It almost hurt him to look at all the blood.

He could hear voices now. People were coming down the cliffside to help them, and he could hear Mr. Joestar declare something to the people above them, raising his voice. Robert looked behind him to stare at the mask. It had reverted into its previous state, no longer having the long spikes. It felt like a dream.

Everything felt like a dream.

Robert felt himself finally succumbing to his exhaustion. His stomach was still empty, and he could feel it finally start affecting him again as his adrenaline wore off. As he closed his eyes, he faintly realized that his throat no longer hurt, and that his cough was all gone.

1880, Ogre Street, London

Robert is home at last.

His home is shared with five other families. As he climbs the creaky wooden staircase that leads to his room, he sees that the other rooms’ doors are open. There are children and adults alike sleeping on the floor, the rooms so tight and cramped that they have to sleep in the hallway. If Robert were dirtier, he’d be nickin’ from their rooms.

Walking through the rain was easier when you had something on your mind. Robert could barely feel the rain as he walked back to his shared home. The house is owned by some factory-owner. The rent wasn’t too bad, and the walls were sturdy enough to not get knocked over by big gusts of wind. The occasional flooding was enough for Robert to handle.

He finally reaches his room, the only one with the door still closed. He slides into his room quietly, and he can vaguely hear a baby crying in the other room a few doors away. It reminds him of Jonathan.

The Joestars. Robert’s brief recollection in the rain still rung in his head. He sighs. It was no good for him to wonder about such things. Perhaps Mr. Joestar had forgotten all about the scrawny lad he had tried to help all those years ago. The thought makes Robert a little sad.

Robert smells the familiar scent of mold and dampness as he steps into his room. His room is sparse, with only the barest of belongings filling the room. A rickety bed, a rusty wood-burning stove and an uneven wooden table he had to build himself. There is a leak in the ceiling from the recent rain shower, drip-dropping onto the floor and creating a reasonably sized puddle.

Robert grunts. He’ll deal with that in the morning. He’s still hungry, so he decides that the best course of action is to lie in his bed and force himself to sleep. As he approaches his bed, a rat suddenly scurries from under it. Robert jumps back in shock as the rat runs past his feet and into a hole in the wall.

This day just felt more and more tiring the longer Robert stayed awake. He finally lays himself in bed, ready for sleep to overcome him. However, all of his thoughts are on Kempo Master and Tattoo. He thinks about how their bodies must be stiff with old blood, their faces blue and cold. Seeing that rat made him imagine swarms of them, gnawing away at the two boys’ faces until there was nothing left.

He wonders where they were shot. In the head? In the back? Robert is suddenly saddled with the memory of Mary, stabbed in the back with pieces of wood. Her body crumpled and contorted into something unnatural. Something dead.

Robert’s body shot up from his bed. What the hell was wrong with him? Stop.

The younger gang members must be having the exact same type o’ dreams. Robert wonders how those boys were going to get through the night. Suddenly, all his worries about the lads becoming too scared to nick were becoming a reality.

Robert needs to help them somehow. He’s the eldest, he shouldn’t just stand by and watch as those kids starved or cried or anything. But how? Robert tries to think, putting himself in the shoes of the kindest man he had ever met and ever will meet. Mr. Joestar.

“If I was Mr. Joestar, what would I do?” Robert thinks to himself. He almost laughs at his absurdity. If he was Mr. Joestar then he’d just wave his ring-clad hand and shower those boys with infinite amounts o’ dosh. Those young’uns would never need to nick, they would be able to go to school and their families would live in proper homes, not cramped up shared-houses in the rookery.

Who was Robert kidding? He didn’t have money; he didn’t even have enough to buy himself any dinner.

Suddenly, a thought.

“—I am still in your debt,” isn’t that what Mr. Joestar had told him all those years ago?

Robert shook his head. Mr. Joestar wouldn’t remember him. A man that kind and naïve probably tried to adopt beggar lads all the time. He probably had a surplus back at his estate. Still, the thought wouldn’t leave Robert’s mind. What if he did remember? There’s no way he would forget— that was the day his wife died.

If Robert could ask Mr. Joestar for some money— he’d be able to give that dosh to the lads, and then maybe they would actually be able to survive the coming months.

Robert couldn’t believe it. Was he really going to try and bother a posh nobleman for a vague debt made about 13 years ago?

What if Mr. Joestar didn’t remember him? What if the man had changed? What if he was dead? All these thoughts went flooding into Robert’s mind. He stands up from his bed in frustration, beginning to pace around his small flat.

Robert runs a hand across his forehead to wipe at the anxiety-provoked sweat beginning to form. As he does so, his fingers brush against the long scar stretching from his nose to his jaw.

When Robert was a child, he often thought that the whole ordeal with the Joestars was a dream. The only thing that keeps those memories real is the scar.

All he needs to do is write a letter to Mr. Joestar. If the man doesn’t recognize him then Robert will just have to give up and look for another way to help those boys. He’ll think of something eventually. For now, Robert will have to go through with this plan.

Robert strides over to his table, sitting down on a wobbly chair he had stolen from someone’s rubbish dump. He stares at his table for a moment before he manages to remember that he actually doesn’t own any paper— not even a pen.

He decides to borrow one from Portia before she leaves tomorrow.

Chapter Text

1880, 0gre Street, London

Robert shows up at Portia’s door the next day.

“George Joestar owes you a debt?” Portia asks incredulously as Robert explains his circumstances to her.

“Shh! Not so loud, you dunce—” Robert whispers harshly. The thought of receiving all that money still made him feel rather guilty. It’s not like he deserves it or anything. All he had to do was bite some senile old bloke in the face. Robert would feel like an awful show-off if everyone knew, “Oh, everyone’s going to know eventually. Aren’t you chuffed?” Portia answers.

They’re both in her flat, situated on the floor since Portia doesn’t own a table. She had to sell it to buy Poco’s cradle. Her room looks so sparse. Even worse than Robert’s; the only furniture being an old cot and the baby’s crib. There’s also a small stove with a single burner, the metal stained with burnt spills of milk. Robert should give her some money as well, at least enough to buy a table and some chairs.

Robert lets out a sigh in response, “Look, we don’t have time for this. Can’t we just start writing the letter already?” Portia laughs before nodding. She crawls towards a corner beside the bed as Robert stares on, confused. The girl puts her fingers against one of the floor boards and deftly pushes against it, the wooden board suddenly shifting to the right and revealing a small crevice.

Robert peers past her shoulder to look inside the opening. He sees a glass bottle of milk, some books, and most notably— large bundles of money. Robert decides to discard that idea about giving Portia some of Mr. Joestar’s money. She, surprisingly, seems pretty well-off on her own. Portia sticks her hand into the crevice, and a moment later her hand emerges with a thin rolled stack of paper and a fountain pen.

“Where the bloody hell did you get all that dosh?” Robert asks incredulously as Portia shuffles back to her spot beside him on the floor, “What, did ya really think I was skipping town without any money on me? All my nickin’s got some use, ya know.” Robert laughs a little at her response as Portia forces the paper to lay flat on the ground.

It takes them the whole day to write the letter. Robert’s first attempt ends up with various splotches of ink dotting the paper, since he doesn’t actually know how to write with a fountain pen. He also keeps rethinking his wording and how his grammar sounds. Robert doesn’t write letters often, since he never really had anyone to write to. He finds that some words repeat too often, or that he missed out on an opportunity to use a better phrase.

Portia sighs as she watches him scrawl onto the faintly yellowed paper. She offers to help him multiple times, but Robert always refuses. He can’t write well, but at least he has some pride. They’re onto their last piece of paper, with 5 crumpled and discarded letters surrounding the two on the ground.

“Uhm— Portia?” Robert asks, his body is hunched over and his elbows are braced against the floor as he writes his last attempt, “What is it, Speedwagon?” Portia retorts, her tone snappy and impatient. She knows that the boy is about to ask her another stupid question, but Robert doesn’t seem to hear her underlying tone as he continues to speak.

“Which sounds better— Best wishes, Robert,” He pauses as he considers his second choice, “Or, Cheers, Robert.” Portia groans, “I don’t know, how about— Wait, your name’s Robert?”

“I think I’ll go with Cheers. It sounds friendlier.” Robert muses to himself, as if he hadn’t heard her. Portia sighs as she peers at the letter in Robert’s hands, “Alright, let me have a look at it.” She says, shuffling closer.

Robert proudly hands her the letter, finally satisfied with what he’s written. Portia’s glad, since she doesn’t know what they’d do if they had run out of paper. Robert reads the letter with her as she begins to scan through it.

Mr. George Joestar,

My name is Robert Edward O. Speedwagon. I don’t know if you remember me, but in the year 1868 we were traveling together in a carriage with your wife and son. I was only five then, and you had found me in a town somewhere in London.

If you recall, we had both gotten into an accident. There were two thieves that arrived, trying to nick from you. I managed to drive them both away, saving both you and your son, Jonathan Joestar. You told me that you were indebted to me. And I promised you that if I ever needed anything, I would get in contact with you again.

Well, I need something now. I would like to ask for a sum of about £3600. I know this is a great amount, and I’m sorry. You are the only person I can turn to currently. Please respond as quickly as possible, and I thank you for everything. You are a great man.

If you don’t recall the events taking place in 1868 or my identity, then you are welcome to discard this letter.

Cheers,

Robert

“Wait, I think having Cheers at the end might be too friendly,” Robert says out of nowhere, reaching forward as he tries to snatch the paper out of Portia’s hands, “Oh God, I accidentally wrote nick— that’s supposed to say steal!” He begins to panic as the girl snatches the paper back.

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” Portia says. She silently wonders in her head why Speedwagon hadn’t included in the letter his reasoning for the money. He just asked for the dosh, without telling Mr. Joestar about the kids or the Ogre Street gang. Portia keeps these thoughts to herself though, since Robert already seemed insecure and they didn’t have any paper left.

Robert huffs sadly, impervious to what she’s thinking, “What is it now?” Portia asks as he looks at her mournfully.

“I-I don’t actually know how to send letters…” Robert replies, pointing at the letter in Portia’s grasp. Portia rolls her eyes, “Don’t worry, I can send it off for ya. I’ll just pass by the post office on my way to Windknight’s Lot.”

“Oh. Right. You’re still leaving.” Robert says dimly.

“Yes, and I was supposed to leave earlier today.” Portia says in a chastising tone. The two take a gander at the view outside Portia’s window, and find that midmorning has come and passed. The sun is shining slightly from the west, signifying the current time to be noon.

“I’m sorry for keepin’ ya.” He replies, watching as Portia opens up the small crevice in the floor again. She takes out all the items she has hidden in there. She quietly shoves them all into an empty cotton sack, tying the opening into a knot.

Robert helps her as she gathers the last of her possessions. He still feels a tad bad for keeping her from leaving as he wraps Portia’s bed sheet around her stained stove. He pulls the fabric’s four corners to the center and ties a small bow to keep it closed. He decides to knot it a second time to keep it from accidentally unravelling.

When he hefts the stove onto his shoulder, he sees that Portia’s flat is almost completely empty. Portia had packed everything away except for the bed. The sight of an empty room always makes Robert feel rather sad. Soon, someone else will rent the flat and this room wouldn’t be Portia’s room. It’ll just be a room by then.

Robert shakes his head as he heads out her door and down the apartment’s staircase. He passes by the other flats, filled to the brim with families. The children are running around the stairwell, playing. Robert smiles and bows a little when he makes eye contact with a young mother, tending the baby in her hands.

Golden light streams through the windows, gleaming into Robert’s eyes. Gathering up the last of Portia’s possessions took longer than expected, and now it is afternoon. Robert feels a pang of guilt, and considers apologizing to Portia for taking so much of her time. However, he decides against it, realizing that Portia would only brush him off or worse, nag at him.

At the main entry way, he sees Portia holding Poco, all her things packed into a stagecoach. The coachman looks slightly tired, like he’s about to fall asleep as he waits for Portia to tell him where to go. Robert sees her slip a few coins into his hand, and the coachman visibly brightens.

“Well, here’s the stove.” Robert announces, laying it on the coach’s floor, the rest of Portia’s belongings already stuffed into one side. Portia smiles at him a little sadly as he draws away, “I promise you that your letter’s safe with me.” She says, patting one of the pockets of her pinafore, where the letter is gently tucked.

“I know,” Robert says, smiling softly, “I wish you all the best, Portia. And little Poco, too. You’re the bravest girl I’ve ever met.”

 Portia laughs before responding, “I really wish you’d stop it with that ‘narrating-everything-you-feel’ thing you do. You’re going to make me cry,” her tone is solemn, different from how she sounded yesterday when she was talking about leaving.

“Narrating everythin’ I feel? I don’t do that!” Robert answers. He’s emotional, sure, but he doesn’t narrate everything!–- Or does he?

“Nevermind, it’s nothing.” Portia says, laughing a little. Robert huffs, but smiles and steadies himself for his goodbye.

“Goodbye, dear Portia.”

“I wish for you all the best, Speedwagon. Take care of everyone for me.”

She gives him a passionate nod before turning around and skipping into the carriage. Portia leans her head out the window to tell the coachman where to go. As the horses start trotting forward, she turns back to face Robert.

“Write to me! Perhaps your letter writing skills may still improve!” Portia calls to him as the stagecoach begins moving, “I will!” Robert calls, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify the sound. The carriage travels down the path as Portia smiles at him through the window, the coach rolling down the road to somewhere beyond the slums, beyond Ogre Street — until eventually, it’s simply beyond Robert’s sight.

The Next Day

Robert awakens to the sound of knocking and loud, raucous laughter from the other side of his apartment door.

He glances around his room. It’s still dark, and when he peers out his bedside window the sun hasn’t even risen yet. Robert guesses that it’s probably still 4 in the morning. Who could be awake at this hour?

“Mister Speedwagon, Mister Speedwagon!” Robert’s ears pick up the recognizable tone of children, their voices high-pitched as they call his name. He groans as he leaves his bed. The cold air had wafted into his room during the night, leaving his apartment feeling chilly. His bare feet shiver slightly when he steps onto the frozen floor, walking towards the children’s voices.

“I’m awake, I’m awake— now shut all yer gobs.” Robert calls as he opens his door. He’s greeted with the smiling faces of about 3 young’uns, “He’s here! Emma, give ‘im the letter!” A lad within the group says, shoving a little girl forward.

“Woah, what’s all this?” Robert laughs, watching the only girl within the group as she saunters forward and pulls out an immaculately sealed envelope, bearing a bright red colored wax seal. It’s a letter. Robert feels his earlier drowsiness leave his body almost immediately, his hands suddenly shaking. Mr. Joestar responded to his letter.

There’s £3600 in that envelope.

“There was a letter carrier here.” The girl supplies, handing Robert the envelope, his shaking fingers grasping at the paper.

“He said he had a letter for you. I didn’t even know letter carriers visited Ogre Street.” One of the boys says.

“Do you think it’s from a girl? Like a matrimonial letter!” The girl within the group sighs, “Don’t be a ninny. If it was from a girl it would smell all nice with ribbons and such.” A boy retorts, pointing at the letter in Robert’s hands.

“What would you know? I bet Speedwagon has countless maidens swooning over ‘im.” The girl mocks, her voice becoming shrill. The lad and her look about ready to brawl, with the second boy slowly shuffling farther away from the two. Robert decides it’s time for him to reconvene before he has two kids crying in his entryway.

“Thank you for bringin’ this to me. And I’m sorry, but I’m sure it isn’t a girl,” Robert chuckles before saying his goodbyes, “— Tell your mum I said good morning.” The children smile and wave farewell as he closes the door.

Robert turns the envelope over in his hands, feeling only slightly nauseous.

The envelope is secured with red wax, the Joestar emblem prominent in the glossy seal. Robert still remembers seeing the emblem the for first time, painted on the carriage doors when Robert met Mary Joestar all those years ago. There is a brown postage stamp in the upper right side, showcasing Queen Victoria neatly engraved in ink.

Robert didn’t want to admit it, but he felt almost anxious during the following hours as he waited for the response to arrive. It’s not like he doesn’t trust Portia to deliver the letter. Honestly, that was the only aspect of the whole affair that he was sure would work out. Robert was mostly worried about Mr. Joestar.

If the man doesn’t remember him, what does he do? Robert had considered nicking twice as much for the following months, so he can give some of the spoils to the young’uns. But that would probably be too risky. Robert would have to be smart to have that plan go his way. If he spends too much time in one spot, then the peelers would probably notice right quick.

He’d end up like Kempo Master and Tattoo.

He shakes his head. He has to focus. Robert finally has Mr. Joestar’s response in his hands. He should just stop wasting his time and just read the bloody letter already. Robert heads over to his wooden table, picking up his penknife.

He slices through the envelope slowly, hoping to keep the stamp and wax seal intact. He doesn’t know why, but the thought of breaking the wax seal made him feel rather bad. Robert slips the letter out, his fingers slightly trembling as he holds the heavy cream paper.

Robert’s heart sinks when he finds no bundle of money within the envelope.

His thoughts all come barreling in, his forehead starting to sweat despite the frigid air within his flat.  Mr. Joestar refused to give him the money. He’s changed, he isn’t kind anymore. He doesn’t remember Robert. What should he—

Stop. Just read.

He feels nervous as he casts his eyes to the letter to begin reading. The letter is written in black ink, and Robert squints his eyes. The darkness within his room making it almost impossible for him to decipher the black letters. Robert skips the heading and leaps straight into the body of the letter, with Mr. Joestar’s swirling penmanship greeting him.

Reply to the Foregoing Debt

My Dear Robert,

It has truly been so long since we have last spoken. You were but a lad the last we spoke, and now I suspect you must be old enough to marry. I feel appalled that you would ever think I had forgotten our first meeting. The memory of that day hangs over me like a specter.

In regards to my debt, I would be glad to offer you any sum of money. I understand the type of life you must lead, and I would be happy to help in any way that I can. However, I don’t trust to seal away such a huge amount of money in a measly envelope. I implore you to visit me at my estate, the address of which is written in the heading.

I look forward to seeing you again, and I am sure that you would like to meet my son, Jonathan. The last time you saw him, he was but a babe.

Additionally, I find that you did not express an opinion on staying with us. I would just like to state that if you so desired, Jonathan and I would be happy to welcome you to our home. Please think this over. I worry over your wellbeing.

I await to see you in person,

George Joestar

Robert didn’t notice he was holding his breath while he was reading the letter. He reads the letter again. Then, again. He feels like jumping up and down with joy. Mr. Joestar still remembers him! And he agreed on giving Robert the money!

Robert state of euphoria is soon halted, however. He can’t help but be a little irritated over how he has to visit the Joestar mansion to receive his money. Still, he could understand why the man wouldn’t trust £3600 to go through the post system. Robert just has to suck it up and get the bloody dosh. Then, he’d never have to deal with the Joestars ever again.

The idea of visiting the Joestar estate makes Robert feel a slight sense of dread. He feels unworthy. It almost scares him, how kind Mr. Joestar is to him. It almost makes Robert wonder if the man has some devilish plan up his sleeve.

Robert’s mind wanders to the baby he had held in his hands all those years ago. He wonders if Jonathan is as kind as his father, or just as naïve. If the boy is worthy of being the Joestar family’s heir. It isn’t like Robert is worrying over the Joestars. He’s just curious.

Robert reads a sentence within the letter again: “I would just like to state that if you so desired, Jonathan and I would be happy to welcome you to our home.”

Robert wants to laugh. Live with the Joestars? Never. Robert doesn’t deserve that. Perhaps he should bring one of the lads from the Ogre Street gang and let the Joestars take care of another miserable boy. Robert would feel like an outsider in that house, living with the posh heir and his rich father. If anyone was deserving of mooching off the Joestars, it sure as hell wasn’t him.

It isn’t like Robert can help with much. Once again, he is the beggar boy asking for help, and Mr. Joestar is the rich man offering him everything. It’s exactly the same as how it was all those years ago. Robert feels like he should be the one in debt.

He shakes his head to avoid getting distracted. That’s enough thinking. Robert forces himself to scan the return address written on the letter’s heading: Liverpool.

It’ll take around two days for him to travel from Ogre Street all the way to Liverpool, so he might as well start his journey later in the day. Robert sighs as he steps through his door’s threshold.

He might as well do a lil’ nicking before he has to leave.

2 Days Later

Robert shuffles uncomfortably within his coach seat.

It’s his last carriage ride, with only a few miles left to go until he arrives at the Joestar estate. The journey wasn’t too bad, Robert considers. Well, if you overlook the fact that now Robert has essentially no money left. The travelling had eaten up all his dosh, from the rent for the boarding houses to the stagecoach fees. Robert wonders how pilgrims manage to survive having to do this all the time.

He’s basically penniless now. Robert groans and he buries his face into his calloused hands. What is he to do? He won’t have enough money for the journey back, and even if he manages to make it back to Ogre Street— how about his flat’s rent? Or his food? Or—

Robert has to stop thinking about this. It’s making his head hurt. However, the more he pushes the thoughts out the more they come flying in. Maybe he should just ask for more money?

No. No. No. Robert already expressed in his letter the exact amount of money he needs. £3600 is the perfect amount for those lads and their families. Enough for all their fees for the following months, and a little extra for anything else they might want.

If he asks for more, Mr. Joestar would probably find it troublesome and end up not giving him any of the money altogether. It’s too much of a risk. Robert can’t just take from the £3600 either. It’ll feel too much like he’s nickin’ from the people he’s trying to help.

Robert then considers stealing from the neighboring towns in Liverpool. He brightens up for a moment. If he can nick enough to keep him afloat for at least a week, he can have enough to get back to Ogre Street. Then— Then…

What then?

Robert curses softly under his breath. Another dead end in his brilliant plan. He runs a hand through his hair, his mind exhausted and his body feeling slightly jittery from worry-induced adrenaline. Robert glances at his wristwatch. 10:46 A.M.

He hopes that Mr. Joestar isn’t too busy today. If Robert arrives when Mr. Joestar isn’t at home, he doesn’t know what he’d do. Have polite conversation with Jonathan? No. There’s no point in getting attached to some pompous rich boy. Still, a part of him hopes that Jonathan is different, that he’s hopefully strong and deserving of the Joestar name. For Mr. Joestar’s sake. For Mary’s sake.

Robert hears a sudden knock against the stagecoach door. The coach lulls to a stop, and Robert draws the curtains back a tad to peek at whoever had knocked. Robert’s eyes are immediately drawn to the massive mansion peeking at him from beyond a sturdy black gate.

He hears a someone clear their throat and his eyes leave the structure and he sees an elderly man dressed in a dark tailcoat standing near the stagecoach’s wooden door. Robert draws back the curtains fully and pokes his head out the window to speak with the man.

“I—” Robert begins, before getting cut off by the elderly man who Robert now assumes to be some servant, “Mr. Robert, I assume?” The man says in a slow drawl. Robert nods at him, dumbfounded. The elderly man hums in response, stepping away from the stagecoach and drawing the gates back.

Eventually the gates are fully opened and the stagecoach begins moving again, finally entering the Joestar estate.

Robert’s eyes widen at the scene. The mansion is enormous, with a large structure in the center flanked by two other buildings. It’s built out of creamy white bricks and reaches about three-stories high. The roof slates are red, with tall towers stretching into the sky.

The entrance to the mansion is a large, ornate wooden door made of dark wood. There’s a roof stretching from the entrance, with two tall pillars as support. There’s even a fountain situated in front of the mansion, mighty and baroque as water flows through its various tiers.

The mansion is surrounded by a large plot of land, covered with perfectly trimmed grass. The coach comes to a screeching halt, and Robert can hear the stagecoach’s horses neigh softly.

Suddenly, Robert sees a figure emerge from the green fields.

It’s a boy. He’s probably around 12 or 13. He’s rubbing at his face with the sleeve of his coat as he strolls around the fountain. Robert prides himself in being able to read someone’s personality by just taking one look at them, and he realizes one thing when he sees the lad. He’s a posh little silver-spoon baby!

Robert can tell almost immediately from the way he’s looking at the ground, aloof and angry like something hadn’t gone his way.

He kicks open the door of the stagecoach, dropping his travelling bag onto the ground. He jumps out the coach, landing immaculately on his feet in front of the Joestar mansion. As he gets up, he can finally see the boy’s features properly, and he can immediately tell that the lad is a member of the Joestar family. It’s Jonathan Joestar.

Jonathan looks at him in confusion for a moment before his eyes light up, “You’re Robert Speedwagon, right?”

Robert lets a coy smile grace his face, “And you must be Jonathan Joestar.”

Robert sees the genuine kindness in Jonathan’s eyes. However, he can tell instantaneously that it isn’t kindness like Mr. Joestar’s. The older man is kind because he strives to be better than the horrid world he lives in. He wants to be obliging to all, whoever they might be and whatever they might have done. The bloke simply sees the good in everyone.

However, Jonathan Joestar is the opposite. Robert wants to turn away from the other boy in disgust. The lad is kind because he was raised to be. Because he’s been surrounded by kind and loving people all his life, without once having to undergo any strife.

He doesn’t need to be strong. He’s just kind because of his upbringing, like some pompous brat. A little rich boy, just like all the other little rich boys that exist in the world.

This is the heir to the Joestar family? A weak little boy, spoiled and stupidly friendly. Robert shakes his head softly. He feels sorry for Mr. Joestar.

“Everyone calls me JoJo. Nice to meet you.” Jonathan extends an arm for a handshake, but is cut off by the sound of a dog’s barks. Robert turns his head towards the source of the sound, and sees a large Great Dane, bolting towards him and Jonathan.

“Danny!” Jonathan calls, kneeling down to welcome the dog. Its fur is white, with black spots littered all over its body. Robert tries not to smile at the sight, but fails. Robert’s always had trouble trying to keep his feelings to himself.

Robert looks on, amused as the dog begins running in circles, “See that? He’s Danny, my dog,” Jonathan looks at Robert excitedly as he continues talking, “Don’t worry, he doesn’t bite.” The moment he finishes saying this, Danny once again bounds towards the two of them.

The dog stops at Robert’s knees and begins smelling the area around his ankles, before bolting off and smelling his travelling bag as well, “I think he likes you!” Jonathan exclaims, looking at Robert with such intensity that the other boy has to turn away. It reminds Robert of when Jonathan was still a baby, and when he would stare at him for no reason.

“He’s awfully kind ‘round strangers.” Robert muses as he watches the dog scuffle around and smell the ground, “Oh— yes, he’s a very smart dog. But as I remember, he wasn’t always like that,” Jonathan replies, pausing a bit before he continues speaking, “When I first got him, he didn’t trust me at all, and he bit me.”

“I got angry, so I would ignore him. I’d even throw stones at him.” Jonathan continues. Robert’s eyebrows are drawn down. What a spoiled brat. When something doesn’t go his way, he starts antagonizing it. Who would even throw rocks at a poor dog?

“One day, Danny saved me when I nearly drowned in a river. And ever since then, we’ve been the closest friends.” the other boy smiles after he speaks, and Robert once again scowls as his mind is barraged with questions.

Danny saved his life once. Was that enough to forget all ill-will that used to thrive? Robert comes to the conclusion that one thing Jonathan has in common with his father is their shared naïveté.

“Ah— let me help you with this.” Jonathan says, reaching for Robert’s travelling bag. Robert quickly lunges forward, grabbing the bag before Jonathan can touch it, “No. It’s… It’s fine, I can carry it myself.” Robert grunts out. What the hell is wrong with this lad? Can’t he tell that Robert’s a street boy?

It’s so easy for Jonathan to lower his guard. It would take only one deft swipe for Robert to nick him of everything in his pockets. This lad must be stupid, and Robert isn’t letting some puff-pastry of a boy touch his things.

Jonathan scowls for a moment, “Sorry… I was just trying to help.” his expression is that of a little kid, as if he was just denied his favorite toy. What a weakling.

Mary sacrificed her life for this? For a spoiled lad with no ounce of altruism or strength, just a pathetic, failed aspiring gentleman. He’s probably going to siphon away all of the Joestar’s fortune when he’s older. 

Robert flinches internally at the idea.

Robert feels his thoughts get the better of him as he says, “Keep your paws to yourself. And don’t touch my things,” Robert pauses, and decides to teach this little boy a short lesson before he leaves, “— You should be more careful around a thief. I might just nick away your whole fortune when you’re not lookin’,” he does his best smirk, and watches Jonathan’s confused face contorts into mistrust.

“Y-You’re a thief?” Jonathan asks, stepping away from Robert a little bit. Of course he’s scared of him. Perhaps Robert went a little too far. He laughs in surrender, causing Jonathan to flinch.

“Don’t worry. I’m just kiddin’ with ya, lad,” Robert smiles at Jonathan’s dim look, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He finishes, waving his hands in surrender.

“Oh,” Jonathan lets out a brief laugh, and Robert can tell that it isn’t forced. The boy actually trusts him again, after one measly apology, “— So you’re not a thief, then?” He asks.

Jonathan’s face quickly reverts back to smiling, and Robert almost reels back at the sudden change of atmosphere. Does he really forgive people this quickly? Robert can’t help but be amazed. Perhaps this lad still holds a bit of potential. Robert quickly snaps out of his thoughts.

What the hell is he thinkin’? So what if Jonathan has potential? Potential for bloody what? Robert doesn’t know, and he shouldn’t care. He’s here for money, not to be some rich kid’s mentor. Robert should really focus.

“Don’t let your guard get too low, lad,” Robert lays a hand on Jonathan’s shoulder, “I’m still a thief.”

Jonathan is just about to retort when, all of a sudden, someone pushes open the grand door of the mansion. Robert’s eyes widen when he sees the familiar face of a man. It’s George Joestar. Even Jonathan is shocked into silence, looking at his father as if he’s ashamed. Mr. Joestar’s gaze falls upon Robert, and he immediately beams and saunters closer to the two boys.

“Robert! I’m so glad that you arrived safely.” Mr. Joestar calls, walking over to Robert and laying a hand on his shoulder. The man looks so much older now, and Robert can suddenly see the resemblance between Jonathan and his father. They both have the same piercing blue eyes.

“I’m pleased to see you, too.” Robert says, forcing himself not to say anything too friendly or too hostile. He internally groans at himself. He’s never had trouble talking before.

“JoJo!” Mr. Joestar suddenly exclaims, his voice rising angrily for just a moment. Jonathan stiffens, and looks at his father with a confused look, “Can’t you see we have a guest? Help him with his bags!” Mr. Joestar continues to say, gesturing at Robert’s travelling bag, still slumped on the cobblestone road.

Jonathan looks panicked, “B-But—” he sputters out.

Robert decides to help the poor lad, “It’s fine, Mr. Joestar. I can carry it myself.” He affirms his statement by striding towards his bag and picking it up.Damn, he didn’t consider Mr. Joestar to be the type who yells at his children.

Robert feels himself start to sweat under Mr. Joestar’s gaze, and wonders how Jonathan deals with it. Jonathan and his father look at Robert silently for a moment before Mr. Joestar speaks again.

“Oh, Robert. Still your ever-independent-self, I see,” Mr. Joestar laughs, all anger from earlier stripped away, “Come. We have business to discuss.” The man calls as he walks towards the mansion’s entrance. Robert follows quietly.

He catches Jonathan looking at him with suspicion. The boy’s probably still worried about Robert’s status as a thief. The thought stings a bit, but Robert pushes down against that feeling until it’s gone.

Robert decides to spook the lad one more time. As he leaves, he gives Jonathan an evil smile, and relishes in the way the boy flinches in fear.

He and Mr. Joestar step through the threshold, and Robert’s eyes widen as he catches sight of the mansion’s interior. The floor is perfectly polished, with tiles formed into a black-and-white chessboard pattern. Robert’s feet land against a soft bright red carpet, stretching from the entrance all the way towards a large set of stairs.

The stairs branch off, leading to two other staircases, the size of which seems so encompassing that Robert feels his head hurt for a moment. Robert is almost taken aback when his eyes land on an elevated marble statue of a woman. Her head is downturned, flowing clothes stretched across her body. Atop her shoulder sits a jar, her small hands clutching it gently. It’s the first time Robert’s ever seen a marble statue.

“I see that you’re impressed.” Mr. Joestar calls, smiling at Robert with an amused look on his face. Robert feels his face twist into an irked scowl. Of course he’d be impressed. He’s a street boy, after all. It’s made even more painfully evident how Robert doesn’t belong here. And he sure as hell doesn’t deserve a life like this.

Robert is silent as he follows Mr. Joestar through the winding hallways of the mansion, tall walls and polished floors greeting him at every turn. There are marble statues and oil paintings littered throughout the home, always in the best condition.

Robert feels almost angry. It feels a bit like Mr. Joestar is just flaunting all his riches in front of Robert, like he’s trying to rub in how insignificant the boy is before handing Robert his money. The money Robert earned by doing piss all. This whole visit suddenly feels strikingly like someone’s tearing apart all of Robert’s pride.

Finally, they reach Mr. Joestar’s office. Of course, it’s just as grand and spotless as the rest of the mansion. There’s a large bookshelf, filled to the brim with hardbound books, some titles of which Robert’s can’t even identify as English. Mr. Joestar’s desk well is well-organized and the dark wood is polished. Robert wonders how the man can work and still manage to keep his desk like that.

“Are you thirsty?” Mr. Joestar asks out of nowhere, sitting down on his tufted royal blue chair. Robert stands awkwardly in the center of the office as the man continues to speak, “You had quite a long journey, I’m sure you’d—”

“I’m sure I’d like to get this over with, Mr. Joestar,” Robert says, cutting off the man. He was hoping to sound more candid, but it just came out sounding like he hates the man. Robert can’t turn back now so he keeps on going with his tone, “I’d like to see the dosh— money. Please.” Robert finishes, cringing at his improper use of words.

Mr. Joestar looks at him for a moment, his face calculating before he eventually sighs, “Of course,” is all he says. He reaches into one of the desk’s drawers and pulls out a sealed envelope. Mr. Joestar silently stands up from his chair, and walks over to Robert.

Robert can feel the weight of the envelope when it’s handed to him. It feels slightly heavy. Heavy with £3600. Robert feels the excitement slither through his body. This is probably the greatest amount of money he’s ever owned.

Suddenly, Mr. Joestar’s palm rests on top of the envelope in Robert’s hands as the man sighs, “I’m really sorry to pry, but I must know. What do you need this money for, Robert?”

Robert feels as if he’s about to be lectured by a parent. He sputters for a moment in panic. Robert’s a thief. Not just a thief, but he’s also part of a gang. Robert feels a pang of guilt as he considers things even deeper. Mr. Joestar is giving him money because Robert saved his life from a thief. And now, that same lad who saved him is a thief too. Robert’s exactly the same as the man that had come tryin’ to nick from the Joestars.

It would make anyone laugh; anyone except for Robert. It only makes him feel like crying. Robert looks at his shoes in silence as Mr. Joestar waits for his answer, the dirty drab brown of his shoes contrasting against the polished white tile of the office. It’s out of place, just like him.

Robert shouldn’t tell Mr. Joestar about the kids and the Ogre Street gang. He doesn’t know how the man would react. Mr. Joestar would probably panic and tell the peelers, and if he does that, then the whole gang would be exposed. Robert would be known as the snitch. He’d be hunted down, he’d be penniless, he’d—

“Robert?” Mr. Joestar’s deep voice cuts through the thoughts roaring through Robert’s head, “What’s wrong, lad?” The man asks, shaking Robert’s shoulders slightly.

“I-I’m sorry.” Robert says, finally snapping out of his internal soliloquy, “Why do you need the money, Robert? What have you gotten yourself into?” Mr. Joestar asks, rephrasing his question from earlier.

“You can tell me.” He finishes, looking at Robert with an intense gaze.

The gaze reads openness and trust, like Robert can tell him everything. So, after a long moment of debating, Robert cracks and spills it all.

Robert tells him about the Ogre Street gang, and about Kempo Master and Tattoo’s deaths. How scared the young’uns of the gang are. How Robert just wants to help ‘em, at least for a bit.

Eventually, he’s spilling about completely irrelevant subjects, like how spooked the lads will be if they find out about Portia leaving the gang, his current penniless state, and the corrupt peelers.

Mr. Joestar is quiet as he listens to Robert speak. Robert’s talked a lot during the course of his 17-year life, but he comes to the conclusion that this is probably the most he’s ever spoken. When he’s done with his tangent, he’s huffing and his body feels jittery with adrenaline.

Robert expects Mr. Joestar to be angry with him, raising his voice like he had with Jonathan, or to refuse to give Robert the money for his status as a thief. However, the man instead gives out a long, heavy sigh filled with relief.

“Despite how much time has passed, you are still the same righteous boy I knew all those years ago.” Mr. Joestar says, smiling. His eyes are filled with such warmth, and Robert’s eyebrows shoot up. He can’t believe it. Mr. Joestar isn’t angry or afraid or anything bad, he’s actually happy.

“D-Does this mean I can have the money?” Robert asks tentatively, just to be sure. Mr. Joestar laughs softly before he replies, “Of course, Robert. I would have given it to you even if you hadn’t told me about your circumstances.”

Robert beams at the man, slipping the envelope into the pocket of his suit jacket, “Thank you! Thank you so much, Mr. Joestar.” He exclaims. He’ll finally be able to help all those kids. All the emotional and financial stress will have been worth it. Robert happily grasps Mr. Joestar’s hand as he performs a joyous handshake.

Suddenly, Robert is reminded of his problem earlier in the carriage. How is he to return home? He has absolutely no dosh left, and he doesn’t even have any left to travel back to Ogre Street.

 It’s as if Mr. Joestar is reading his thoughts when the man speaks, “Before you go, I heard you mention something about you having no money?” Mr. Joestar asks.

Robert nods silently. Damn him and his big mouth. Mr. Joestar is probably going to give him more money again, but instead of Robert being excited it mostly just makes him feel even more like a thief.

“Mr. Joestar, I assure you, I don’t need anymore—” Robert begins, hoping to dissuade Mr. Joestar from giving him anymore money, but the man takes him by surprise when he instead asks, “Perhaps you would like to live here? Permanently?”

Robert remembers what Mr. Joestar had asked in his letter, and Robert readies himself for his refusal. He’s going to say no, leave the estate, and then—

And then? Live on the streets, homeless? Nickin’ with everything he’s got until the peelers find him and shoot him dead? Robert feels a shiver run through his body, not just from the idea of being penniless, but the fact… that he might be considering a life with the Joestars.

“Y-You… I can’t sir. You know I can’t.” Robert answers when he realizes that he had been silent for far too long, “Why do you think so, Robert?” Mr. Joestar asks, and it feels like Robert is five all over again, freezing in the streets while Mr. Joestar tries to persuade him to ride in his carriage.

“Because I’m a thief!” Robert exclaims, his voice cracking slightly, “D-Don’t you hate me? I-I’m just like that man who tried to steal from ya—” He tries to breathe as he feels his emotions get the better of him.

“But you still give me money… You still try, and try to get me to stay with you,” Robert inhales, defeated, “Are… Are you daft or something?” Mr. Joestar looks at him for a moment as Robert tries to steady his breathing.

“Oh, Robert,” Mr. Joestar says in such a small voice, Robert almost can’t believe he had heard the man yelling at his son only earlier that day, “I believe that everyone is capable of kindness–- Of changing.” He grasps Robert’s shoulder to emphasize his words.

“And I can see kindness within you, Robert. Every wrong deed you have ever done, I know that there is a reason to it, and I know that you can grow from it,” He smiles, and stares at Robert imploringly.

“Well, you truly are daft.” Robert says, brushing Mr. Joestar’s hand away from his shoulder. He must have underestimated Mr. Joestar’s innocence. Robert can say that he respects the man’s open-mindedness, but beliefs like this will one day lead to the Joestar family’s ruin.

Some people are just born pure evil, and that’s a truth Robert knows is certain. Jonathan will no doubt end up like his father, and make the simple mistake of being kind to the wrong person. The Joestars are a goldmine within this world, obliging and generous despite all the filth.

So, so kind that it makes Robert feel slightly ill. Robert feels the need to protect that, like how Mr. Joestar strives to see the good in all, Robert wants to help this family with all he’s got.

Robert always pushed away Mr. Joestar’s advances to get him to stay with them. His mind was always filled with thoughts about being a thief, and gangs, and the poor, the rich—

His uselessness. Robert probably feared that the most. The feeling of being unhelpful or incompetent. It’s something Robert hates the most. He always worried that he would drag others down or leave people hurt. Leave them to die.

Robert feels it all coming back. That feeling of utter hopelessness. He couldn’t stop the young’uns from being traumatized. He couldn’t stop Kempo Master and Tattoo from dying. He couldn’t stop Mary from dying.

But now he can help.

“Robert, are you alright? You—” Mr. Joestar is saying, grasping both of Robert’s shoulders. He’s been quiet for far too long, stuck inside his head as he contemplates everything. Robert doesn’t let the man finish speaking. He already has his answer.

“I’ll stay with you,” Robert says, laying his hand on Mr. Joestar’s. Mr. Joestar looks at him in stunned silence as Robert continues to say, “I can finally help you,” and Robert smiles.

“What do you mean, lad?” Mr. Joestar asks as Robert’s smile only stretches wider. He doesn’t answer the man’s question, and simply laughs to himself in response.

He can finally help the bloody Joestars with something. Before, Robert was simply a thief, borrowing money off a debt. Now, he can be helpful. No longer a petty thief, but an ally.

He isn’t the poor, sickly child that Mr. Joestar once saved. At least not anymore. Now, he’s finally going to be helpful. Robert knows that the Joestars are too soft to survive in the world. The thought sends Robert’s mind towards Jonathan. That lad probably needs his help the most. He can help them be tougher, be stronger against any evil that might come and hurt them.

Mr. Joestar eventually gives up on his question, and leads Robert for another tour around the mansion, seeing as how it’ll be his home soon. Later that day, as Robert roams the large expanse of the Joestar estate, he vows something to himself.

The Joestars truly are something special, and Robert is going to make sure that nothing will ever, ever take advantage of them.

3 Days Later, Ogre Street, London

When Robert returns to Ogre Street, his pockets are full o’ dosh and the streets are full of whispers.

They’re all whispers about him. Nobody’s ever given him so much as a side glance before, and now the whole street is a-buzz with the news of him moving in with the Joestars. Robert sighs as he strides through their hushed gossip. He only has one thought in mind, and that’s the Ogre Street gang.

Specifically, the young’uns. As he slips himself through the busy cobblestone roads, his eyes scan the entire area, hoping to catch a glimpse of the lads. He navigates himself through the thick crowds of people, weaving his way through alleys and roads, hoping to find the lads’ signature spot within the streets.

Finally, Robert reaches the young’uns favorite spot. The same area he had seen them all sulking in a few days ago. He’s rather surprised to find them in their usual spot, although they aren’t nickin’. They’re probably still too scared.

The lads are playing, drawing lines into the dry dirt and running around in circles chasing each other through crude made-up games. Robert smiles as he calls out to them, “Oi! Aren’t you lads goin’ to greet ol’ Speedwagon?” The kids’ eyes are immediately drawn to him, forgetting about everything they were currently doing. The 12 or so lads run towards him, greeting him with their large smiles.

“Mister Speedwagon, you’re back!” He hears one of the young’uns say, “I heard you’re livin’ with the Joestars now.” Another one says.

“No way! I heard that you’re hiding in one of their rooms, and that you’re slowly takin’ away their fortune day by day!” A lad says, clutching at Robert’s arm. Robert laughs. He’s happy to see all the young’uns smiling and out in the streets, even though he knows that they’re still too spooked to wander about like how they usually do.

“Listen, all of you,” Robert drops his voice to a whisper, and all the lads quiet down immediately, “I am livin’ with the Joestars.” He tells them, and he hears a cacophony of ‘I-told-you-so’s’ and ‘I can’t believe it’s.’

“Are ya goin’ to leave Ogre Steet, then?” One of the lads asks. Robert feels his eyebrows draw down for a moment, and he says, “Sadly, yes. But— I’ll be sure to visit.” The lads’ faces all morph into similar frowns, and Robert rushes himself to announce the good news.

“Now, now. Don’t look too down, lads,” Robert says, and he reaches his hand into his suit jacket’s pocket, “I do have some parting gifts to offer.” He finishes. He’s already split the money between all the lads, and situated each of their shares into tightly sealed envelopes. He pulls out one, and hands it to one of the lads closest to him.

“That’s filled with dosh. For your families.” Robert announces, smiling as the kids stare at him in awe. His ears fall nearly deaf at the shouts of gratitude that follow. He promptly gives each of the lads their shares, telling them all to go straight home and to hand the money to their parents. The last thing he’d want is for one of the lads to lose his family’s share.

To his knowledge, none of the lads within the gang are orphans, with the only exception being himself. So he’s sure that the money’s going to be kept in more responsible hands. Robert says goodbye to each and every one of them; telling them that if they ever need anything, they can visit him or write to him.

There are some tearful goodbyes, and a lot of hugging and reassuring until the lads, one by one, make their ways home. Robert feels happiness bloom through his chest. Despite it all, he managed to help the lads of the Ogre Street gang.

It didn’t cost nearly as much as he thought it would. Only his status within the gang and all his money; but at least now the young’uns get infinite allowance from the Joestar family, and he gets to avoid homelessness.

To other people’s ears, it may sound like a miracle. However, to Robert’s, it sounds like a dull life spent pretending to be a rich kid, trying to belong in a place that always seems to make it painfully obvious how different he is. No use in complaining though. He needs to do this, if he wants to help the Joestars.

Robert sighs. He’s sure that by tomorrow, the whole town will know about his new status as the ward of George Joestar. He should write to Portia about all this. It will do him some good to write more often, since now he’s going to go to proper school.

Mr. Joestar had sent Robert back to Ogre Street in one of his fancy, private-owned carriages. The carriage looked exactly the same as the one that had fallen off a cliff and pierced its pieces into Mary, making Robert shudder as he rode it.

He should probably make his way back to carriage. Back to his new home. The thought of living in that huge mansion still makes Robert feel slightly lightheaded.

All of a sudden, Robert feels something shift within his suit jacket’s pocket. He plunges his hand inside and pulls out an envelope, filled with some money as well.

Odd. He’s sure he had given all the lads their respective shares, yet there’s still one left over. Robert stills in his walking to try and make sense of things. All of a sudden, he realizes.

When he had first calculated the amount of money, he had included Portia in the share. Robert sighs. Great, now he has an extra envelope o’ dosh.

He glances all around him, his eyes taking in the familiar sight of old shops and foul-smelling alleys. Perhaps he should just give it to some random stranger and just get it over with. Robert strains his eyes as he gazes at the various faces walking through the streets.

Robert grunts in dismay. Everyone he sees either looks like a self-centered middle-class resident of Ogre Street, or a drunk. Finally, Robert’s eyes land on a lad walking down the road. He looks about the same age as Jonathan, but something about the boy catches Robert off guard, making him squint a bit to try and examine the lad further.

The boy’s face is covered in bruises. Some are dark blue, and others a nasty yellow. The lad’s right eye is swollen and red, his face placid despite his features. The lad is staring ahead as he walks, striding with confidence as if he didn’t even have any physical injuries to speak of.

“Hey— You there!” Robert exclaims, quickly making his way towards the boy. The boy looks up at him with what Robert can only register as contempt, and Robert holds back a flinch, “Where ya going, lad?” Robert asks when the lad finally stills. The boy is quiet before responding, like he’s weighing his options.

“You’re that Speedwagon fellow.” The lad suddenly says. Robert is at first surprised that the boy knows his identity, but then he recalls the currents state of affairs as he responds, “Yes, that’s me. That isn’t important, though. What are ya up to?”

The lad examines Robert again before replying, “I’m buying medicine. For my father.”

Robert glances at the boy’s hands, but finds that the lad isn’t carrying any money. The boy isn’t wearing any coats and his trouser pockets looks too shallow to reliably carry any money, “Where’s your money, then?”

The lad looks impressed for a moment before saying, “Don’t have any yet. I’m on my way to get some.”

Robert knows better than to ask how the lad is planning to get any dosh. People usually kept matters about money to themselves, especially since nearly everybody in Ogre Street pilfered, even if you weren’t part of a gang. Robert beams as he pulls out the envelope from his pocket and hands it to the lad, “No need to. There’s £277 in that envelope.”

“Why are you giving me this?” The lad asks, looking at the envelope in Robert’s hands with a guarded look. Robert sighs, “Look, you knew my name, meaning you know about me and the Joestars,” Robert hopes he isn’t acting like a show-off as he finishes, “Just take the money, lad. You need it more than I do.”

The boy takes the envelope slowly, looking at Robert with uncertainty for a moment before opening the sealed envelope. His eyes widen just a fraction when he sees the money tucked inside, and he looks to be thinking before he says, “I’ll take it. But don’t think I’m some charity case. I just… really need it.”

“Of course, lad,” Robert says. Damn, this kid sounds a lot like him. Robert feels a tad bad for just leaving a bruised kid alone, but the lad seems independent enough, “Stay safe— Uhm. What’s your name?” Robert asks.

The kid gives Robert a blank stare as he clutches the envelope in his hands. The lad always seems to be calculating, even with the smallest of choices, and the thought scares Robert just a tad. Not that he’s afraid of some lad. Eventually, the boy quietly reaches a hand for a handshake, and lets a sly smile grace his bruised features, “Dio. Dio Brando.”

Robert smiles and takes the hand, “Nice to meet you, Dio. I hope things go well for ya.” It’s all he can think to say as he bids the bruised boy goodbye, and he saunters off towards Mr. Joestar’s carriage, the boy named Dio staring at his retreating figure.

Chapter Text

Dio considers himself an unlucky person.

Born to a weak-willed mother he doesn’t remember, and a father who drinks and swears and steals. From what he could remember, his mother was different. She seemed like a soft bright light, different from the harsh atmosphere his father always resonated and the foreboding darkness of Ogre Street; the place he unfortunately has to call home.

When his mother died, her presence within that home died with her. Dio’s life wasn’t at all joyful even when she was alive, but at least someone was always there to try and shield him from his father’s relentless blows. His father. Dario Brando. The memory of his father brings rage into Dio’s heart.

A man who relishes in the warmth of alcohol and the scent of cigars. Heartless. Cruel. A former thief, the type that steals without a gang or a group. Dio never actually saw his father steal anything, but he remembers Dario mention it passingly, like what he used to do wasn’t a crime.

Ever since Dio could remember, his father couldn’t walk properly, a loss of feeling in his legs caused by some unfortunate accident from years ago that his father refuses to speak of. His father never explained his inability to use his legs, and Dio didn’t want to aggravate his father. His mother never spoke any further on the matter, and Dio couldn’t blame her. Perhaps she knew as little as him when concerning his father’s affairs.

His father is a man who hurts. His mother having died from over-working herself, all because his father didn’t have a proper job. The bruises and scars littered across Dio’s body, all caused by one man.

His father always seemed to follow him wherever he went. In the scars he left behind, the fresh bruises littering Dio’s body, or the voice that would ring in Dio’s head whenever he felt uneasy or afraid. It’s like every unpleasant feeling Dio could possibly feel leads back to his father, even if it had absolutely nothing to do with him.

So yes, Dio is rather unlucky.

He sighs heavily. Dio rids himself of further abstractions, and brings his mind back to the present. Dio stands at his house’s front entryway, clutching his father’s medicine in his hands. The medicine he couldn’t have bought if it wasn’t for that man— no, a boy. Simply a boy, perhaps only a few years older than him.

Speedwagon.

Dio didn’t know that boy’s name before today. He would see him often, though. Loitering the streets or running across the alleyways with the infamous Ogre Street gang. It’s easy to recognize a boy like that, with his wild flaxen hair and a long scar on his face. The perfect caricature of a thief. He doesn’t know why, but the thought of the boy makes Dio feel a bit… indignant. Strange.

That boy’s name had rung through the whole of Ogre Street. From a lowly thief to George Joestar’s ward. The Joestars may be quite well known across all of England, but to someone from Ogre Street, that name just falls into obscurity.

It’s a name that seems like any other. The lower class simply don’t have the time to list down every rich man’s last name. They’re too busy feeding their children and living their sad lives to even notice what goes on in the world of the rich. However, hearing about ol’ Speedwagon leaving his gang behind and living with some posh bloke in Liverpool— now that’s enough to turn some of their heads.

To the upper class, it’s an entirely different affair. The Joestars are probably as prominent in their lives as their large mansions and lovely gowns are. The richer residents of England probably ate up all of the gossip regarding Speedwagon like mad dogs. Dio scoffs and rolls his eyes. Petty gossip for the weak. Dio doesn’t have time for such things. He lets out a long exhale, and steadies himself to open his front door.

He draws it open, and the familiar sight of old floorboards and moldy walls greets him. The smell of alcohol and cigars fill his nose, and he suddenly feels like vomiting. Dio clutches his father’s bottle of medicine closer to himself as he steps into the parlor.

The parlor is how it always was. Decrepit and old. The stove is rusting, and probably hadn’t been used since his mother died. Despite its current dilapidated state, the parlor is usually clean; empty of his father’s various cigar stubs and bottles of alcohol, since his father is unable to get down the stairs by himself.

When Dio was younger, his father would often attempt to move around the house to scavenge for things to sell. Dio remembers a time when his father would drink and vomit all over the parlor, trying to walk with his cane as he bumped into various walls.

Dio gazes at the aforementioned cane now left leaning against the staircase, covered in spiderwebs from years of being unused. His father’s condition had worsened throughout the years. His father used to walk around with a cane, as well as some crutches, but as time went by his legs had given out. Now he spends his days locked up in his bedroom, sleeping all day or simply sitting in his wheelchair.

Dio wonders if his father wants to die.

He certainly acts like it. His father acts like a wraith in his own house, simply existing and affecting things, and most of all, haunting Dio like a nightmare. There hangs a look over Dario’s eyes, beneath all the anger and drunkenness, there’s a look of genuine sadness. Perhaps his father wishes for himself to die as much as Dio does.

Dio glances at the bottle of medicine in his hand. Why does he bother? Why does he bother himself to bring his father medicine and to care for him? Why?

Dio knows the answer. He always has, ever since that dark feeling began rising in his chest. It’s different from the chastising voice of his father in his mind. In fact, it sounds nothing like his father, because it sounds exactly like Dio.

It hates and it stirs and it plots. It whispers ideas and dreams to Dio. It isn’t something that tries to oppress Dio. It’s something entirely true. It took Dio a long time to realize that the feeling isn’t another haunting piece of trauma, but was an embodiment of his truest self.

Perhaps it isn’t proper to call it a feeling. It is Dio. A part within him that is only his, and not created from years of pain or loneliness.  And Dio cherishes it— he cherishes himself. After all, in times like these, the only person you can truly trust is yourself.

Oftentimes, Dio tells himself to kill his father. The old man is a cripple after all, Dio could very easily take a pillow and just force it into his father’s face, crushing his nose and blocking his mouth.

Dio has thought about it so much, he can almost feel the way his father would writhe in the bed, and the way his voice would grunt and scream under the pillow, but nobody would be able to hear him. It would be so easy.

Or, he could visit one of the darker corners of Ogre Street, the small areas littered with damp emporiums, dodgy markets and apothecaries with their so-called alchemists. All Dio would have to do is buy a bit of poison, and slip it into his father’s daily intake of Laudanum.

Dio nearly smiles at the image. His father lying in bed, or perhaps sitting in his wooden wheelchair— growing thin and frail, the poison slowly eating away at his body, until nothing would be left. Nobody would be able to notice. They’d think that the old man simply died from overdosing, like everybody else in bloody England.

However, Dio knows better. He knows better than to kill his father so simply. He’d be the first suspect in cases like those. No matter how fearless Dio pretended to be, he was always worried that someone would track him down, that someone would be able to figure it all out.

Dio always considered himself smart. Despite that, his mind would still supply him with the image of some… man. An imaginary person with a mind quicker than his, or perhaps a body stronger and more powerful than his. Sometimes that man carried the voice of his father.

This person would find him and destroy Dio. It fills him with dread.

Despite Dio telling himself that such a man doesn’t exist, the thought still returns to him from time to time, especially during moments when he’d like to plot his father’s untimely death. If he wants to murder his father, then he has to find a better, more discreet way to do it.

But the ideas Dio conjures up regarding Dario’s death often fall short. Even if he does kill his father, Dio has no escape. No escape from Ogre Street. No escape from the unlucky life he has been born into. That’s why he has to do as his father bids. It is why he has stayed in this foreboding house, and why he decides to endure his father’s endless abuse. He simply has nowhere to go.

Is it his fate to live like this? Why do the rich deserve a better life than him? Why does Speedwagon deserve a better life than him? Suddenly, Dio understands why he felt angry when thinking about the bastard. Dio feels a new type of rage fill him. He doesn’t want to name it. It feels petty, having emotions like these, but Dio can’t help himself. He feels jealous.

Speedwagon doesn’t deserve a life with the Joestars. Speedwagon doesn’t deserve the money, the happy life, and the power. Dio deserves it. Dio should have been the one fated to receive that honor. Not Speedwagon. Not anyone else but Dio.

Speedwagon is nobody but a thief who got lucky. Dio hates himself for accepting Speedwagon’s envelope of money. Dio can feel the small envelope tucked into his pocket, a small reminder of his unjust circumstances. He should just throw away the remaining money. He doesn’t need it. He doesn’t need pathetic charity.

Speedwagon never so much as spared Dio a glance before. Now, the dumb bastard is going about and offering charity to anybody he happens to see. It’s like he doesn’t even realize the honor that’s been bestowed upon him.

If Dio was in his place, he wouldn’t have wasted it on the other residents of Ogre Street, he’d do whatever he could to make use of the Joestars’ money. Perhaps he would have found a way to take the Joestar’s fortune as his own.

Speedwagon must think it so fun, galivanting about with his newfound riches. He probably considers himself so kind, for giving Dio that money. The way he had smiled and offered Dio the envelope packed with money. That boy was looking down on him— Dio knows it.

Rage seizes Dio’s chest.

However, Dio has to be patient. Soon, he’ll find his chance. A chance to get revenge on his father, a chance to get rich and powerful, a chance to leave his miserable life behind. And perhaps, on the way, a chance to show Speedwagon who ought to be on top.

Patience.

The smell of smoke gets stronger the moment Dio sets foot on the staircase. His father is probably smoking in his room. Dio tries his best not to inhale the smoke-infused air as he climbs the staircase, and when he reaches the top, quickly opens the door to his father’s bedroom. The foul smell only grows stronger as Dio steps into the room.

Dario is sitting in his wheelchair, smoking a large cigar. The wooden table placed within the room is covered in empty bottles of gin and rum. Dio forces himself not to hold his nose at the stench. He has to act strong, especially in front of his father. Pretend like nothing gets to him.

“Where the hell ‘ave you been, boy?” His father drawls, obviously drunk. His eyebrows are drawn close into an angry scowl, his aged face looking vile in the dark room. Dio carefully arranges his face to look placid and relaxed, “I bought you medicine, Father.” He says, raising the bottle of Laudanum in his hands.

“Where’d you get the bloody dosh for ‘at?” The voice of his father resonates through the old walls. He’s getting angry. Dio keeps his face perfectly still. Be unaffected. “Some rich lad gave some to me.” Dio replies casually, like the news of Speedwagon’s adoption hadn’t left the entirety of Ogre Street nattering. The mention of Speedwagon again drives another dagger of anger through Dio’s mind.

“If you ‘ad money, you shoulda bought me more booze! Stupid boy!” Dario yells as he grabs a bottle and hurls it towards Dio’s head. Dio moves his head a bit to the left, and the bottle comes flying past him, shattering against the wall behind him. Dio tries not to flinch as a few pieces of glass pierce themselves into his neck.

His father grabs at the wheels of his wheelchair, and begins steering himself towards Dio. Dio knows what’s to come. However, he stands his ground. The last thing he wants is for his father to see him running down the stairs in fear. Dio would rather die than show any damn weakness in front of his own senile father.

Dario grabs another empty bottle as he draws himself closer to Dio. When he throws it, Dio just barely manages to dodge to the side. Dio smirks at his father’s aim, his pride swelling up a bit. The glass shatters against the door, and a bit of alcohol splatters onto the floor, staining the already filthy wood.

Dio stares at the floor with disgust. He wonders how his father manages to survive in this disgusting room. Suddenly, a bottle comes crashing onto his skull, the glass thudding heavily. There isn’t enough force in the throw for the bottle to break, but it’s still painful. Damn. He got distracted.

Dio grunts in pain and crumbles to the ground. He can hear Dario’s laughter ringing in his ears. The sound is wet and terrible and—

His head is throbbing, jolts of pain resonating from a certain point in his scalp. He reaches up a shaky hand to feel the bruise, and another aching sensation travels across his entire body when his fingers graze the large bump forming on his head. He draws his fingers away from the bump, and finds them covered in bright red. Blood. He’s bleeding.

Dio wants to scream. He wants to kill his father. He wants to kill his father. He wants to kill his father.

And Dio realizes, he’s bleeding a lot as the warm liquid drips down from his head and onto his neck. Dio tries to control the voice in his head telling him to grab a bottle and smash it in Dario’s face.

Stop. Control yourself. Dio knows how his anger gets the better of him.

He can’t kill his father. Not yet, at least. Dio gets up on his feet, his face once again devoid of any hint of pain.

In times like these, when his father hits him, Dio goes out and hits someone else. When his father makes him feel daft, Dio goes down to the pub to beat some drunkards at their own games of chess. It makes him feel better.

So, Dio decides to go out.

“I’m sorry, Father. I’ll go back out and get you some.” Dio calls. He doesn’t spare his father a glance as he leaves the bedroom. His father yells a few more insults as Dio closes the door, but by this point he isn’t listening.

Dio is angry.

His mind is barraged by thoughts of violence and secret pleasures. He wants to fight and scream and kill. He wants to go back and push his father’s cane down the old man’s throat. He wants to break into some rich family’s home and steal some of their money, just to see them panic and hide from him.

The thought of rich people sends his thoughts towards the bastard who had given him money earlier that day. He wants to find Speedwagon and make it impossible for him to ever enjoy life with the Joestars.

Dio glances at the medicine still in his palm, and he throws it against the cobblestone road. The glass shatters, reminding Dio of his father’s empty bottles crashing against the walls.

Dio suddenly feels something shift around in his pocket, almost slipping out. He reaches his fingers inside, only to pull out the small envelope of money. He’s just about to crumple it up and throw it into the sewers when—

Dio suddenly lights up. This could be it. His chance.

Dio has never once left Ogre Street. He never had enough money before. But now, thanks to that idiot Speedwagon…

A plan begins to form in his head, and Dio smirks to himself.

Perhaps he should pay the Joestar estate a nice visit.

The Next Day, Liverpool, England

Robert doesn’t often get into fights.

That’s not to say he’s bad at fighting— he is a street-boy, after all, but when you spend most of your days nicking and pilfering from unsuspecting daft gentlemen, you don’t really find yourself having to get into a brawl with ‘em. However, here he is, thwacking some rude lad’s snot-nosed face as hard as he can into the damp dirt below him.

He’s stayed with the Joestars for what, two days— maybe three? He honestly can’t tell anymore; the passage of time feels strange in the Joestar mansion. The tall walls and pristine carpets scare him a little, and every morning when he wakes up, he still expects to find himself in his old flat with the leaking ceiling and—

Robert’s train of thought is cut short when he feels one of the other lads land a swift blow to his stomach. Robert’s mind comes careening back to the present. Of course, he’s in a fight. How could he forget? He’s had about three different fights with three different groups o’ lads since he arrived in Liverpool.

These daft children. Robert takes a sweeping glance at the three boys currently surrounding him, their faces just as bruised and battered as his. They had been fighting for about twenty minutes, and despite Robert managing to fend off the three attackers, he doesn’t know how much longer he can last.

Robert recalls passingly how the fight started. They had whispered to each other in sneering voices, obviously trying to get Robert’s attention, ‘He probably thinks he’s better than us ‘cause he gets to live with some rich bloke!’ When all Robert had been doing was sitting by the river, trying to escape Jonathan’s endless attempts at befriending him.

And when Robert stood up, baring his fists in an attempt to scare them off, they all shouted, ‘Hey! He’s tryna fight us!’ Robert can barely remember the insults they threw at him. He’s gotten fairly used to the usual ‘thief’ and ‘beggar-boy’ name-calling he’s heard from the other fights he’d gotten into during the past few days.

Robert’s thoughts return to the present as he grabs at the boy who had kicked him, and he throws the lad onto the ground, using his much larger frame to pin him down. Robert struggles with the writhing boy, his arm straining against the lad’s attempts to stand up.

Robert doesn’t forget about the two boys still standing above him, though. As one of the other lads moves closer, Robert stretches his left leg out and swerves it low on the ground into a small curve, the boy’s feet getting tangled in Robert’s leg. Robert lets out a satisfied grin as the boy tumbles to the ground.

Suddenly, an intense force drives itself into Robert’s cheek, so strong that he feels his jaw give way a little too much, and he feels a terrible dull crack somewhere in his mouth. Robert lets out an incomprehensible yell of pain, realizing that that crack had meant one of his teeth might have gotten loose.

He looks up and finds the only lad still left standing. Before Robert can react any further, the boy sends another kick, his foot digging into Robert’s face before he can shield himself with his hands.

Robert falls backwards onto his back, and his mind is filled with panic as he realizes that he’s fully exposed. Stand up. Stand up. Stand up. Robert yells at himself, his adrenaline beginning to spike further. He tries his best to get up, his legs struggling to align themselves as the pain in his torso grows stronger and the stinging ache from his jaw begins calling for his attention.

He doesn’t manage to get on his feet fast enough, though. Robert’s still kneeling, his shaking arms trying to push his weight off the ground when the three boys all manage to get to him.

“Ha! I thought ya wanted to fight!” One of the lads says, his voice annoyingly shrill in Robert’s ear. Robert tries to lunge at the boy, trying his best to grab onto anything, as long as he can—

His back is pounded down by a heavy weight, probably someone’s foot, as it forces his stomach into the dirt. Robert winces at the feeling of small, rather painful pebbles as they dig into the new blouse Mr. Joestar had given him. Perhaps he should have worn a waistcoat.

“Has livin’ with the Joestars softened all yer edges?” He hears a voice say directly above him. It’s coming from the boy whose got his foot on Robert’s back. Despite all the lads being younger and Robert being much taller than any of them, the feeling of someone’s entire weight on Robert’s spine makes it nearly impossible for him to stand.

Robert’s hands scramble against the dirt, his legs kicking desperately, “Maybe that’s why the Joestars took ‘im in—” The boy lifts his voice higher to copy a motherly tone as he continues, “Poor Speedwagon! He was jus’ too delicate to survive out in the streets!”

Robert hates how they know his name. He doesn’t even know these people, and yet they know all about him from all o’ the news and gossip that’s been going about. Robert flinches as one of the boys sends a kick into his torso’s side, making the pain hurt even more.

The single blow evolves into more as the lads, all around him, start kicking him. Robert tries his best to cover his sides or his head with his hands, but the blows are too much.

Robert’s face is being pushed into the ground, and he can’t even see the boys’ faces anymore. One of the lads is barreling his foot into the space where Robert’s shoulder meets his neck, and as he screams in pain, he concedes that getting kicked in that spot might be more painful than the splitting ache in his torso and mouth combined.

Blood is dripping from his mouth, soaking into the dirt below him as it emits a terrible metallic smell. He can taste it too, and the way it’s pooling in his mouth makes him want to spit it in one of the lad’s faces.

All of a sudden, Robert feels something graze against his fingers.

It’s a stone, and it’s small enough to be clutched in his hand. Robert grasps at it, trying to focus as the pain grows almost unbearable. He finally manages to hold it in his palm as he tries to hide it from the lads’ view, and steadies himself as he raises his arm a bit. He’s going to drive that rock into the daft bloke’s foot currently kicking into his shoulder.

“Hey! Stop that!” Someone calls. The boys still for a moment, looking for the source of the voice. However, Robert doesn’t even need to look to affirm the identity of the speaker. Robert grunts and tries to focus his energy in getting up instead of rolling his eyes.

It’s Jonathan.

“Huh? Who’re you?” A boy says as Jonathan sprints towards them. Robert shifts himself into a sitting position, his ribs aching and his back feeling like it actually just broke as he stares at Jonathan with dazed eyes, “Do ya know him? Are you Speedwagon’s friend or somethin’?” Another boy asks as Jonathan finally reaches them.

“Of course I know him— he’s my brother!” Jonathan exclaims as he begins delivering pathetic weak blows into a lad’s chest. Robert wants to bury his throbbing head in his weak arms, mostly in mortification rather than in any pain, “Brother? What— You mean to say you’re Jonathan Joestar?” The boy he’s striking says, barely even affected by Jonathan’s blows.

“Hey, wasn’t this lad here a few days ago, too?” A boy says.

“Oh, right! He’s the one who tried to save Erina!” One of them replies, before letting out an obnoxious laugh, “He’s pathetic though, got his arse kicked right quick.”

Robert closes his eyes, knowing what’s to come. He can hear Jonathan and the lads saying something, but by this point Robert’s too tired to even listen. He can hear the familiar sound of shuffling clothes and pained grunts, and he deduces that they must be fighting.

He can hear Jonathan’s muffled cries of pain, and Robert internally shakes his head in disappointment. Robert listens in as a boy says, “Just stay on yer own land, rich kid.”

He hears retreating footsteps, and when Robert opens his eyes, he finds that the boys are nowhere to be seen.

“I know two of those fellows,” Robert nearly starts at the sudden voice from behind him. He turns around and meets Jonathan’s intense gaze, already standing despite the faint scratches on his face, “They were lampooning a poor girl here a few days ago. I should have known they would come back and stir up some new trouble.”

Jonathan leans down a bit, his arm stretching out to help Robert up. Robert scowls and swats his hand away, and forces himself to get up from the ground. He tries his best to ignore the terrible ache resonating through his body, and the way his mouth is still pooling with blood.

Robert spits out the blood onto the dirt, and smirks a tad when he sees Jonathan grimace in terribly-hidden disgust.

“I could have taken them myself.” Robert says in an irritated tone. He glances at the stone still held within his palm, and tosses it away halfheartedly. He hates the way Jonathan just stares at him with a placating look on his face.

Robert scoffs. No matter where he goes, he finds no bloody peace. First Jonathan, then some irritating young’uns and now Jonathan again. Can’t everyone just leave Robert alone?

Robert lays his hand across his torso, feeling the ache in his ribs lessen a bit at the support. He sighs, his ribs probably aren’t broken. He raises his other hand to feel his jaw. Not dislocated. No teeth have fallen out, either. At least the damage done to his body wasn’t too bad. He’d be damned if he’d gotten a loose tooth from a buncha’ children.

His clothes are all dusty from the tussle, and Robert’s sure that his new blouse is missing a few buttons. He frowns and hopes that Mr. Joestar won’t be cross with him. He’s learned these past few days that Mr. Joestar can be quite strict when it comes to Jonathan, and he’d be happy not to be on the receiving end of that man’s scoldings.

“Doesn’t matter if you could take them or not, Robert,” Jonathan starts as Robert begins his trek back to the Joestar mansion, “A proper gentleman like me should always strive to help those in dire straits.” He flashes Robert a bright, perfect smile and Robert shakes his head in repugnance. However, a brief look of pure determination crosses Jonathan’s eyes, and Robert, for a moment— feels a bit impressed. Only a bit.

“It’s Speedwagon.” Robert says as an afterthought.

Robert seems too… too close for comfort. Nobody’s ever called him by his real name since— well, Robert tries not to remember. He recalls a time when he was younger, before he had decided to call Ogre Street his home. The dark nights Robert would care to forget.

He was always called Robert, back then. In the orphanages, and when he ran away to the workhouses, and eventually in the streets when the factory he worked in had gone insolvent. Speedwagon’s a better name. It’s less connected to his past. It’s the name of the cunning, fearless thief within him, not the shaking child desperately asking to be saved.

So, no. He isn’t letting Jonathan call him Robert.

He isn’t planning to get awfully chummy with Jonathan. He plans to help the boy become stronger and more mature, but that doesn’t mean they have to act like… brothers. Robert shudders at the word. He’s not here for a family. Robert’s here to be a valuable ally, to be a good colleague, to be as helpful as he possibly can.

Because no matter how much Mr. Joestar insists, and no matter how many times Jonathan attempts to fraternize with him, Robert knows that he will never, ever belong with them. So, it’s best for him to stand his ground and try his best to make the Joestars understand his wishes without having to batter their naïve heads in.

“I can’t call you by your last name,” Jonathan replies from behind Robert, his tone earnest and puzzled. Robert grunts before replying, “Jonathan—” he begins before being cut off by the lad.

“And that’s another thing!” Jonathan exclaims. Robert shakes his head as he tries to walk faster. They’re both nearly at the mansion, “You mustn’t call me Jonathan. It’s JoJo, that’s what everyone calls me.”

“Well, I ain’t like everyone.” Robert replies. He ends the conversation by storming into the mansion and closing the large doors behind him with a thud. He hopes that Jonathan takes a hint. However, the lad only follows him inside with a blithe look on his face, and Robert decides to play the ‘untrustworthy street-boy card’ just to spook the daft boy off.

“Jonathan,” Robert begins, turning around to gaze at Jonathan with a fiendish smile, “If ya don’t leave me be, I’ll tell Mr. Joestar that you stole away the last of the apple custard.” Alright, not Robert’s best threat, but effective nonetheless.

“You told Mr. Joestar that it was Danny who snatched it from the table, but I know it was you.” Robert continues. He knows how Mr. Joestar does not take to Jonathan lying very well.

“H-How did you know that?” Jonathan asks in an alarmed tone. Robert laughs despite himself, his ribs aching and he thinks that he might be spilling a few drops of blood onto the spotless carpet below him.

Jonathan scowls, and shakes his head in disbelief, “You wouldn’t say that about me, Speedwagon.”

Robert ceases his sniggering in surprise. Yes, he wasn’t actually going to tell Mr. Joestar that he found Jonathan stuffing his face full of pastry in the confines of his room. He simply wants to scare the boy. But Jonathan wasn’t supposed to know that.

Robert wouldn’t actually send Jonathan to suffer under Mr. Joestar’s unrelenting austerity. When he sees Jonathan’s face whenever his father scolds him, it honestly hurts to look. Jonathan just seems so sad and pitiful. And the way Mr. Joestar looks at him with such disappointment… Robert can’t bear to let Jonathan suffer like that.

“Why do you think so, lad?”  Robert asks, carefully arranging his tone to sound cruel and haughty.

Robert’s lived on the streets his whole life, and the first rule to survive is to never, ever let anyone know what you’re truly feeling. The moment you show weakness, the moment you show that you care— that’s when everyone looks down on you. You’ll be known as the sensitive, emotional type. Nobody would ever take you seriously.

And Robert knows, he knows that he can act more like himself in this house. Less like the smirking, clever pilfering street-boy he’s been labeled as; and more like… himself.

He only ever allowed himself to open up to Portia and the young’uns of the Ogre Street gang. He thinks that when he was with them, it was the only time he didn’t need to hide how he really felt and who he really was.

He doesn’t understand why he can’t seem to let go of that part of himself. The part that wants to hide, and to doubt and to run. Why can’t Robert just learn how to let go of his damn past? So what if he grew up without a family? So what if he’d been beaten and hurt and worked to the bloody bone when he was a child? He should be used to all of that by now.

Robert feels his chest begin to hurt, and he tells himself that it just hurts from the fight, that’s all. He isn’t about to— he can’t be— he isn’t going to cry. No. Absolutely not. 

It doesn’t matter anymore. He should let go. He’s with the Joestars. He owes them… well, everything. He should at least learn how to treat them kindly, like a decent person. But Robert isn’t a decent person. He’s terrible. He’s a thief and a goddamned member of a gang. He’d stolen and hurt and fought others.

“Because I know that you are kind,” Jonathan answers after a long time, “What—” Robert begins, his face now scowling. It hurts his jaw when his mouth unconsciously stiffens into a straight line. He doesn’t know if he’s scowling from anger or from the effort of keeping tears from falling.

“When we first met— when my father was going to reprimand me for not taking your bags,” Jonathan starts, “Y-You stood up for me.”

Jonathan continues, “At first, I thought that you were evil. That you were trying to trick us or steal from us,” the boy steps closer, and Robert is trying his best not to collapse onto the carpet from exhaustion while at the same time, trying not to burst into tears.

“But now I see. You’ve been alone. You’ve only ever been alone,” Jonathan says, and Robert realizes how little Jonathan is. He only comes up to Robert’s chest, and it reminds him gravely of when the other boy was still a small baby, “You don’t have to be alone, anymore. Because now you have me and Father!”

“I—” Robert starts again. He has to put an end to this. He’s not here to make friends. He’s not here to have a family—

“I’ve been alone, too. All the other boys here hate me,” Jonathan continues to explain, “They make fun of me because my Father’s got a lotta money, and because I don’t fight any good.”

Jonathan gets frightfully close to Robert, and Robert needs to think. He has to act. It’s like Jonathan can see right through him, can see through his pitiful attempt to seem ruthless and tough. And it terrifies Robert.

He’s opened up to Mr. Joestar, when he had spoken to the man inside his office a few days ago. But this is different. Mr. Joestar was begging to take Robert in, to help him. At the same time, the man was offering to help all the young’uns of the Ogre Street gang. That, Robert can find himself agreeing to.

It’s different from now. Different from Jonathan. Jonathan wants a friend. He wants a brother. And Robert can’t give him that. He’s so, so, bloody sorry, but he can’t be what Jonathan wants. Because no matter how many times Robert tries to convince himself that he’s safe now, that he can show how he truly feels without having to hide behind a carefully constructed façade… he just can’t.

“We don’t have to be alone,” Jonathan is saying, and he looks so bloody open and benign. And the boy reaches a hand forward to grab Robert’s arm, “Now we have—”

And Robert snaps. He can’t bear it. The moment he feels Jonathan’s fingers so much as graze his shoulder, he grabs the boy’s hand and twists it at the joint. Jonathan lets out a yelp of pain, and Robert feels his chest ache again, and he’s so damn sorry.

“Don’t you dare touch me, rich kid.” Robert says, and the words taste bitter in his mouth. Yes, he might consider Jonathan daft and naïve and weak, but he doesn’t actually hate the lad. Perhaps he did, perhaps when he had first laid eyes on the boy and considered him to be similar to all the other posh children Robert had seen so often.

Jonathan is somehow unique, though. The way his eyes sparkle with something heroic and righteous. How he tries his best to impress his father. And when he tries, despite it all, to befriend Robert, despite all of Robert’s taunts and threats.

Even today, when Robert was getting his arse kicked by a group o’ annoying lads, Jonathan had come barreling straight in to save him, even though he didn’t know squat about fighting. Robert can’t admire the lad, at least not right now, but he can see true potential in Jonathan.

He’s still twisting Jonathan’s hand, the palm twisted upwards in an unnatural way, “I-I just wanted to help—” Jonathan cries, and Robert can see how the boy’s eyes become terrified and hostile.

“I don’t need your bloody help!” Robert shrieks. He pushes Jonathan away, the boy losing his balance and falling to the floor with a thud, “I’m not your brother, and we aren’t friends.” Robert says as he stomps away, blood dripping from his mouth and leaving a terrible trail on the floor.

Robert finds his room, one of the Joestar mansion’s guest rooms, all polished and cleaned up just for him, and he throws the door open and rushes inside. He’s such a bloody idiot.

His one wish to help Jonathan grow is all going down the drain. Why can’t Robert just act decent for once? He feels terrible. He wants to apologize— but he can’t seem to bring himself to leave the confines of his room.

It’s funny, for all his talk of wanting to help the Joestars become stronger, Robert just now realizes how weak he himself is.

Chapter Text

Robert skips dinner that night.

He had hidden himself away in his room for the rest of the afternoon. Mr. Joestar had visited his quarters later that day, asking him politely if he was feeling ill and if he wanted supper. Robert had to cough and force his voice into a scratchy mummer as he drawled out a, “— feeling rather under the weather, sir. I’d rather stay in tonight.”

Not an entire lie. After a fight like that, Robert would much rather lay in bed wearing his torn clothes than sit in the Joestars’ solid birch dining chairs that honestly hurt to sit in for more than a few minutes.

Of course, Mr. Joestar believed him immediately and didn’t seem to notice how fervidly Robert declined any mention of consuming medicine. A heavy, foreboding sense of worry lodges itself deep in Robert’s mind. Jonathan didn’t bother to visit him at all.

Robert almost couldn’t sleep, his body feeling almost jittery as he waited for a tentative knock or a soft voice to call for him in the middle of the night. However, nothing came. Of course Jonathan wouldn’t try to speak with him. He had twisted that poor lad’s hand so violently it was likely that he’d sprained Jonathan’s wrist.

Robert grunts in frustration. Morning had come, and the way the sunlight filters through his window seems far too cheery compared to Robert’s mood. He hadn’t called for a bath last night so the blood and mud from the fight yesterday is still clinging to his body. Robert feels positively disgusting.

He leans towards the bell pull at the edge of his bed, and tugs at the bronze lever. Robert didn’t really understand how, but Mr. Joestar had told him that if he ever needed to summon a servant, all he needed to do was pull at the lever by his bed.

Robert unbuttons his blouse to inspect his torso, and finds a yellowing bruise waiting for him. His ribs don’t hurt anymore, but the dark shade on his torso isn’t a pretty sight. Suddenly, he hears a knock at his door, and Robert hurries to cover his body with the large quilt laying on his bed.

“U-Uh, come in.” Robert calls.

“Good morning, Master Robert,” a young woman says as she opens his door. She’s wearing the frills and skirt of a maid, and she smiles as she continues, “Did you ring for your breakfast?”

Robert suddenly feels a bit embarrassed. The way he’s buried in his blankets with only his head showing, he thinks he looks rather foolish, “No— no, uhm, ma’am. I… Uh.” Robert says eloquently and he internally slaps himself across the face.

He hadn’t yet spoken to any of the Joestar staff before this moment, and he realizes that that might be attributed to how strange it feels to speak to a servant. It feels so very wrong, speaking to someone who’s paid to tend to your every need.

“I was wondering if you could draw me a bath? A-And, uhm. Not too hot. Please.” Robert finally says, and he feels shame pulse through his body as he sees the maid’s eyes shine with amusement. After a short while, the maid nods.

“You should have breakfast while you wait for the water to heat, sir.” The maid says, and she stands patiently waiting for Robert’s response.

It doesn’t take long for Robert’s mind to supply him with the image of Mr. Joestar at the dining table, asking him why he’s got dried blood under his fingernails and why there are bruises on his neck and shoulder. Robert tosses the thought out of his head as he tells the maid, albeit a little panicked, “No, thank you. I’ll jus’ wait for it in here.”

The maid nods once again and leaves the room. Robert lets out a sigh of relief and takes it upon himself to pull out the tub. Robert walks over to the copper tub leaning against the far wall, and lays it on the ground with a huff.

Robert glances at his filthy garments and decides to shuck the remaining dirty clothes off of himself. He strides to the armoire, and picks out a green silk dressing gown to wear while he waits. Robert feels the expensive cloth against his skin, and begins feeling almost sheepish. He takes a gander at his room, and stares at all the lavish clobber he owns now.

There’s the bed, large enough to fit at least three people, with crisp sheets and a delicate quilt. The walls are painted a soft baby blue and the floor is polished to perfection. There’s also a cherry wood writing desk, an unfinished letter to Portia that he has yet to finish lain on the surface.

The chiffonier at the edge of the room holds his porcelain washbasin and pitcher. Perhaps Robert should have just called for the maid to fill the washbasin instead. Waiting for the water to heat just gives him more time to think, which is always a bad thing when most of your thoughts are rather abysmal.

When Robert first laid his eyes on this room, he couldn’t help but feel terrible. He had realized how little he used to have. How little the children in Ogre Street still have. He thinks back to the young’uns, how they’re still living in their packed homes, barely having any clothes and having to take baths in the kitchen with scalding tubs of water.

Now look at Robert, dressed in silk with maids and butlers waiting on him. He feels positively disgusting. And it isn’t just the blood.

It makes matters worse when nobody’s blaming him. Doesn’t anyone else see how unfair this is? A part of Robert wishes someone would come along and take this new, happy life away from him.

Of course, he can’t just leave the Joestars. No matter how much Robert doubts, he knows that they need him— just look at Jonathan. The lad’s strong and brave, sure, but he needs one more push to become the gentleman he so aspires to be.

And Mr. Joestar… he may be kind to Robert, and he’s sure that the man loves his son, but sometimes he just wishes far too much from Jonathan. It hurts to see the light from Jonathan’s eyes leave whenever his father yells at him for eating wrong or forgetting his manners.

“— Sir?” There’s a knock at the door, the familiar voice of the maid from earlier soft from behind the door, “Yes, ah— you can come in.” Robert says, and the door opens. The maid ambles into the room, clutching a large pot of steaming water.

“Oh— let me help you.” Robert says, running forward and grasping at the rim of the pot. The metal is rather hot, and he wonders how the maid managed to haul a heavy, scalding pot of water through the wearisome hallways. The maid looks at him with surprise, her hold on the pot faltering for a short moment.

“Master Robert, that’s really not necessary.” She replies, rushing forwards toward the copper tub placed in the center of the room. “Oh. Sorry.” Robert says, and the feelings of shame and embarrassment rush back. The maid doesn’t reply as she pours the hot water into the tub, the water miraculously not dripping onto the floor at all.

 Robert watches as the maid pulls out some herbs from her pocket, and drops them into the tub. She turns around and looks at Robert as she asks in a pleasant tone, “Anything else, sir?”

“No. Nothing. Ah— thank you.” Robert stutters, and he smiles like a ninny to soften the mood. The maid nods and leaves the room without saying anything, and Robert just stares at her with a daft look on his face.

Robert glances at the copper tub, and sees some herbs floating, as well as some that have sunken below. There are yellow flowers, floating on the surface. He doesn’t really know what they’re called, but he can see chamomile flowers dancing about as well, so at least he knows something.

Robert hasn’t once had a bath since he’d arrived at the Joestar mansion, and he doesn’t really know what to make of the strange savory and tea-like smells wafting from the bath. He finally decides to shed the dressing gown and submerge himself into the strong-smelling water.

Robert lets his thoughts take him away as the perfectly heated water soaks into his long hair. He sighs at the pleasant feeling of warmth against his bruises, and wonders how he had survived without baths like this throughout his life.

He sees some of the dried blood float into the water, and when he stirs, watches how the blood dissipates into nothingness. As he watches the herbs and flowers bob across the water, he thinks about the bruises on his neck.

Hopefully, he’ll be able to conceal it with a collar so Mr. Joestar won’t be able to see. Robert suddenly wonders how Jonathan was able to eat dinner with a sprained wrist. Robert feels a twinge of sympathy for the lad.

It probably hurt like hell to use that hand, and seeing as how Mr. Joestar hasn’t come banging at his door demanding a reason as to why Robert had twisted his son’s hand at the joint, Jonathan probably hadn’t told anyone.

Robert sighs as he washes his hair. He’s thankful that the boy had kept the events of yesterday a secret, but Robert can’t help but wonder why. Jonathan could very easily tell his father, get his wrist treated and let Robert be sent away.

Robert doesn’t understand how that lad thinks, which quite honestly worries him. Robert prides himself in his ability to read others. At first, he had thought that Jonathan was like an open book, with obvious intents and aspirations, but now…

He shakes his head. That’s enough thinking for now. If he spends too much time in his room Mr. Joestar might worry. He sits in the water for a few more minutes, up until the pads of his fingers just begin to wrinkle.

Robert draws himself from the tub, and rushes to the armoire where he quickly grasps at the white cotton terrycloth.

Robert glances at the puddle of water he left on the clean floor and scowls at himself for a moment. He slips on the dressing gown again as he glances at the contents of the armoire, hoping to find something with a high collar to mask the bruises.

Robert never really had to choose clothes before. Back then, he had such few clothes that he would often wear the same garments for days on end without washing ‘em. Now, he’s got armfuls of clothes to choose from ranging from suspenders to capes to fancy double-breasted vests.

He decides on an off-white shirt, and chooses one with a particularly long collar. Robert buttons it up to the top, and he’s glad to see that it covers the whole expanse of his neck, hiding all the bruises from view. Next comes the waistcoat with a deep red paisley design, and a matching pair of wine colored high-waisted trousers.

Robert used to love making fun of rich folks’ outrageous fashion trends, but now that he’s wearing them, he realizes that they might not be so bad. He finishes it all off with a mulberry frock coat. Robert looks at himself in the reflection of his chiffonier mirror as he ties an ascot under his collar, and nearly smiles at the image that greets him.

He’s not going to lie and say that he doesn’t enjoy the clothes and the nice bath. A sour part of his mind still rings with self-hate, but he tries his best to subdue it before his mind can be overtaken. Robert quickly puts on his boots and leaves his quarters, heading towards the dining room.

At the table, he’s greeted with the sight of Mr. Joestar and Jonathan, the latter scarfing down his food like a mad dog. Robert steels his gaze away from the other boy, and stares directly at Mr. Joestar as the man begins to speak.

“Ah, Robert! I hope you’ll be joining us for breakfast?” Mr. Joestar asks. Robert nods and plasters a polite smile on his face. A butler rushes forward to draw a chair for him, and Robert is mortified to notice that he’s to sit facing Jonathan.

He’s not looking at Jonathan, but he can hear the boy as loud, obnoxious clinks of silver can be heard permeating around the room.

Robert carefully sits down and begins a very deep inspection on his silverware. “Have you ever had kedgeree, lad?” Mr. Joestar is asking, and Robert lifts his gaze up to look at the dish situated at the center of the table.

The main dish is composed of a deep, golden rice resting on a bed of parsley with little eggs and prawns laid on top. Robert’s never eaten a prawn before, or whatever these tiny eggs were. He’s never seen an egg so small. “No, sir.” Robert replies as the butler takes a serving spoon and serves him a large amount on a delicate plate.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll like it. You didn’t have supper last night so you should eat up.” Mr. Joestar says, and continues eating. Robert just now realizes how hungry he is as he smells the buttery rice and fresh seafood from his serving.

He reluctantly picks out a medium sized spoon and fork from the set of utensils laid out for him and begins eating. Robert tries his best to eat slowly despite his hunger. He doesn’t want to seem like some starved animal.

“JoJo!” Mr. Joestar exclaims, and Robert can hear the clinking from Jonathan’s side of the tables cease at once, “Stop eating like an animal. Do you even care that a guest is here at the table?” Robert finally looks up and takes a gander at Jonathan, who is looking very depressed as he stares at his food mournfully.

“Look at Robert. He hasn’t had any food since yesterday morning yet he still holds more manners compared to you.” Mr. Joestar continues, “It’s as if you’re trying to be rude.” His voice isn’t rising but his tone is angry and laden with disappointment.

“I-I’m sorry, Father—” Jonathan begins, only for Robert to cut in.

“— Don’t be too angry, sir.” Robert rushes to say, and begins feeling rather small when the Joestars both turn to look at him. “I-I’m sure Jonathan had just forgotten. He doesn’t mean to come across as rude.” He finishes, and stares at Mr. Joestar imploringly.

Mr. Joestar is silent for a moment before replying, “Of course. Just… don’t forget your manners next time, JoJo.” Robert can see Jonathan nod profusely, and for a moment their gazes meet. Robert quickly turns away, though.

Robert doesn’t understand what it is with Mr. Joestar and his strict parenting regime. It’s like the man thinks that the more pressure he applies on Jonathan the better the boy will get. Robert internally shakes his head.

Jonathan’s not too bad but Robert’s going to have to try a different approach if he wants to help him. That is if he’s even able to muster up enough courage to apologize to the lad. The meal continues in relative silence, with Jonathan’s utensils still clinking loudly sometimes. 

Eventually, the meal ends and soon the Joestars and Robert are enjoying small servings of custard pudding with blackcurrant jam. Robert’s never had pudding before either, and decides that he quite likes it.

“Robert, did you use to attend school?” Mr. Joestar suddenly asks, and Robert readies himself for his reply. Robert’s always hated having to answer this question, hated being reminded of his status as some daft street-boy, barely even knowing how to read.

Robert shakes his head in response. Mr. Joestar smiles politely before continuing, “Well, I’ve been thinking that perhaps you could start your lessons today.”

“But I thought you said my tutor couldn’t come this week.” Jonathan says, his voice inquiring and a bit tentative. “Yes, but it’s probably best for Robert not to be taught by such a high-level tutor yet.” Mr. Joestar replies, and Robert feels a pang of anger in his chest.

‘Probably best for Robert not to be taught by such a high-level tutor.’ Yes, because Robert’s never attended a single class. Because he’s stupid.

“So, who’s going to tutor me?” Robert asks, hoping that his tone doesn’t come across as too hostile.

“Why, I think it’s only proper for Jonathan to be the one to tutor you.” Mr. Joestar replies.

Robert holds back a remorseful yell. Of course, it had to be Jonathan. The one person he’s trying to ignore. And now, they’re going to have to spend the whole day cooped up with each other.

“Jonathan will teach you the basics for today, so hopefully you’ll be up to speed when the tutor comes next week.” Mr. Joestar is saying, and looks towards his son for his agreement. Please say no. Please say no. Please say no. Robert is chanting in his own head.

“Of course! I’d be happy to.” Jonathan says, and Robert can’t tell if it’s genuine or not.

A Few Hours Later, Private Library, Joestar Estate

It’s midday now, and Robert and Jonathan are both sitting in the Joestars’ library, hunched over some books written in Greek. Since they had begun their studying session, it had been obvious that an air of discomfort’s been surrounding the two.

Robert grunts. He’s been rereading the same phrase over and over, his dumb head unable to grasp the specific Greek phrases and words Jonathan had just taught him. The writing is just on a whole ‘nother level.

The letters look nothing like the English alphabet, with some letters looking more like numbers at times. He squints, trying his best to remember the way Jonathan had pronounced the words. Robert’s mind tries to wrap around the phrase: γηράσκω δ᾽ αἰεὶ πολλὰ διδασκόμενος.

What the bloody hell? Robert closes his eyes and tries to translate the meaning into English. Is the phrase talking about… learning things? Or maybe about knowing oneself? Robert’s head begins to hurt, and he finally snaps and loses his patience.

“— Agh! This bloody language is impossible!” Robert exclaims, and shoves the book away. Jonathan looks up from his own book, and replies, “But you told me you wanted to learn something that wasn’t related to arithmetic.”

“Well, I was thinking of something along the lines of writing? Or maybe reading?” Robert says in response as he stands up and begins pacing about the library looking for another book to read.

“But you’re already good at reading and writing.” Jonathan calls from the table they were reading at. Robert looks back and tries to gauge the lad’s face. Unreadable. Robert doesn’t know why, but today he can’t tell if anything Jonathan says is genuine or false anymore.

“You’re simply lacking in lessons on arithmetic and Greek,” the boy continues, closing his book as he begins perusing the shelves as well, “Maybe you’d prefer to learn something you find more interesting? I personally really like history.” Jonathan finishes, and looks at Robert with an excited face.

Robert sighs and slides a palm across his face. He can’t take this anymore. He glances down at Jonathan’s hand, a spot his eyes have been avoiding since breakfast. Robert sees the lad quickly hide his hand behind his back, obscuring it from Robert’s view.

Jonathan’s probably aware of the strange atmosphere as well. Robert sighs again and decides to finally speak up about the matter at hand. Ha. Nice one, Robert.

“Jonathan—”

“You think I’m weak, don’t you?”

Robert reels back at the sudden question. Jonathan’s voice is loud and confident, as if he’s about to make a big speech. Robert thinks carefully before he answers. He’s never been one to keep his feelings to himself, and he’s never been afraid to speak his mind.

But for once, Robert considers keeping his thoughts to himself. However, the uninhibited part of himself wins and he opens his mouth to finally reply.

“I do. You’re naïve, too forgiving and you allow others to walk all over you.” Robert says all of this in full sincerity, Jonathan simply standing there and listening to him with rapt attentiveness. The words hurt, even to Robert’s ears.

Robert wants to say, ‘— And I want to help you get better. I’m sorry for twisting your hand. I’m just so bloody scared. I’m sorry.’ He keeps all of this to himself, though. Yes, he might be used to saying everything he feels out loud, but thoughts like these are best kept to yourself. Thoughts that tell everyone you’re weak.

Robert feels like it’s yesterday all over again, and he’s about ready to bolt when Jonathan speaks.

“Then… I’ll show you that I’m not weak.” Jonathan replies. Robert wants to laugh and run away at the same time. He settles for a strained huff of laughter. “What do you mean by that, lad?” He asks, his voice forced to sound amused.

“I mean that I want us to fight.” Jonathan declares, and Robert can’t help it. He lets out a bout of laughter. What the bloody hell has gotten into this lad?

“You wanna fight me? In case you’ve forgotten, I’m from the bloody streets, mate.” Robert replies and looks up to peer at Jonathan, only to see a fist come barreling straight towards him. He quickly jumps to the right, just barely escaping.

“— the hell?” Robert exclaims. He looks at Jonathan, his stance is lowered with his legs spread, ready to strike again. “I’ll prove to you that I’m strong, even if it means doing it your way.” Jonathan huffs as he draws himself back to land another punch.

Robert easily pushes Jonathan’s arm off to the side when the lad’s fist gets too close to his face. “Jonathan, you don’t—” The boy in question doesn’t listen as he tries to land a kick to Robert’s side.

Robert deflects it easily, “Your wrist, it—” Another punch. He dodges to the left.

“Listen, you—” An attempted punch towards his chest. Robert ducks out of the way.

“Don’t make me—”

And Jonathan barrels two fisted hands into Robert’s torso, the fresh bruises letting out a terrible stab of pain. Robert’s finally had enough.

“Jonathan!”  He shouts, his voice echoing through the library’s walls.

Robert pushes the lad away, Jonathan stumbling off and knocking into a shelf of books. Jonathan still isn’t deterred, and he comes right back, launching himself off from the bookshelf.

What the hell? Robert’s starting to run out of patience. “Jonathan, don’t do this!” He calls as the boy throws a biology book at his head, which Robert catches and hurls to the ground instead, “I-I’ll hurt you! If you keep this up, I’ll hurt you!” Robert continues, and he hates how he sounds so desperate.

“You’ve already hurt me.” Jonathan replies, and he doesn’t sound at all angry or vengeful. It’s as if he’s stating a fact about Greece’s Hellenistic Period, as if he and Robert were still studying. Jonathan isn’t rushing forward anymore, instead he’s just standing his ground, gathering his fists to block his face.

Robert feels his heart rate spiking, the adrenaline from the fight getting to him. Alright, so the daft kid wants to fight? Then ol’ Speedwagon’s gonna give ‘im the fight of his life. Robert cackles a bit, looking at Jonathan’s terrible fighting stance.

Can’t the lad see how vulnerable he is? Simply standing there with his hands covering his face— what type of defense is that?

“So, you wanna fight? I’ll give you a fight.” Robert calls, and he picks up a fountain pen from the table. The tip is pointed, but not sharp enough to hurt Jonathan too bad. This ought to teach the lad not to be so damn stupid.

Robert quickly steadies his aim, and without wasting any time, hurls the pen towards Jonathan’s raised fists. There. Robert can imagine the outcome perfectly. Jonathan’s going to dodge, the pen flying past him. He’ll realize how Robert is serious, and he’ll stop this foolish fight.

That isn’t at all what happens.

The pen cuts through the air, Robert’s aim perfect as the pen’s pointed nib lodges itself deep into Jonathan’s hand. Robert’s eyes widen. Jonathan was supposed to dodge him.

All of a sudden, Jonathan goes from perfectly still to bolting. He’s bolting towards Robert.

Before Robert can move, Jonathan lands a terrible kick to his chest, the blow so strong it sends Robert back a few feet. Robert can taste blood in his mouth.

Robert’s thoughts all come barreling in as he falls toward the ground.

Now he understands why Jonathan wasn’t defending himself better. Fingers, hands, legs— Jonathan doesn’t care one bit what he loses. His resolve runs deeper than any pain or fear.

As Robert’s body tumbles to the ground, his back slamming painfully and his torso’s bruises aching, everything he thought he knew suddenly changes. He thought Jonathan was just like any other rich lad, a spoiled brat, daft with trained, false benignity. But no… Robert was wrong.

At first, Jonathan was a young lad who only seemed promising. His determination and kindness were to be admired, but aside from that, the boy still had long to go if he wanted to be the gentleman he so wished to be.

Of course, the lad still isn’t perfect. But Robert can see that something’s changed. It’s as if Jonathan had grown into a new person. Robert had decided to stay with the Joestars to help them, and especially to teach Jonathan. But now, it feels as if Jonathan was the one who taught him something.

Robert always thought Jonathan was someone he had to teach, like a dubious child, but now Robert can see that Jonathan is no longer a child. Now, the two of them can be on level ground, treating each other with respect, no more taunting, no more disdain.

They could be like brothers.

“Robert.” It’s Jonathan, and when Robert opens his eyes, he sees him standing above him and pulling the pen out of his hand, blood gushing out of the wound. His shadow looming over Robert a reminder of how he beat him.

“W-Why…” Robert starts, his neck aching as he attempts to move, “Why didn’t you tell Mr. Joestar about your sprained wrist?” It’s the only thing he can think to ask.

Jonathan looks surprised for a moment. “I didn’t want him to be cross with you.” And finally, Robert can hear how genuine he sounds.

“Why.” It’s not a question.

“Because I know that you’re good.” Jonathan replies, as if he’d had this on his mind since the two first met. Perhaps he did.

“I know that you hurt me because you were scared. Because no matter how much you deny, you’ve been running and scared for most of your life.” Jonathan continues, and Robert feels like crying. How did Jonathan know all of this? How was that damn boy able to see into the recesses of Robert’s mind?

“Please, Robert. Let me help you.” Jonathan finishes. Robert feels tears begin to well in his eyes. Instead of letting the tears fall, he lets out a wet gasp of laughter. He thought that he was here to help the Joestars, but now it’s the other way around.

No matter what, he’s just a burden. Just the street-boy asking for money, for a family—

“Stop that,” It’s Jonathan again, and he sounds so bold and courageous that Robert listens and stills his thoughts, “I know what you’re thinking. And I want you to know that you’re no burden.”

“H-How did you know that? How did you know what I was thinking?” Robert asks, his façade finally breaking.

Jonathan smiles, and Robert is reminded of Mary Joestar.

“It’s one of the things that make you so kind.” That’s all Jonathan says as he reaches an arm out to help Robert up. And although Robert doesn’t entirely understand, he nods along and grasps the offered hand.

As he stands up, Robert finally sighs, and says the one thing that’s been on his mind since yesterday.

A phrase one mustn’t say when you’re living in the streets, something that shows that you care, that shows them that you’re weak. But Robert needs to say it. He wants Jonathan to know.

“I… only wanted to help you get better. I’m sorry for twisting your hand. I-I’m just so bloody scared. I’m so sorry.”

Robert says all of this in one go, barely even pausing. His mind yelling at him to run, to take it back, yelling weak, weak, weak.

But when Jonathan looks at him and smiles, Robert finally, for the first time in his life, feels himself let go.

That Night

The Joestar mansion isn’t as big as Dio had thought.

Dio lets out a small chuckle. Took him at least three days to get here, and this is what he’s greeted with? He was at least expecting some maids or butlers about, but the place seems deserted. Or perhaps that should be attributed to the time, since it’s currently midnight.

Dio hefts his weight into another branch, the tall oak tree swaying slightly as he climbs higher. All he needs to do is reach that window to the left. Then, he’d be free to steal whatever he wants.

He isn’t even going to sell any of the rubbish he steals. He’ll just throw it away, and hope that the Joestars suffer. Dio isn’t out here to steal something with monetary value. Just… something with personal value. Something the Joestars and Speedwagon will miss dearly.

All of a sudden, Dio hears the sound of barks from below him. He takes a hesitant glance down, and sees a disgusting mut growling at him from the ground. Fuck. Damn dogs. Dio isn’t too high up the tree yet, if he jumps down from this height he won’t be hurt.

So, he lets his grip on the branch loosen, and he lets gravity drag his body back down. Dio feels a smirk grace his face as he drops to the ground, landing on the dog below him. His feet connect with the damn animal’s spine, and he relishes in the satisfying crack.

His entire weight lands against the dog, and the animal lets out a yelp of pain as its body is forced to the ground, its legs giving out and it’s back curving in an unnatural way. Dio looks down, his body still perched on top of the dog.

He sees blood seeping out of its mouth, its eyes glazed over. Dead. Dio smiles. That takes care of that problem. Dio hopes that this dog was well-loved by the Joestars. He hasn’t even stolen anything yet and he’s already taken something away. Dio’s smile grows wider.

However, he probably needs to hide the body while he’s still on the estate. Dio glances around it, looking for somewhere to hide the dead animal’s body.

All of a sudden, he spies a large incinerator. Perfect. He drags the dog’s body into the incinerator. Perhaps if he’s lucky, someone would burn the body.

Once he’s done, Dio treks back to the oak tree, and is able to reach the top without any more distractions. There, he’s greeted with a large window, perfectly accessible if you were to stretch across a branch. He does just that, and is happy to find that the window wasn’t locked.

He precariously opens the window and deposits himself through and into the Joestar mansion. Dio looks around, and finds that he’s in some bedroom. Dio scoffs, laying his eyes on the large bed and the green silk dressing gown draped over a chair.

The room smells like wormwood and tansy, with a hint of chamomile. It’s as if some idiot bathed here earlier in the day. Dio wonders where the tenant is. It’s midnight, shouldn’t they be asleep? Dio should be careful when traversing the mansion. He doesn’t want to run into anyone who isn’t Speedwagon.

Dio’s mind darkens at the mention of that boy. Not only is he here for the Joestars, here’s here to settle a score with that Speedwagon. They’ll never forget him now, the boy who had killed their dog, stolen their beloved rich-folk possessions, and beat Speedwagon’s daft head in.

Dio steps out the bedroom, and precariously makes his way through the mansion. There are paintings on the wall of various people, probably members of the Joestar family. He can make out dates, each refined portrait having a small plaque with that member’s birth and death.

He sees the most recent portrait, showcasing a boy. Dio leans closer and reads the plaque. Jonathan Joestar. The heir of the family? Dio inspects the portrait. He shrugs. Just looks like another daft pampered brat.

Dio pulls out his penknife, and digs the tip deep into every single painted portrait. He smiles, thinking about how livid the dead Joestars must be. Dio can almost picture them rolling about in their graves.

He continues onwards. Eventually, he finds a staircase that leads to the main hall, and decides to make his way there. Hopefully he can recuperate and figure out this maze of a home.

He steps down the stairs, observing every inch of the area to find something to take. His eyes land on something hanging on the wall. It’s a… mask. Made out of stone, and carved to have long fangs. Dio stares at it for a moment, and decides that it’s probably just an art piece, and probably has no personal attachments to the Joestars.

“— didn’t have to.” A voice. From the staircase.

Dio considers bolting at first, but recognizes the voice to be a boy’s, probably around the same age as him.

“I wanted to. I’m sorry I threw that pen at ya.” Dio’s eyes widen when he hears the familiar voice. It’s Speedwagon. Dio smirks. He’s sure that he can take both Speedwagon and whoever this dumb brat is.

“Stop apologizing, it’s fine.” The other boy replies, finally descending the stairs and laying his eyes on Dio. Dio realizes that the boy is Jonathan Joestar, the lad in the painting.

Jonathan stills in his tracks, looking at Dio with sheer shock written on his face. Dio wants to laugh. This is the heir? Pathetic. “Jonathan, what’s—” He hears Speedwagon begin to say as he steps onto the staircase as well.

The two of them are stunned into silence as they stare at Dio. Dio lets a wide smile grace his face, “It’s a privilege to meet you, Jonathan Joestar.” Dio calls, and revels in the way Jonathan’s face contorts into confusion.

“And it’s nice to see you again, Speedwagon.” Dio finishes, looking at the thief.

“Who… Who the bloody hell are you, brat?” Speedwagon asks, his tone sounding both aggressive and inquiring. Dio feels his blood boil at the question. Of course Speedwagon wouldn’t remember him. He’s rich now, he’s probably too busy thinking about all the nice new stuff he owns instead of the lads he decided to throw money at.

“You’ll remember when I bash your skull in.” Dio replies scornfully, and runs up the stairs towards the two boys. Speedwagon immediately readies himself for a fight, and pushes Jonathan back.

Dio pulls out his penknife, and slashes at Speedwagon’s chest, the boy dodging despite the cramped space on the stairs. Speedwagon finally sees Dio’s face clearly, and from this close he finally recognizes him. “Y-You’re that boy. Dio! That’s your name!” He says, and Dio smiles.

“Glad you could remember, Speedwagon.” Is all Dio says as he kicks Speedwagon’s shin, the other boy losing his balance. He falls down the stairs, his body slamming against the steps. Dio walks towards him, and leans down to speak.

“Thanks for the money by the way, but I don’t think it’s enough.” Dio pauses as he brandishes his penknife. “I want something much better.” And he pins Speedwagon’s hand to the floor.

“W-What the hell are you—” Speedwagon starts. He never gets to finish though, because Dio brings his knife down and onto the other boy’s little finger. Dio cuts through the skin, then through the flesh. He feels bone, and he cuts through that as well until Speedwagon’s finger is cut clean off.

“So you won’t forget me.” Dio whispers as Speedwagon hollers out in pain.

“Dio!” It’s Jonathan, and Dio turns around to see the boy running down the stairs towards him.

Dio stands up calmly. “Hush, boy. Don’t you dare speak my name in vain.” His tone sounds nearly acidic. He feels like laughing at Jonathan’s enraged face.

The boy comes barreling towards him, and Dio only needs to slam his elbow into Jonathan’s face to get him to stop. Dio can feel Jonathan’s nose get crushed as his elbow meets the other boy’s face, and Jonathan staggers back and into the wall, his nose bleeding heavily.

Dio steps away from the staircase. Now he’s shown them. He doesn’t need charity; he doesn’t need pity and anyone who so much as looks down on him will pay. Now that he’s done here, he’ll use the remaining money he has to stay at an inn.

His father will starve without anyone to take care of him. It’s perfect. No messy murder, and Dio wouldn’t even be suspected. Though, he does wish he could have given his father a more painful death.

Dio feels more alive than he’s ever felt before. This is the start of a new life, a life of freedom, a life without his father. He’s bested them all. His father, the Joestars, and that damn Speedwagon. He’s better than them all.

He’s finally number one.

A loud grunt echoes through the walls, and the sound of footsteps quickly approaching can be heard. Dio turns around, and find Jonathan rushing towards him again. Dio quickly steadies himself and delivers a kick to Jonathan’s head.

It’s a perfect blow. Dio’s—

Jonathan doesn’t stagger, he doesn’t even blink at the impact. He grasps at Dio’s head and his shoulder, pinning Dio in place. “H-How are you able to grab me after a blow to the head?” Dio muses out loud, “--Perhaps I was too gentle with you!” He yells, and readies to land another blow.

However, his action is cut short when Jonathan leans his head back and slams his skull into Dio’s nose. Dio falters, and he stagger back. The pain is unbearable, and his head is spinning from the impact. Jonathan takes his chance, and delivers hit after hit, striking blows to Dio’s torso and his face.

Impossible. Impossible. Impossible. Dio’s head is rushing with thoughts. How could a pampered brat like Jonathan best him in a fight? Jonathan delivers another blow, striking Dio’s chin. It sends Dio back, his blood splashing onto the walls.

Dio can barely think. His mind only occupied with he beat me, he beat me, he beat me. The voice in his head, the voice of his father is laughing. He suddenly hears something in the corner of the room, something that sounds like rattling bones.

His sight is getting blurry, but he manages to make out the mask he saw from earlier. It’s splattered in blood now, but that isn’t the only thing about the mask that catches his attention. All of a sudden, he sees long white spikes erupt from it.

Jonathan sees this as well, his gaze drawn to the mask, and is temporarily distracted. Dio wants to use this chance to get up, to strike again, to—

But his eyes are getting so blurry, he can barely see anything. And his face is burning hot, as if he has a fever. He can’t breathe, and for a moment, Dio is worried that he might be dying.

But then, he feels something hot drip onto his hands. It isn’t blood. It’s water. In fact, it’s… tears. Dio finally realizes what’s wrong with him. He’s crying.

“H-How dare you…” Dio mutters from the ground. He turns around to face Jonathan, and feels fear and shame and pure anger. “How dare you strike me! Bastard—”

Dio forces himself to get up from the ground. He came here to show them. Show them that nobody ought to walk over him. That he’s better than them all. But no. All he got was a beating. If he wanted that, he would have just stayed home.

“Y-You’re crying…” Jonathan says, and Dio wants to bloody kill him. And he will. He pulls out his knife, hiding it behind his back.

Now Dio understands. Speedwagon is nothing to him now. He finally knows who his true enemy is, who rightfully deserves to be his rival.

Jonathan Joestar.

He takes a step forward, ready to plunge his knife into that brat’s chest. When he kills him, he’ll finally be on top.

Dio needs to defeat him. Only then will he truly be number one.

“What the hell is going on in—”

It’s the voice of a man. Dio looks up, and sees the face of George Joestar. He had looked younger in his portrait.

That isn’t the only thing Dio sees, though. His eyes take in the sight of the mask. Its spikes had retracted, but he’s sure he hadn’t imagined them. Interesting.

Dio knows that he won’t be able to kill Jonathan anymore. He hates being reminded of it, but he’s still a child. A child who can easily be pushed down and beaten by an older man. It’s even worse since George Joestar is young and completely sober, unlike the adults that would push Dio around in the pub.

Dio smiles to himself. His chance to kill Jonathan might be gone, but another chance may have just revealed itself to him.

Dio decides to take this chance. If he can’t kill Jonathan today, then he’ll just have to kill someone else.

He lunges forward and runs past Jonathan, ignoring George Joestar’s yells for him to stay put. He grabs the mask, and makes his way out the door as quickly as he can. Dio can hear footsteps following him, and he finds Jonathan running after him, only for George to pull him back.

Dio runs through the Joestar estate’s large field of grass, and scampers over the stone wall as quickly as he can.

One day, he’ll come back for that Jonathan Joestar.

Dio feels himself smile, and he looks down at the stone mask within his arms. He hopes that his father hasn’t starved to death yet, because he just found a much better way to kill him.

Robert wakes up with a jolt.

He’s still on the floor, next to the staircase, his mind racing with thoughts of that was Dio. What the bloody hell was he doing? Where’s Jonathan, Oh God—

“— Robert? Father, he’s awake!” Robert can hear Jonathan’s voice call. He looks up, and sees both of the Joestars near the front door. There’s blood on the checkerboard floor and he sees that Jonathan’s nose is bleeding.

Jonathan rushes towards him, and Robert just then notices the pain in his hand. He looks down to inspect it, and finds that one of his fingers are gone, only a bleeding stump left behind. “W-What the— My finger! I-It’s—"

He notices the puddle of blood beside him, and nearly faints. He lost that much blood? No, more importantly, h-his finger— gone! Robert’s chest begins to rise and fall rapidly. H-How is he—

“Robert, it’s all right. Just breathe.” He hears Mr. Joestar’s calming voice say beside him, and he sees the man’s face is contorted in worry. Robert inhales deeply, and sees Jonathan untie his cravat, watching on as the boy wraps it around the bleeding region of his hand where his little finger once dwelled.

“…W-Where’s Dio?” Robert finally asks after calming down a bit. “He ran off.” Jonathan says, and Robert swears he’s never seen Jonathan so angry. Robert grunts in pain as Jonathan finishes tying the piece of fabric.

“I’m surprised Danny didn’t chase after him.” Jonathan says, “— Now that I think about it, I haven’t seen Danny all night.”

“I’m sure he’s fine, JoJo.” Mr. Joestar replies, patting Jonathan’s shoulder comfortingly.

“Actually Father, I have something to ask you,” Jonathan says, Mr. Joestar nodding and gesturing for him to continue, “What was that mask that Dio stole?” Mr. Joestar is silent for a moment as he helps Robert up to his feet. The three of them begin to walk through the hallways, heading for Robert’s chambers.

“That was your mother’s. I kept it, since she cherished it so much.” Is all Mr. Joestar says. Robert’s eyes widen at the mention of Mary’s mask.

“Oh. Well, I-I think I saw the mask… move?” Jonathan explains tentatively, his face scrunched up in confusion.

“I remember that mask.” Robert muttered that phrase softly, at first thinking that nobody had heard him. He’s proven wrong when both of the Joestars turn to him with their rapt attention.

Mr. Joestar’s eyes light up. “Ah, yes. When we first met, Mary had showed it to you.”

“You knew my Mother?” Jonathan asks, his eyes sparkling in awe. Robert smiles, and says, “Of course. I saved you and your Father, remember?” Robert’s smile grows wider when Jonathan looks at him with pure amazement.

Robert can remember the events of that day clearly. And he especially remembers that mask. He always thought that the spikes that came erupting from it was a trick that his young mind had conjured up. But he knew deep inside that what he had seen was real. The sight of those spikes digging deep into that old thief’s skin proof enough.

He needs to make sure. He needs to know if what he saw was real. “Jonathan… That mask. When you say it moved—”

“I-It was like there were… spikes that erupted from it.” Jonathan replies as they finally reach the door to Robert’s room.

Robert can’t believe it. The mask was real. He’s stayed in the Joestar mansion for days now, but he hadn’t even noticed the mask hanging on the wall. He guesses it must have been because he spent most of his time outside, trying to ignore Jonathan.

“Robert? What’s wrong, lad?” Mr. Joestar asks, looking at Robert’s bewildered face.

Robert believes that it’s finally time for him to tell Jonathan the story of how Mr. Joestar first met him, and for Robert to reveal what he had seen that mask do, all those years ago.

Chapter Text

Three Days Later, Ogre Street

Dio hasn’t felt happy in a very, very long time.

He thinks that perhaps there was a time when he felt true joy, if he tries to remember hard enough. Maybe it was when his mother was alive, or maybe it was when he would wager with the local drunks on games of chess and he’d be able to bring home some money from beating them.

Perhaps he had felt happy when he saw his father limping about, and would relish in the way his father grew weaker and weaker as the years passed. Or for a more recent example, when he had cut off that bastard Speedwagon’s finger off, only for the moment to be ruined by Jonathan rushing out and beating Dio’s arse.

Dio shakes his head, the foul memories souring his mood for the briefest moment. No, he doesn’t have time to think about such things. He has something much better now. Something that will finally provide him with that catharsis of bliss he had been looking for.

Something that finally tells him yes, it’s been worth it to stay alive for this long. That waiting and enduring his father’s abuse actually meant something, that now he gets to rise up from the grotty life he’s lead. That now, he’ll finally, finally be able to start a new life.   

Dio climbs up the stairs now.

It had taken him three days to return to Ogre Street, and he could barely contain himself as he rode the stagecoaches and slept in the cheap lodging homes lining the streets. He could imagine it perfectly, the fear in Dario’s eyes as lays the mask on the man’s aged face.

He doesn’t understand why the Joestars had owned such a thing; doesn’t understand how the damn mask even works. But Dio knows one thing for sure. It would hurt a hell of a lot if you were wearing the mask, the long spikes emerging and piercing into your skull, killing you slowly.

His original plan, before finding the mask, was to travel to the Joestar estate— torment Speedwagon, steal and destroy the Joestars’ property, and leave his father to starve in Ogre Street. And to then leave and start over with his remaining money, perhaps finding his fortune and making a name for himself.

A good plan, of course, but not perfect. Dio wasn’t satiated by this original plan. He wanted too much; wanted to see his father’s dying face, wanted the old man to feel pain as he died, and wanted to see the life slowly filter out his father’s eyes himself.

Dio had been looking for a way to kill his father for so long. From convoluted plots involving guns and knives to secretive, complex plans involving poison and strangulation. But they were never enough.

Dio wanted more than just a quick death. He wanted revenge. He wanted to see the way his father would think back and regret everything, all the terrible things he had done to his son, to his wife— to everyone his father had ever wrongfully crossed.

Dio wants to travel about England, unafraid and fearless of anything. No worries over his father or the coppers catching him. With all of his plans before, there was always a small nagging fear at the back of Dio’s head, telling him that someone would find him, expose him, and lock him up in quod.

Now, he doesn’t have to be afraid of anything.

The stone mask, with its long, piercing spikes— nobody would ever be able to tell how his father had died. Dio could just dispose of the mask after the murder, and nobody would ever be able to track him down or suspect him. A perfect plan.

Dio’s at the top of the stairs, only a few steps away from his father’s room. He’s going to have to activate the mask using his own blood. It feels poetic somehow, the killing of his father initiated only by spilling his own blood. It’s as if Dio is paying the final price, from the years of torture to a few drops of blood.

The final price to finally say goodbye to his father.

He clutches the mask tighter in his hand, the carved stone digging into his palm feeling like an anchor to reality, reminding Dio that after so long, he’ll finally be happy.

Dio, for the first time in his life, isn’t afraid or weary as he opens the door to his father’s quarters. His eyes land on the figure settled on the bed. It’s Dario, his eyes sunken in and his face looking older than Dio’s ever seen it.

The room smells awful. There’s the permeating stench of old alcohol and the sharp smell of Laudanum and Opium, from his father’s painkillers. Dio’s nose wrinkles in disgust as he takes in the scent of piss, spit and shit. It seems like his father’s chamber pot hadn’t been cleaned out for the last couple of days since Dio was gone.

The man looks up slowly, as if most of his soul had already left his body. His father looks like he’s barely grasping at life, and Dio smiles as he takes in the scene.

“…You back, b-boy?” His father whispers, and Dio steps closer to the bed, hiding the mask behind his back as the man continues, “C-Came— just to see me die…” His voice is scratchy and garbled, as if the mere action of talking was taking up his all of his body’s remaining vitality.

Dio is silent, only drawing himself closer and closer to the man on the bed. Dario doesn’t seem to care about his son’s unwillingness to speak, and only continues further. “You did this to me on purpose. On fucking purpose—” His father coughs a bit, and the smell of shit gets worse as Dio gets ever closer to the bed.

“Left me ‘ere to rot, eh? To bloody starve to death—” Dario looks at his son gravely, his sunken eyes boring holes, “S-Say it. You came back just to laugh at me… F-Fukin’ say it, Dio.”

His father never calls him by his name, and Dio shudders when he hears it leave the man’s mouth. Dio finally reaches his father’s side, and Dario leans over and clutches Dio’s arm. His father’s grip is so weak, he can barely feel his touch, as if it were only the breeze grazing his skin.

From this close, Dio can smell his father’s breath; the old man inhaling and exhaling softly. The air puffing from his mouth smells like something within his body was rotting. For a moment, Dio pictures his father’s insides, all dark and rotted and decayed.

His stomach twisted and wrung out into a black, misshapen mass. His flesh becoming a foul yellow, and his blood no longer flowing. The heart, still and silent. Dead. Dio smiles to himself, preparing to speak to his father for the last time.

Dio takes a deep breath, and when he exhales, feels all of the anger and the pure joy take over his mind as he replies. “No, father. I came here to kill you.”

Before his father can reply, Dio quickly brandishes the stone mask, the pale white stark against the looming darkness of the room. “T-That mask—” his father begins, stumbling over his words for a moment.

He leans over, ready to place the mask over his father’s face, when he is halted by what the man says next.

“— I-I’ve seen that damn thing before.” He says, his face turning into a ghostly white, enough to rival the mask’s shade.

Dio halts, the mask still hovering above his father’s face. “What?” He stresses to make his voice sound impatient, and he nearly laughs when his father stutters and tries to continue speaking.

“That mask. I-I remember it.” His father says solemnly. Dio rolls his eyes and moves the mask closer to his father’s exposed face. “Explain faster, old man.” Dio calls, and is shocked when his father suddenly hollers out.

“—Don’t! Keep those fukin’ spikes away from me!” Dario yells, his voice terribly scratchy. Dio’s eyes widen. How the hell did his father know about the mask’s spikes?

“How do you know about that?” Dio’s tone is icy, and he threateningly draws the mask closer to Dario’s face. His father writhes in the bed, trying to move himself farther away from his son. His attempts are in vain, the man’s body too frail and weak from lack of food and medicine to even rise from the bed.

And so, Dio’s father tells him. He tells him about that fateful day, back in 1868, when the skies turned dark, and when Dario could still walk and steal from any unsuspecting rich folk.

Dio listens as the man explains to him how he had come across a rich family’s crashed carriage, and how he had found the mask there, amongst the family’s travelling bags while he was looking for something to steal. Dario’s face is angry and filled with remorse as he continues.

He tells Dio about a child, only five or so years old. Dario explains that when he had found the mask, the child had come running towards him, telling him to let it go. He goes on and tells him that the child had tried fighting him.

It was a terrible fight, blood getting everywhere. Dario says that the damn kid just didn’t want to give up. His father muses about how he doesn’t understand why the boy was even there, or why he was keeping Dario from taking the mask in the first place.

Dario mentions that the lad didn’t even look like he was a part of that posh family, that his clothes were that of a street-boy. Dio’s eyes furrow at this, his mind suddenly paying more rapt attention to the story. His father continues on, saying that perhaps that boy had been some servant.

His father shakes his head, and explains that he doesn’t understand how, but the mask, still in his arms, had suddenly spouted out long, sharp tines. Dario suspects that the lad had something to do with it.

The spikes had dug deep into his hip, and it was almost impossible to rip out the damn mask from his side.

Dario winces. “T-The pain… ‘t was bloody unbearable. I managed to get the damn thing outta my side. Never got the wound treated though.”

His father’s hand suddenly grasps at the edge of his blanket, and Dio nearly jumps, preparing for any quick movements or any attempts of his father to escape. His father simply lays the blanket aside though, and lifts up the edge of his frayed shirt to show Dio a terrible scar.

The skin is uneven and stretched, the scar larger due to an obvious bout of infection which had most likely made the wound bigger and harder to heal. But it was obvious that something thin and sharp had embedded itself into the flesh, with small indented scars littering the area.

Dio’s mind is rushing with thoughts. Who was that boy his father had fought off, and did he know about the mask’s power? And that rich family… were they the Joestars? Dio doesn’t want to entertain his father’s pathetic sob story, but he allows himself a tentative lean closer to the man as his curiosity takes over.

“What was the child’s name?” Dio inquires.

His father is silent for a long while. “U-Uhm… Robert! It was Robert. I heard someone call ‘im that—”

“Give me a last name!” Dio’s voice is louder this time, and his father flinches.

“I-I don’t know! I don’t fukin’ know…” Dario replies. Dio doesn’t need an answer, though. His suspicions were already becoming too real, his mind piecing together the events of the past.

A boy saving a rich family’s hide from some thief? It’s obvious that the family his father had come across were the Joestars. And if Dio isn’t wrong, then he might know the identity of this ‘Robert’.

Dio knows little of the whole affair surrounding Speedwagon getting adopted by the Joestars. What he does know; gathered from hushed whispers on the street, is that apparently Speedwagon had saved them.

Dio doesn’t know if his hunch is true, but if he’s going down the right path then that means that a five-year-old Speedwagon had saved the Joestars from Dario, all those years ago in 1868. That must be why the bastard had been adopted. Perhaps it was a reward of sorts.

Dio mustn’t rush to conclusions, though. It could very well had been an entirely different lad. Dio shakes his head a bit, clearing his thoughts. Now isn’t the time for speculating.

“You say you bested that child?” Dio asks, his mind finally returning to the present as he stares at his father coldly, “Don’t be so proud of yourself. A man of your age, getting hurt in front of a five-year-old. You’re pathetic.”

Dario’s eyes are suddenly filled with rage, and Dio manages to jump back just in time as his father swings his arms about madly.

Dio cackles, his voice echoing around the room as he watches his father huff with exhaustion from the exertion of his arms. “Damn you, boy. Killing your own father…” Dario begins, and Dio tuts and cuts him off.

“— Oh, father. You don’t get to say rubbish like that to me anymore,” Dio steadies his arm, his hold on the mask getting tighter as he continues, “You’ve been spoutin’ off rubbish since the day you were born. Now it’s time for you to listen.”

All of a sudden, Dario lets out a howling bout of laughter. Dio’s brow twitches in annoyance, and he feels sweat gather around his neck. What the hell? His father should be trembling, hiding under the covers and muttering out apologies.

“— The bloody hell are you laughing about?” Dio spits out, trying to level his voice into something brave.

Dario takes a deep breath, his laughter finally dying down. “I won’t ever leave ya, boy.”

“W-What?” Dio wants to slap himself for stuttering.

“Kill me. Just try it. No matter what ya do to me— I’ll never leave.”

His father laughs again, and Dio decides that he has had enough. He surges forward, and lays the mask on his father’s face. He catches the sound of Dario struggling underneath the mask, and Dio hears himself laugh maniacally.

“You won’t leave? Well, how about now? I’ll kill you! And I’ll never have to see your ugly face— ever again!” He’s yelling, his voice drowning out the sound of his father’s grunts.

Dio has imagined this moment for a long time. He knew it would feel amazing, but he didn’t ever think that it would feel this powerful. Dio quickly pulls out his penknife, the metal still bloody and dirty from when he had cut off Speedwagon’s finger.

He thrusts the sharp edge into his palm, his other hand still driving the mask into his father’s face. “Goodbye, father.” Dio calls, a wide happy grin spreading on his face.

The blood sputters out of his palm’s wound, and Dio grips his hand to squeeze out a copious amount blood onto the mask. Blood streams down onto the mask’s surface, and Dio’s eyes glint with excitement.

His father is yelling, his hands scratching at Dio. It’s easy to ignore his father’s writhing arms though, since the man’s strength is nearly gone. It does nothing to hinder Dio from spilling more blood onto the mask.

All of a sudden, the spikes shoot out from the mask’s sides, with a strong bright light suddenly emanating from the mask. Dio jumps back in shock, but smirks when he sees the tines dig deep into his father’s skull, as if the man’s head were only made of butter.

Dio hadn’t ever seen anything shine as bright as that mask, and he wonders for a second what might happen next. Dio frowns when he finds his father simply laying still, the man obviously dead but no other spectacle had followed.

He runs his palm against his face, smiling a wide toothy grin. The death of his father is enough. He doesn’t need any more besides that. Dio steps closer to the bed, and spits on the corpse of the man he had called father.

“Rot in hell, old man.” He calls, shoving his hands into his pockets to count his remaining money.

Dio heads for the door, ready to leave his old life behind. He’s smiling to himself, his mind feeling nearly euphoric.

A sound.

Dio’s head shoots up, and he turns around to inspect the room. His mind is racing for a moment, wondering if someone had been hiding about, had seen him kill his father.

His mind quickly disposes of the idea when Dio’s eyes catch sight of the bed. It’s empty.

Dio nearly runs to the bed, looking closely for his father’s body. All he finds however, are the disturbed blankets and a big puddle of blood on the pillow. He quickly snaps his head about, trying to look for where the body had gone.

What the hell was happening? His father ought to be dead. A deep stab like that through the head, it should have—

Then, Dio finds him.

His father, at the edge of the room near the window.

Standing near the window.

Dio’s never once seen Dario standing without any crutches. But his eyes don’t deceive him. His father’s weak and frail body, once again standing. Before Dio can even muster up enough mental coherence to utter anything, his father stirs. The man simply moves closer to the window, the sky now a deep purple as the morning sun nears.

A small, mumbling sound fills the room, and Dio strains his ears to try and understand what his father might be saying. “W-What?” Dio asks, stepping away from the figure.

Dario doesn’t reply, and simply raises his voice. It doesn’t take long for Dio to realize that his father isn’t saying anything. He’s laughing.

The laughter is ringing across the room, loud and painful in Dio’s ears. His father’s voice no longer carries the same scratchy, raspy tone it had earlier. Now he sounds perfectly clear, as if his vocal cords had restored themselves.

His father finally turns around, his figure backlit by the small fraction of streetlight filtering into the room through the window. He finally stops laughing as he lets out a barely audible whisper. “I told ya,” Dio shudders in fear as his father continues, “I’ll never leave.”

And his father suddenly lunges forward, his feet tapping against the wooden floor. Tut, tut, tut Dio hears as his father crosses the room in an unimaginably fast speed. Dio tries to dodge, to run, to do anything.

However, the only thing he can do is stand still in fear like a rabbit facing the head of a hunter’s rifle. All of Dio’s thoughts are overtaken by the simple scene of his dead father racing towards him. Dario opens his mouth as he reaches Dio, revealing a set of long, sharp teeth.

Fangs.

Dio finally snaps out of his reverie as his father grasps the collar of his son’s shirt. His father smiles, his teeth glinting in the light. Dio writhes in panic, grunting as he reaches for his penknife in the back of his pocket.

His father’s hand dances dangerously close to Dio’s neck, as if the man is drawn to it. Dio hurriedly flicks his penknife open, plunging the blade deep into Dario’s neck.

And his father smiles.

He bloody smiles as Dio stabs his neck. Dio’s teeth are chattering in fear, his entire body trembling from shock and fear and pure confusion. Dio pulls the knife out of his father’s neck for a quick moment only to plunge it back in, stabbing the spot over and over.

Dio is nearly crying as his father simply tightens his hold on his son’s collar. Up this close, Dio can see the man’s face. Dario almost looks worse than he did just a moment ago. The man’s skin has become a repulsive shade of grey, his wrinkles looking heavier, with throbbing veins lining the man’s face.

“Thought you could kill me, boy?” His father drawls, his long teeth catching against his lip, the sharp edges looking like small daggers. “Y-You’re supposed to be—” Dio grunts, his voice shaky and terrified.

“— Dead?” His father finishes for him, “That’s funny. ‘Cause I’ve never felt bloody better!”  The man accents his final phrase by picking up Dio by the cuff of his shirt, and throwing the boy across the room towards the window.

How did the old man get so bloody strong? Dio feels the strange sensation of weightlessness as he travels through the air, his body crumbling as he lands against the window.

Dio’s head slams against the windowsill, and he feels his neck let out a dull crack from the impact. His eyesight is blurry, the room looking like a vague smudge. Dio cranes his head as he searches for the figure of his father.

“— An’ now that I think ‘bout it…” It’s his father, the man’s voice suddenly mere inches away from Dio. Dio attempts to crawl away from the man, but his body isn’t willing to move, his limbs aching and his head feeling like it’s been spilt open, “I’ve never felt thirstier.” Dario finishes.

He grabs Dio’s trembling frame from the floor, drawing his son closer to him. Dio can only watch as his father grins at him, the man suddenly driving his fingers into Dio’s neck in one seamless thrust. It’s like the skin on Dio’s neck is nothing but water, Dario’s fingers parting through the flesh and into the inside of his throat.

What the hell? Dio can feel something being taken from him. At first he can’t make sense of it, what that odd feeling was. But suddenly, he understands. He’s bleeding. But not the same way he’s always bled, that being through a wound.

No, this is different. He’s bleeding, but there’s no cut in his skin. But he can feel it, the same sensation of loss and weakness. And his father is still grinning at him, his teeth dangerously sharp. Dio’s eyes widen as he sees his father’s face suddenly look… younger.

The man’s wrinkles are dissipating, his skin suddenly gaining a healthy, almost rosy color. And Dio realizes that his father is taking his blood. He’s killing him.

Dio tries to say something, anything really, but all he manages to say is a loud, pained yelp. And he feels himself start dying, the darkness at the edge of his vision growing larger and larger, slowly encompassing him.

I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dying. Dio thinks to himself frightfully.

All of a sudden, a warmth falls across Dio’s back.

And he feels it, the familiar feeling of sunlight on him as the sun rises outside. The light fills the room slowly, the darkness slowly disappearing. Dio suddenly hears a loud screech, the sound obtrusive as it rings through his ears.

He steadies his gaze, Dio’s head whipping up as he sees his father back away from him. Dio collapses to the ground, still too weak to hold himself up.

Dio is gasping for air, his body feeling terribly weak, as if he was swimming underwater with a heavy weight on him.

His father lets out another scream, his back now fully pressed against the other side of the room, quivering in fear. Despite Dio’s groggy state, he still manages to piece together the scene. Whatever it is his father has become, whatever this thing is, it can’t stand the sun.

Dio folds himself into a ball, trying to fit his entire frame within the puddle of light being cast into the room. Dio shudders when he sees his father hiss, the man ripping open the door from its hinges.

He sends the door flying towards Dio, and Dio flinches in pain as the heavy door lands against him. However, he doesn’t move from his spot, still trying his best to bathe himself in the early morning light. If it means his father being unable to reach him, then Dio will gladly stay curled up under the hot sun for who knows how long.

His exhaustion is getting the better of him as he blinks, his head still throbbing and his body unable to move. Dio feels his consciousness slipping, the tempting lull of sleep coaxing him into darkness.

Through his final bouts of consciousness, he catches his father bolting out of the room. Dio doesn’t know what he just witnessed, but he manages to come to a conclusion as he finally gives in to the darkness awaiting him.

That mask will prove to be useful in the near future.

5 Days Later, Joestar Estate, Liverpool

“Can’t we do something fun for once?”

Jonathan looks up at Robert, his hand falling still. “What do you mean? This is fun.”

Robert scowls, burying his head into the pillows of his bed. The action causes his brass bed tray to wobble slightly, his sheet of paper, pen and inkwell skidding dangerously close to the edge. “Writing letters isn’t fun, Jonathan.” Robert replies, his voice muffled from under the pillow sheets.

Jonathan is sitting on Robert’s writing desk, the lad in the middle of writing an essay for his Literature lessons. “But this is a letter to a friend! Aren’t you excited to talk to Portia again?” The boy gestures at the paper on Robert’s brass tray, Robert digging his head deeper into the pillows to avoid the unfinished letter.

The boy gets up from his spot across the room to glide towards Robert’s bed. Robert’s still bedridden from the whole affair with Dio. His ankle had been sprained and his body was littered with bruises from his fall down the stairs, and there was the obvious matter with his chopped-off finger.

Mr. Joestar had forced him to stay in bed, telling him that he needed to rest for at least 2 weeks to let the skin heal around his finger, so as not to risk any infection. As well as to heal his bruises up, since they still hurt too much for Robert to even walk.

Robert sighs as Jonathan approaches his bed, and he pops his head out from under the pillows to glare at him. “I’d be more excited if my finger wasn’t a bloody stump.”

Jonathan had been pushing Robert to write more often. Not only for the betterment of his writing etiquette, but to allow himself to get used to the feeling of writing with a missing finger.

Despite Robert losing only his little finger, it had still been a part of his dominant right hand. The feeling of writing or holding something and knowing that a part of your body is missing is such a strange feeling.

Robert swears that sometimes he can still feel his little finger bending and stretching when he uses his right hand, but every time he looks he’s only greeted with the sight of a bandaged empty space. Jonathan is silent after Robert’s response, the boy obviously not knowing what to say.

Robert grunts and relents. He’s been a bit soft these days. He can tell, in the way that he’s been more open to Mr. Joestar and Jonathan, in the smiles he offers in return and especially during the moments when he talks about himself and his past, opening himself up for everyone to see.

It had all started with him telling Jonathan how he met Mr. and Mrs. Joestar. The way the lad’s eyes glistened in excitement, and how he had a sad, wistful smile plastered on his face as Robert told him about his Mother.

For the following days, Jonathan would often ask him about Mary. He had told Robert that Mr. Joestar didn’t like talking about his Mother; that the man still carried some wounds from the past. Robert feels similar, in a way.

Sometimes, when he’s telling Jonathan about the small things he’d managed to pick up about Mary from their brief meeting, he gets an odd sense of sadness. Robert guesses that a part of him just wants to see Mary and her family together again.

“We can go outside if you want.” Jonathan says after a really long time. He knows that Robert is supposed to stay in bed, that bringing him outside was still a bit risky due to his current condition. Robert smirks at the lad’s newfound courage.

For these past few days, Mr. Joestar had been more relenting. Less strict, and more like the kind and mellow man Robert had known from long ago.

Perhaps when Mr. Joestar had seen his son so close to dying, something awoke inside of him. Seeing his son nearly get killed must have been the man’s worst nightmare. Robert shakes his head, abandoning the terrible thought.

What matters now is that they’re happy. Robert doesn’t know if there’s ever been a time in his life when things seemed so simple, like everything was just going to turn our right. He supposes that now is that time.

Of course, he still gets scared. Sometimes Robert thinks about his status in the family, how despite of his denomination as the Joestars’ ward, he’s still nothing but a street-boy. An undeserving thief who got the lucky end of the stick for doing bugger-all.

How he had promised himself that he would help the Joestars, but when trouble came, he simply passed out and got his finger cut off while leaving Jonathan to deal with the whole ordeal. Robert shudders at the memory.

And for most nights Robert still has nightmares. About Kempo Master and Tattoo being shot in the head, of the young’uns of Ogre Street starving to death, or more recently, Jonathan and Mr. Joestar perishing in a tragic carriage accident.

Then, Robert will be all alone.

Robert shakes his head to clear his thoughts. He knows that he’ll still have moments like these. With a life like his, it’s hard to get over the monsters in your head. He looks up and gazes at Jonathan’s kind, boyish face. His bright blue eyes shining brightly, like a small child’s.

Robert smiles. In time, he’ll get better.

“Yeah, let’s get outta here, lad.” Robert replies, watching Jonathan as the other boy pulls out a wicker wheelchair.

They travel down to the large expanses of grass that Robert has gotten rather fond of. The wide fields surrounding the Joestar mansion might seem a bit overwhelming, but when you simply sit there and look at the gently swaying grass and the tall trees, it’s not too bad.

The grounds seem a little less lively now that Danny’s gone, though. Jonathan had been devastated when he heard the news. The butler had apparently set alight the incinerator, and had found the poor dog’s scorched body within.

The butler had told them that it must have been the work of the burglar. That thief, Dio. Robert feels his face flush for a moment, his anger suddenly letting out a spike of adrenaline. Robert turns to looks at Jonathan as they come to a standstill in the middle of the field.

Jonathan steps away from his place from behind Robert’s wheelchair, where he had been pushing it. Robert frowns when he sees the sad look on Jonathan’s face, the boy gazing off somewhere. Robert tries to follow his line of sight, and sees a small headstone at the far-off corner of the field.

Robert had been bedridden for the past few days. He didn’t know where Danny had been buried. If he had known better, he wouldn’t have agreed on going out into the fields in the first place. He sees Jonathan from the corner of his eye kick a pebble gloomily.

“I-I’m sorry,” Robert calls, and Jonathan looks at him in confusion, “I shouldn’t have agreed to go outside.”

“No, no! It’s okay. I was the one who suggested it in the first place.” Jonathan says hurriedly. He suddenly grabs the push handles of the wheelchair, beginning to steer Robert off into another direction.

They start heading for the river near the estate, Robert laughing as the wheelchair catches on some rocks, making the chair bob up and down. All of a sudden, Jonathan stops in his tracks, making Robert nearly fall off his wheelchair.

“Bloody hell, Jonathan! I almost—” Robert starts, turning around to look at Jonathan. When he lays his eyes on the other boy, he finds Jonathan beet red. Robert’s brows raise up to his forehead, and snaps his head to face forward, trying to see what Jonathan was gawking at.

And there he finds the obvious answer. Robert catches glimpse of a girl, sitting by the river. She’s young, about Jonathan’s age.

From this far Robert can’t make out many features, but he can see that she’s got light blonde hair, and by the worn, large clothes she’s wearing, Robert assumes she ain’t as well-off as Jonathan.

“Oh… I see how it is.” Robert muses knowingly. He smirks when he hears Jonathan stutter and fumble about from behind him.

“It isn’t what you’re thinking! S-She was just nice to me,” Jonathan pauses for a moment, “…She comforted me when Danny died.”

Robert feels a tad let down that Jonathan hadn’t expressed his feelings to him all those days ago, but Robert decides that he probably wouldn’t have been good at that type of stuff anyway. He smiles, “Why don’tcha introduce me to her?”

Robert later finds out that the girl’s name is Erina. And that she seems to fancy Jonathan just as much as he fancies her. She’s a very quiet girl, almost shy in the way that she speaks. But Robert can see how her eyes light up with something fierce, and he decides that she might be stronger than she lets on.

She also doesn’t ask about Robert’s multiple injuries, which he’s thankful for. He really doesn’t need any more reminders of when he lost in a fight against an actual 13-year-old.

The three of them spend the day by the river, throwing stones and sharing stories. Robert finds out that Jonathan gets very easily entertained when he pulls out a random story about him pilfering from the rich or escaping the peelers.

The day passes quickly, and soon noon comes. Erina bids them both goodbye, flashing Jonathan a soft smile that Robert pretends he didn’t see, while giving Robert an exuberant wave goodbye. Jonathan begins pushing Robert’s wheelchair back towards the looming figure that is the Joestar mansion.

Robert catches a glimpse of Jonathan’s worried face as they enter the mansion. Jonathan is probably worried that Mr. Joestar wouldn’t approve of their relationship. Erina is on an entirely different social status compared to the Joestars, after all.

But Robert is sure that Mr. Joestar would be fine with it all. Jonathan still isn’t used to his Father’s new amiable approach to parenting, but Robert knows that soon he’ll realize just how much Mr. Joestar cares for him.

As the two of them return to Robert’s quarters, Robert decides to break the silence. “I like her,” he starts, gazing at Jonathan’s bewildered face, “You better take good care of her, JoJo.” And he hopes that Jonathan can hear how genuine he is.

By the way Jonathan’s eyes light up, Robert thinks that the message was understood.

Eventually, night takes over and Robert is back in his bed, trying and failing to fall asleep. He’s lit and unlit the lamp beside his bed several times now, still trying to decide if he’d prefer to sleep basked in the light or the dark.

Robert is no longer afraid of the Joestar mansion. Before, he had been intimidated by the long hallways, the echoing rooms and the large windows; the idea of staying at a stranger’s home making him feel a little uncomfortable. Now, he’s gotten used to all of that.

However, there’s something about tonight that seems different. It feels as if something is watching him, like there’s a presence right next to him. Robert shudders, and he wraps himself tighter in his soft quilts.

The room is dark again, Robert having decided that the candlelight just makes the shadows of the furniture stretch to the ceiling in a scary, unnatural way. Robert hears the buzzing of his ears grow louder at the silence, his ears straining for any sound to be heard.

All of a sudden, a loud, almost deafening creak.

Robert freezes, his eyes shooting open to look around the room. A long moment passes, and just when Robert is about ready to give up, telling himself that it must have been his imagination, he hears another creak.

Robert gets up this time, his upper body shooting from the bed as he yells out. “Is anyone there?”

Silence.

His ears are buzzing from the quiet again, a reminder of his utter foolishness for thinking there was actually someone in his room who would respond. Robert huffs and gently lays back down, his bruised body aching a bit.

“I remember you.”

Robert nearly shrieks when he hears the voice. He shoots up again, looking around the room for anything resembling a figure. All he finds are the familiar furnishings of his room, the silence following the phrase seems almost taunting.

“W-Who are you? Where are you?” Robert calls, hoping that his voice sounds as plucky as he thinks he sounds. Robert quietly reaches for the servant’s lever next to his bed. He could call someone, and hopefully whoever was lurking in his room would get spooked and just leave.

Robert’s arm stretches across his bed, his hand nearly at the lever when a wrinkly, grey arm shoots out from under his bed, grasping Robert’s exposed wrist. Robert actually shrieks this time, struggling as the ashen arm begins trying to pull him down.

“I know ya remember me, boy.” Robert shudders when he hears a loud, scratching sound come from underneath his bed. The scratching turns into a scurrying, crawling sound as Robert watches a figure emerge from the bottom of his bed.

It’s a man. Old, by what Robert can see. And now that Robert sees him, he can smell the man. Robert wants to hold his nose. The man smells like the rats Robert would find running about Ogre Street, their small bodies covered in strange boils and smelling like the sewers.

Robert manages to speak. “H-How did you get here?” The man turns around and looks at him, his grip still strong on Robert’s wrist.

“You’ve gotta chest under your bed. Big enough to fit a bloke like me.” The old man drawls, “Been hidin’ down there all day. If you hadn’t been outside for so long, I coulda killed you already.”

Robert just barely catches the man’s last set of words, and when he does, he’s ready to scream for help. “Hel—” Robert begins, only to be cut off when the man leaps on his bed, smothering Robert’s mouth with a foul-smelling palm.

The man tuts. “No can do, boy. Now listen, I wantcha to think real hard.”

Robert nods, nearly gagging at the smell of the man’s breath.

“You remember what happened back in 1868?” The man asks.

Robert’s eyes widen. This old bloke… there’s no possible way that it could be—

And Robert realizes, that underneath the grey skin and the layers upon layers of wrinkles, is the thief Robert had once before known.

“You’re the thief.” Robert mutters behind the man’s hand. He thinks that what he said might have been too soft to hear, but the old bloke smiles as if he had heard him perfectly.

“Good. That means you remember doin’ this.” The man raises the edge of his stained shirt, revealing a terrible number of scars. Robert is trembling when he sees the small scars. The scars from the mask. Robert nods again, a tear rolling down his eye.

The old man lets out a toothy grin, and Robert feels a chill run down his spine when he catches sight of the man’s teeth. Long and sharp, like an animal’s fangs.

“Took me a long time to find you,” the man is saying, his hand drawing close to Robert’s neck. For a second, Robert thinks that he’s going to choke him. The man’s fingers start circling around his throat, making Robert panic and bite the bloke’s palm.

The old man lets out a howl of pain, removing his hand from Robert’s mouth for a brief moment. Robert seizes his chance and lets out the loudest scream he’s able to muster. His own voice is deafening to his ears, and he hopes that someone is able to hear him within the expanse of the mansion.

“You’ll pay for that.” Is all the old man says as he clamps Robert’s mouth shut again. Robert’s hands clutch at the man’s head, trying to push his fingers into the man’s eyes. The man grunts and pushes his other hand towards Robert’s throat again.

Robert gasps when he feels something begin entering his neck. It’s like someone is pushing into his skin, the flesh on his neck giving way. Robert glances down and finds the old bloke’s fingers as they slowly thrust deep into his neck.

The sight is so uncanny and horrible that Robert attempts another yell. The old bloke only smiles though, clamping his hand harder over Robert’s mouth to soften the noise. All of a sudden, Robert feels his already weak body become somehow weaker.

Robert writhes his bruised body on the bed, his eyes locked on the man in front of him. The man is laughing, and Robert feels tears well in his eyes when he sees the man’s skin suddenly grow fair and youthful in complexion.

“This is what you get, brat,” The old man whispers as Robert’s sight begins to fade, “You took away everythin’ from me.”

Robert catches a glimpse of his own wrist, and sees the blue veins on his arm begin to fade. That’s when he understands. The man is taking his blood.

“I couldn’t walk, couldn’t earn any money, couldn’t even fukin’ steal. You killed me!” The thief yells, his foul spit spraying across Robert’s face. The man composes himself for a moment, “It’s all right now, though. ‘Cause now I’m gonna kill you.”

Robert’s eyes widen at the threat, but he knows that he can’t make it out of this. Nobody had heard his yell from earlier. Nobody’s going to come rushin’ in to save him. He’ll just die.

The young’uns… he hopes Mr. Joestar continues to help ‘em, even when Robert’s dead. Poor Portia. Robert should have finished that bloody letter earlier.

He hopes that Jonathan isn’t the one to find his corpse. The poor boy would be devastated. Robert closes his eyes as his body grows heavier. He hopes that Mr. Joestar will stay strong for his son. That they won’t forget him. Robert’s tears begin to flow unrelentingly down his face as he feels himself start to die.

“Robert!”

Robert’s eyes flick open.

It’s Jonathan, standing in his doorway in his daft, off-white nightgown. “J-Jona—” Robert begins, before getting cut off by the man taking his life away, “Who the bloody hell are you?”

Jonathan doesn’t answer the man’s question as he dashes forward. Don’t, you ninny. Robert wants to say. You’ll get killed.

Robert’s sight is obscured by a sudden, bright yellow light.

He squints his eyes, trying to see past the sudden light. But Robert soon realizes there isn’t just light in front of him. There are flames. Bright, golden flames blinding his vision. And Robert doesn’t understand where they came from or why they’re there.

And Robert hears someone shriek. He knows for sure that it isn’t Jonathan. Does that mean he’s managed to beat that old man? But how? Robert doesn’t understand what was wrong with that man, but he was able to stick his fingers into Robert’s throat like it was nothing, without wounding him or spilling any blood, as if Robert’s skin were only made of pudding.

Robert manages to adjust his eyes to the brightness, and is greeted with a strange sight. The old bloke that had once been clutching at his neck is gone. The only thing in his place is a pile of dark ashes. Robert looks up, some golden cinders still floating about in the air.

It’s as if the man was burned by whatever that fire was. Robert finally sees Jonathan, the boy looking pale and terrified. “What happened? What did you just do?” Robert asks, his voice sounding strained. He feels a bit lightheaded, his head growing dizzy from him saying those words.

Jonathan’s gaze is affixed to the ashes on Robert’s bed. “…Jonathan?” Robert asks tentatively. The boy looks up, alarmed. He stares at Robert for a quick moment, his gaze dropping to his hands. And Robert suddenly notices.

The boy’s hands are engulfed in the golden flames Robert had seen earlier. Robert sputters, trying to say: Your hands are on fire! But he is only able to gawk and raise a finger to point at the yellow flames licking around Jonathan’s fingers.

And as quickly as Robert had been able to see them, the flames quickly disappear, as if a strong wind had come and blown the fire into nothing. The two sit and stare in silence, looking at Jonathan’s hands for a very long while.

“What… was that?” Robert finally says, breaking the silence that had fallen upon them for who knows how long.

Jonathan looks up at him, his body dropping to the ground in exhaustion and fear. “I don’t know. But whatever I did, I used it to kill that man.”

And Robert stares at Jonathan in both amazement and trepidation.

He suddenly recalls a far-off memory. Back when he was five, clutching baby Jonathan. Robert realizes that he has felt that same warmth from the golden flames before.

Before, when he had held Jonathan as the rain poured onto the both of them.

But the baby’s body never grew cold. In fact, it only seemed to grow warmer.

Chapter Text

8 Years Later (1888), Joestar Estate, Liverpool

And so, time passes.

It feels as if the days pass much slower than they used to. When Robert was younger— when he was still a strapping young thief who pilfered fancy embroidered handkerchiefs, the hours were always quick and the mornings were filled with running and fast-paced adventure.

On the streets, you always had to be hurrying, always had to be thinking ahead and acting as adroit as you possibly could. Life didn’t wait for Robert at all back then.

Life with the Joestars feels much, much slower. The way the minutes would drone on during lessons as well as the ease of maids and butlers waiting at Robert’s every command. However, despite time’s leisure pace, it still goes on.

And so, time keeps on flowing like a strong river, never stopping despite anybody’s wishes.

The days pass unhurried, and soon Robert celebrates his 18^th birthday within the Joestar mansion in the middle of October. Robert continues to celebrate his 19^th, 20^th, and 21^st birthdays in tranquil succession, each birthday celebration always seeming grander than the last.

And Robert is… very happy. He couldn’t be more thankful, really. He’s learned to stop thinking so much over the years; the nagging voice in his head telling him that his place within the Joestar family wasn’t deserved has finally quieted down.

Sometimes, all it takes is time to heal, Robert thinks.

The nightmares about Kempo Master and Tattoo have long since faded off into nothingness. It makes Robert feel a bit sad, somehow. These days, he barely remembers their faces. The people he had once known as his friends now seem like vague colors and shapes, the memories he had shared with them feeling so far off, as if the time they had spent together was never really… real.

It isn’t the same matter compared to the young’uns, though. They’ve all grown up now, and Robert still visits them in the corners of Ogre Street. The lads are all living modest, happy lives with their own families. Some have left Ogre Street, and set off to the grander parts of England. Others stayed and made a new home for themselves with their wives and children.

Robert’s glad to see that none of them had continued with the nickin’ lifestyle into their adulthood. He really doesn’t know what he would have done then.

Seeing all of the children he had seen suffer and starve in the streets grow into respectable carpenters, constructors, blacksmiths and even modestly-successful merchants made Robert feel a bit chuffed as to what he had been able to accomplish.

He had done it. Helped them to the best o’ his abilities. Robert feels himself smile. Not bad, Speedwagon.

Robert shakes his head. He wonders why he gets so sentimental these days. Maybe it’s because his 25^th birthday was celebrated just a week ago. It really reminds Robert of how old he’s getting. Well, not too old, he isn’t 70 yet.

“Robert, we have to hurry!”

He startles a bit at the voice. Robert hears Jonathan— JoJo, now that Robert’s gotten used to the sobriquet— call to him, the lad peaking his head into Robert’s room. Robert is standing by his chiffonier, straightening his magenta tie in the mirror.

Robert’s eyes are drawn to his own reflection, the sight of his four fingers clutching at the cloth sending as strange feeling of nostalgia down Robert’s veins. He’s gotten used to living life missing a finger. It’s not so bad, even though Robert wishes his hands wouldn’t look so silly when he puts gloves on.

“Father says that the spun yarn still needs to be delivered, so we can’t have all day.” JoJo continues, striding towards Robert as he dons a dark bowler hat. Robert laughs a bit, turning around and facing the boy. “I’m done, I’m done.” He calls, patting JoJo on the shoulder.

Jonathan’s grown much, much taller since they had first met, with Robert’s head only barely reaching his ear nowadays. Robert smiles, remembering a time when they were still younger, and JoJo had been complaining about his bones aching due to how fast he was growing.

Despite the lad now being 20 years of age and being as tall as a mountain, Robert still can’t bring himself to call JoJo anything else besides ‘lad’ and ‘boy.’ Robert supposes that could be attributed to how Jonathan still acts just as kind and tenacious as when they had first met, although he had become more mature as time had passed.

The two of them don’t often meet in the mornings, since Jonathan is always at university nowadays, while Robert stays at home and continues his studies there. Of course, they still find ways to see each other.

They stride out of Robert’s room and begin to walk through the hallways. The large mansion used to be so daunting and mysterious, but now Robert knows them like the back of his hand. As they walk, they pass by the hallway lined with painted portraits of the Joestars.

At the very end is an oil painting of Robert. Robert smiles as he passes by the painting. He looks like a pirate that had wandered into the premises and forced the artist to paint him. He looks like rather silly in that painting, the way he’s wearing a lavish three-piece suit, contrasting greatly with the scars on his face and his long, ragged hair.

Eventually, they make their way to the entrance of the Joestar mansion, Robert’s eyes catching sight of Mr. Joestar and a large wooden carriage awaiting them. The carriage’s design is much plainer than Robert is used to, with no embellishments or engravings along the carriage’s edges at all.

“Well, good morning, you two.” Mr. Joestar greets when Robert and JoJo finally make their way to him. Jonathan chirps a joyful reply back, while Robert offers a deadpan. “It would have been even better if you had told me the night before that we were going someplace today.”

Mr. Joestar isn’t deterred by Robert’s response as he enters the carriage. “Come now, Robert. This is important if you want to improve as a merchant.” Robert resigns himself with a sigh and joins Mr. Joestar within the carriage, JoJo following not long after.  

“So where are we off to today?” Robert asks as the carriage begins to travel down the cobblestone roads.

“To the watermill,” Mr. Joestar replies, smiling a bit, “I’ll be showing you how the cotton is spun into yarn. It’s very important to know these things if you’re to take over the business, after all.” Robert feels his face warm. He wishes Mr. Joestar would stop spouting that ‘heir’ business out loud.

Throughout the years, Robert had begun to have a knack for arithmetics and merchantry. It fascinated him, how economics could so easily rise and fall, how the public of England can have such varied tastes regarding the rubbish they want to buy and sell, and the terrible state children are put into just to produce a pair of shoes or an inch of cloth in the dodgy factories of England.

Oftentimes, Robert tries to think up of ways to create and produce goods that don’t need any manual labor. His mind is often running with thoughts of steam, mills and anything he can think of to lessen the number of poorly-maintained factories.

Robert knows that a breakthrough like that isn’t to come during this era. Society changes slowly; however, if Robert were to study enough and learn at least a bit more, he just might be able to figure out a way to help, at least a bit.

Of course, Mr. Joestar took note of Robert’s interest in business, and immediately took him under his wing. When Robert had first started living with the Joestars, he never really questioned how the Joestars earned money. He would soon figure out the answer to his unasked question; when on his 19^th birthday, Mr. Joestar offered Robert to study under him as an apprentice.

On that day, Mr. Joestar had explained to him the type of business he runs. The Joestar family apparently owns a large business of spinning cotton into yarn. And apparently, that type o’ business sells in England.

When the years passed and Robert’s interest in the Joestar’s business only grew, Mr. Joestar had eventually deemed him fit to take over the family business. Robert is happy, of course. Maybe even a little chuffed. However, pride can only carry so much until the weight is too heavy and worry begins to seep in.

Sometimes, Robert worries about how Jonathan might feel about all of this. JoJo doesn’t exactly seem to be the jealous type, but Robert would never understand what it’s like to watch as someone–- who isn’t even your biological brother— steps up and takes your place as the heir of your family.

Robert inclines his head a bit, looking at JoJo from the corner of his eye. Jonathan is reading a book entitled: Mycenæ: A Narrative of Researches and Discoveries at Mycenæ and Tiryns. His eyes are flicking back and forth as he quickly scans through each paragraph, deeply engrossed in the elaborate prose.

Robert holds back a daft smile. While he had developed an interest in merchantry, JoJo still held the same enthusiasm he had always had for history. Perhaps JoJo doesn’t mind too much about Robert’s role as heir. He seems perfectly content with pursuing archeology, after all. He really shouldn’t read in the carriage, though.

“Don’t read in here, lad. Your head will hurt.” Robert chastises, JoJo looking embarrassed for a moment before nodding and closing his book with a sincere nod. Ever the perfect gentleman.

Robert never went to university, since Mr. Joestar already seemed to be the perfect tutor for him, but Jonathan did. The boy often has to stay in a rented lodging house rather far from the Joestar estate, since JoJo’s university is a ways-off from Liverpool. He’s usually gone for days on end, and comes back other days to visit.

Jonathan has his own life now, since the lad seems to be rather popular in university. He’s a rugby champion now; which Robert isn’t the least bit surprised about, what with his massive build and height. It feels a bit lonely, now that they don’t see each other often.

At least, that’s what everyone thinks.

The two of them see each other plenty, albeit at night when they’re both out killing vampires.

Robert finds it hard to focus for the rest of the day once that thought worms its way into his head.

Mr. Joestar’s gentle voice begins to fade as he explains how the waterwheel manages to card, draw and spin the cotton into yarn. Robert knows that he should be paying attention, knows how important this is if he wants to be a good heir, but he just can’t bring himself to focus.

The hours pass, and soon the trip is over, with Robert having learnt nothing.

“Keep having that dozy look on your face and Father will suspect something.” JoJo tells him when they head back to the Joestar mansion, since Mr. Joestar had to cut the visit to the watermill short due to a sudden emergency regarding cotton packaging. Robert hopes that the man hadn’t noticed his demeanor. Robert should apologize just in case.

“I didn’t have a dozy look.” Robert retorts, even though he knows he did. JoJo looks up at the sky, the sun still up as it shines a bright light over the two of them. It’s midday still, the wind a bit chilly as autumn begins to take hold of the seasons.

Jonathan’s voice drops to a hushed tone as they make their way into the Joestar mansion, walking up one of the large staircases as they head towards the direction of their private quarters. “Are you heading to Merseyside Constabulary today?”

Robert shakes his head. “It’s too late now. The Constabulary will be full o’ people in this time of day. Too crowded. If I had known about today’s visit to the waterwheel I would have gone yesterday.”

The two are quiet for a moment, weighing each other’s words. If anyone were to overhear their conversation, it would just seem like an ordinary visit to the police station. However, both Robert and JoJo know that what they had been doing for the past 8 years was the least bit ordinary.

“I wanna show ya something.” Robert mutters as the two of them reach his room, pulling the door open. JoJo follows silently as Robert makes his way towards the bed. He leans down and peaks under the bed, his eyes searching for something.

Robert lets out a grunt of approval as he finds what he’s looking for, shoving his hands under the bed and pulling out a large, locked wooden chest.

Robert still remembers when he had seen that old man emerge from beneath his bed, all those years ago. Robert’s eyes wander to the chest, staring at the stained wood. The man had been hiding in there. Waiting for Robert to come back so he could kill him.

He still has nightmares about that man. His wrinkly grey skin, the dark eyes and especially the fangs that had shone like daggers under the moonlight.

Robert holds back a shudder as he produces a small key from his pocket, forcing his mind back to reality. He had to beg the maids to look for the old key, and had to grovel even more to get them to swear not to tell Mr. Joestar about the affair. The maids had shrugged and agreed; and so far, Mr. Joestar had yet to confront him about the matter.

It isn’t so much the chest itself that Robert wants to keep a secret. It’s more so the contents. He just can’t have Mr. Joestar figuring out what he and Jonathan had been doing for the past 8 years. The poor man might just get a heart attack.

Robert unlocks the chest and begins to lift the lid, the smell of old paper suddenly filling the room. Inside are tall stacks of newspapers. Some are from years ago, when the him and JoJo had first begun their… investigation. Others are more recent, dating back to a few months or weeks.

“Read this one.” Robert mutters. He pulls out one of the newer papers, dated only a day ago. The headline, in bold letters stating:

Five Dead in New Series of ‘Vampyre Murders!’

Underneath the headline is an inked illustration of a woman, her breast bare as a man with long pointed fangs suckles on it. JoJo frowns at the morbid imagery. “Were the victims women?” He asks as he begins reading the article.

“No. All men. They just added in the lady for the reader-appeal.” Robert replies, pointing to one of the article’s paragraphs, “Says here that the murders took place in Crosby.”

Ever since that fateful day in 1880; when Robert was still 17 and Jonathan was no more than a child, their lives had forever changed. Not only because of that old man— no, not a man. A monster. A vampire, JoJo had told him. The lad had coined the term himself, inspired by a few gothic horror books.

No, this new life of theirs wasn’t started solely by that vampire. It was also partly caused by Jonathan’s strange power. Robert didn’t understand it, and the poor boy understood even less. Robert remembers how terribly JoJo had cried after killing that vampire, his hands still warm and glowing a faint yellow as he begged Robert not to tell Mr. Joestar.

The two of them had fallen into a silent promise never to tell anyone what they had witnessed; willing to take their secret to the grave. The days following that incident were strange. Robert’s new life had seemed so relaxed and happy, it was like that one affair with the vampire was enough to bring it all crashing down.

A few weeks after their first experience with a vampire, they were greeted with headlines gracing every newspaper. The letters in thick, black cursive read:

Ghastly Murder in Ogre Street Leaves Two Dead!

And the description of the bodies...were all too familiar. Two men with their bodies dry and rid of all blood.

That was when it had all begun, really. The two of them began to collect any newspapers they considered important to their investigation. And there were many newspapers. The number of murders only seemed to grow and grow as time passed.

Perhaps Jonathan wanted to know more about his newfound powers. Perhaps the both of them simply needed answers. The two of them don’t really know.

Robert and JoJo just had to know. Where were these vampires coming from? And why is Jonathan able to kill them? How did JoJo even get these powers? They had too many questions, and with nowhere else to look, began their investigation on the vampires plaguing England.

On some nights, the both of them would sneak out of the Joestar mansion and look for the vampires. They’ve been able to hunt down most of them, since the vampires seem rather lacking in imagination and always choose to hide either in the sewers or some other damp, smelly place.

Jonathan’s been getting much better at using his powers. Robert is always amazed when he sees the lad punch through the vampire’s torsos, or burn their bodies into ashes, as if the sun were in JoJo’s palm.

“We should head to Crosby tonight. If we’re there early then the vampire won’t have time to get too far.” JoJo says, jolting Robert out of his thoughts.

“Alrighty. I’ll just visit The Constabulary tomorrow. What’re you doin’ today?” Robert asks as JoJo heads for the door. “I have classes this afternoon.” JoJo calls, surveying the time on his wristwatch.

And just like that, the two of them are reminded of their separate lives. It’s quiet for a moment.

Robert nods in response, tentative to break the silence, as he removes his dark purple jacket to replace it with something more modest. The silence is broken when Jonathan speaks. “I’m glad they changed the name to ‘Vampyre Murders.’ The ‘Pinprick Massacres’ were a little silly.”

The two of them laugh, sharing a short good bye as they part once again.

That Night

Jonathan and Robert both meet up in Crosby. Robert had to wait until Mr. Joestar retreated into his quarters, dressed in his coat and boots while he laid in bed, covering himself in the sheets in case someone came in. He had his pistol in his hand, an old gun he decided to purchase during a visit at Ogre Street. Robert had bought it exactly for nights such as these.

Robert suspects that Jonathan must have had more freedom. The lad probably just snuck out of his private lodge and looked for a stagecoach that would take him to Crosby without having to worry about anyone catching him and asking too many questions.

The streets are mostly empty, only the gaslights keeping them company as they trudge through the alleys. Their search comes to a quick end when they hear voices off in the distance, their tones deeper and more animalistic.

JoJo and Robert head down the streets as quietly as they can, and spot three vampires, made up of men. The three of them are simply standing about on the street, as if not knowing what to do.

Robert and JoJo crouch down by a nearby alleyway, the smell of sewage thick in the air from the neighboring sewer systems not far off. Robert looks down at JoJo in confusion, gesturing at the three vampires.

He mouths out, ‘Why are they just standing there?’

Jonathan shrugs in response, the both of them ready to emerge from their hiding place when one of the vampires begins to speak.

“This is fucking stupid. I ain’t turnin’ myself in to the peelers.” The vampire says. Robert squints, and manages to determine a few of the man’s features. He’s young, probably about Jonathan’s age. His clothes are dirty, but have the obvious cut and trim of a rich man’s garb.

“Y-You know that what we did was wrong!” Another vampire answers in reply. This one is but a boy, the lad’s voice stuttering and awkward as it echoes through the empty street.

“Oh, shut up,” The third vampire answers. He’s the oldest of the three, his voice gruff and angry. “Ya didn’t feel that way when you were takin’ all of Isaac’s blood.”

“Stop! I-I don’t want to remember that.” The youngest says, the vampire beginning to tremble.

Robert is looking at the scene with rapt attention, his face screwed up into a confused frown. Of course, he and JoJo are used to hearing the vampires speak. The monsters are capable of thought and speech, but usually don’t feel anything relating to regret, since their thirst for blood always seems to overtake them.

The vampires they’ve come across are often unrelenting and cruel to their victims. But here’s one now, showing remorse and fear after being reminded of the murder he committed. Robert scowls for a moment, deep in thought.

No, that is a killer. That’s a monster. Robert shouldn’t be fooled by such farces. So what if they feel sorry? They killed those people, and they deserve to pay. Robert glances down at Jonathan, ready to signal him for the start of their attack.

But he is greeted with the sight of JoJo looking up at him, his eyes wide and conflicted. Oh no.

Robert shakes his head, already knowing what the boy is considering. Jonathan leans close and whispers. “— But maybe they didn’t mean to kill those people?”

“JoJo—” Robert starts, only to be cut off by the boy.

“— I mean, we don’t truly understand what’s turning all these people into vampires, right? W-We don’t even know if they can’t be turned back into humans!” Jonathan replies, his voice becoming rambled and desperate.

“They aren’t people. Not anymore,” Robert hisses through his teeth as his tone becomes impatient, immediately regretting it when he sees JoJo frown, “Listen. This is—”

“Hey. Do you hear that?”

Robert shuts his mouth as quickly as he had opened it. It’s one of the vampires. Damn.

Robert snaps his head to the side his hand raising up in an attempt to hush the boy beside him, only to see nothing but empty space where Jonathan had once been. “JoJo— Ah, fuck.”

He’s greeted by the sight of Jonathan bolting off towards the vampires. Robert feels his fight-or-flight reflexes immediately kick in. He peaks his head past the wall, and sees Jonathan striding towards the group of vampires.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Robert wants to run out there, to drag Jonathan back and to slap his face until the boy understands how daft he is. But Robert knows that he isn’t like JoJo. He doesn’t have powers. He’ll be killed.

When the two of them stalk about and kill vampires, it’s usually JoJo who does the killing while Robert holds a pistol and shoots at any vampires that get a little too close to either him or Jonathan.

Robert used to own a dodgy revolver when he was about 16, back when he didn’t own a flat and he had to live on the streets. He used to use the gun to shoot at rats, when the nights were long and Robert was starving. Rat tastes surprisingly good when you’re bloody famished.

Robert recalls the gun he had brought with him, drawing the pistol from his pocket. He begins to load it in his shaking hands, his ears picking up the sound of conversation.

“Who the bloody hell are you?” It’s one of the vampires again. It’s the one Jonathan’s age, and Robert can almost hear the small hiss in his voice.

“I’m here to help you.” JoJo replies, and Robert finally finishes loading the gun. He steadies his aim, ready to shoot— only to be halted.

“P-Please!” It’s the youngest boy, the vampire running forwards and dropping to Jonathan’s feet in despair. “Tell the p-peelers. I did it! We killed those men!” He grovels, dropping his forehead against the toe of JoJo’s shoes.

“Alright. Listen to me now.” JoJo leans down, and holds the trembling boy by the shoulders. Robert keeps his eye on the other two vampires, the other men simply staring in shock as the youngest vampire wails and sobs in Jonathan’s hold.

“You weren’t like this before, were you?” Jonathan asks.

The boy trembles, shaking his head. “N-No. I used to be a person… b-but then I got killed.”

“Killed?” JoJo repeats, leaning closer.

“Yes. By a man… Now, I’m dead. D-Dead…” The boy trails off, as if lost in thought.

“A man? What man—”

“He made me like this. He made us all like this. Now I’m just so- so…” The lad writhes, and Robert lowers his pistol to gauge the boy.

“So hungry.” He finishes as he drives his fingers into the crook of JoJo’s neck.

“Ha! Look at that, daft boy was actin’ all sorry, when he can’t even resist doin’ this!” The eldest vampire hollers, the second vampire laughing along with him.

Robert snaps his pistol up, the action so fast it makes his arms ache from the sudden motion. He aims, and shoots, not wasting a single second. The bullet flies through the air, slicing a few strands of JoJo’s hair it soars past him, and lodges itself deep into the youngest vampire’s skull.

The impact sends the boy away a few feet, and Jonathan gasps in alarm as the fingers at his neck slip away. JoJo is coughing and hacking from the sensation. He gasps for air, clutching his throat as Robert sends another shot into the youngest vampire’s neck.

“There’s two of ‘em?” The eldest says, his voice in a deep growl that sounds almost akin to that of a dog’s.

“Don’t matter. We’ll just kill ‘em right quick.” The second vampire calls, bolting forwards towards Robert.

Robert steadies himself and draws his gun up for another shot. He sends two shots into the vampire’s eyes, the daft bloke crying out in pain. Robert knows that it’ll heal soon, but hopefully it’s enough to buy Jonathan some time to get up and finish the bloke off.

“JoJo, are you—” Robert doesn’t get to finish. Jonathan is already sprinting forward, plunging his fist into the blind vampire’s torso. The vampire lets out a brutal cry, his body burning as golden flames dance around his quivering frame, reducing him to nothing more than ashes.

“W-What the bloody hell was that?” The youngest vampire calls, the boy now back up on his feet, the bullet wound in his head now healed, as if nothing was ever there. Robert straitens his arm up, ready to draw another shot, when he hears the sound of… clapping.

Robert’s eyes squint through the darkness, trying to find the source of the sound. “JoJo, do you hear that?” Jonathan is by his side almost immediately, responding in a hushed tone. “The clapping, yes. I hear it too. Who do you think—”

“Ah, that was some very impressive Hamon, Jonathan Joestar.”

Robert and JoJo stiffen, theirs heads turning towards the two remaining vampires, only to find that the vampires are dead, their bodies gone and replaced with ashes faintly blowing about in the wind. And in their place not at all a vampire, but a man— with his hands glowing aflame.

Just like Jonathan.

The man is older, looking to be a bit younger than Mr. Joestar. A tall, checkered top hat is perched atop his head, which Robert finds a bit silly, honestly— who would wear such a drab thing? The man looks like a foreigner in the curve of his nose and the shape of his eyes, like he might come from someplace like Europe or the Mediterranean.

“H-How did you do that?” Robert asks in awe, pointing at the ashes on the street.

“— And how do you know my name?” JoJo says not long after, his eyes drawn to the flames licking at the man’s fingers.

“Oh. Of course, I think introductions are in order.” The man replies his voice laced with the a faint accent that Robert doesn’t recognize. The man pauses slightly before continuing.

“I am William Antonio Zeppeli, and there are some questions I’d like to ask the both of you.”

Chapter Text

Robert doesn’t trust this Zeppeli fellow.

There’s something about the way his eyes shift and stare. It’s like he thinks he knows everything. Like he’s lived through and seen all the horrors of the world. Perhaps he has. Robert doesn’t have time for pity, though. What he does have time for are answers.

Robert wants to raise his gun and point it at the bloke, to force the old man to spill everything he knows about vampires and how he’d been able to attain the same powers as JoJo. But Robert knows he can’t do that. Not when Jonathan is right next to him, looking at Zeppeli like the man had just descended from heaven.

Robert decides to stand his ground after a brief mental debate with himself, and raises his voice, dropping his tone into something authoritative and reminiscent of when he was younger and he’d try to impress the older members of the Ogre Street gang. “Listen, Zeppeli— or whatever your name is – you better tell us everythin’ you know about these bloody vampires, or we’ll—”

“Ha! ‘Bloody vampires!’ I get it!” Zeppeli replies before bending over and grasping his knees, laughter raking through his body. His laughter echoes through the empty streets of Crosby, and Jonathan and Robert stare at each other in confused silence.

“Uh—” Robert responds eloquently. Didn’t this bloke just hear what he said? Robert’s about ready to deliver another threat when the man straightens and looks at Jonathan straight in the eye.

“Enough jokes.” Zeppeli says as he strides towards JoJo, his earlier demeanor shifted into something entirely different. Robert instinctively grabs Jonathan’s arm to pull him back, but JoJo remains rigid. Robert looks up to gauge Jonathan, ready to smack him on the head for being difficult, but sees how the boy is absolutely transfixed with Zeppeli.

“Signor Joestar, it’s so nice to finally meet you.” The man announces, slowly reaching a hand towards JoJo, silently asking for a handshake. JoJo flinches and glances over his shoulder to offer Robert a tentative glance.

His face is ridden with hesitance and a slight hint of curiosity, as if he’s asking for permission; so Robert shakes his head in a defiant ‘no’, hoping the daft lad understands the gravity and danger of trusting strangers. Especially strangers who know your identity and have the ability to reduce vampires to literal ashes.

After what had just happened with the youngest vampire, Robert had expected JoJo be a bit more wary. When JoJo’s eyes meet his, he anticipates the glint of understanding to flash upon the other’s face and for him to step away from that Zeppeli fellow.

Of course; Robert must have set his expectations too high, because all JoJo offers him is a cursory gaze before turning back around and offering his undivided attention to the outlandish man in front of him. Robert scowls, hoping to catch Jonathan’s gaze again, only for the lad to ignore him as he grasps at the man’s offered hand.

“And I, you; Mister Zeppeli.” JoJo replies in a kind voice, as if he were meeting the man during one of Mr. Joestar’s formal dinners, and not after the man had killed two vampires in the middle of the night. Robert rolls his eyes. JoJo should know better than to trust complete strangers, honestly.

“I prefer to be called Baron Zeppeli.” The man’s thick accent rings as he smiles. Robert holds back the urge to roll his eyes again. “Yes, yes— and I’m the bloody prime minister of England. Now tell us how you killed those vampires.” It’s not a question anymore, and Robert stomps forward to emphasize his point, drawing himself directly into the other man’s view.

Zeppeli — no, Baron Zeppeli; Robert might not trust the man, but he’s decent enough to call people by what they wish to be called— looks Robert up and down with a smirk before shrugging and tipping his head forward in a curt nod. “Of course, Mister Prime Minister.” He says in a teasing voice.

Robert scowls. “That’s not—” He starts, only to be cut off when the man starts walking towards him. He’s got a secretive look on his face, like he’s thinking of a joke and doesn’t want to reveal it yet. Robert feels a bit threatened when Baron Zeppeli steps even closer to him, the tip of the man’s shoes almost touching Robert’s, and flinches when the man raises his fist.

“Ah— Baron, I—” Robert hears Jonathan begin to say in an alarmed tone. Zeppeli doesn’t halt his movements though, and drives his fist towards Robert’s exposed face.

Robert covers his face in panic, knowing that it will do little to dull the pain. This is why they shouldn’t trust strangers. This should be a good lesson for JoJo, Robert thinks, even though he’s the one being hit on the face.

However, the pain never arrives. All Robert feels is a soft tap against the hands shielding his face. But a strange feeling makes its way through Robert’s body, all from the slight touch. It feels a tad bit like someone is sending a current through his spine.

It makes the hairs on Robert’s neck stand, and he shudders. Not from any cold, though. In fact, it’s the exact opposite. The current that had ran through his body feels warm, like he’s stranding under a light beam on a sunny summer day. It’s such a contrast to the rigid autumn air he’s currently feeling that Robert has to hold back another reflexive shiver.

Robert slowly blinks his eyes open. He hadn’t even realized he had closed them. That’s a bit embarrassing. He takes a deep breath and clears his throat before attempting to speak. “That’s it? That didn’t even hurt.” Robert says, crossing his arms, rather proud that he had managed to speak without so much as a stutter.

Baron Zeppeli simply smiles at him; that mysterious smile that reminds Robert of a tutor teaching a five-year-old how to add simple equations. Robert frowns and is about to retort with some insult when Jonathan taps him on the shoulder.

Robert snaps his head towards the boy, feeling another surge of annoyance make its way through him, but keeps his mouth shut when he finds JoJo pointing at something, the boy’s mouth agape in badly-concealed wonder.

Robert’s brows furrow and he turns around, and his eyes widen when his mind makes sense of the scene greeting him. The stone wall a few feet behind him has been cracked straight down the middle. The crack is long and deep, looking like a gnarled arm reaching for the sky.

That crack hadn’t been there before. The only explanation Robert can think of is…

“Did you do that?” Robert asks, turning back around to stare at Baron Zeppeli with a look of disbelief. The man’s smile grows larger, and he opens his mouth to speak. “That’s the power of Hamon,” is all he says, chuckling a bit as if he had delivered the punchline to a joke.

“Is that what you call it? Hamon?” Jonathan asks, pronouncing the unfamiliar word carefully, trying to memorize the syllables. He’s quiet for a moment as he considers what to say next. “I-I can do Hamon too.” He finishes, looking a bit confused and disappointed with what he had settled on saying. He looks up at Zeppeli for help.

“I know. That’s why I came here in the first place.” Baron Zeppeli replies, looking a bit pleased with himself. “There have been murders, yes? Someone running about turning people into vampires; and you’ve been killing said vampires.”

“How did you figure out that it was us killing them?” Robert asks in a nervous tone he hopes Baron Zeppeli doesn’t notice. If they were so obvious that some foreign man from God-knows-where could figure out what they had been up to every night, then it won’t be long until Mr. Joestar finds out.

Robert feels himself shudder. That is not something he’d like to deal with. The poor man would probably have a stroke, knowing his son was gallivanting about, killing monsters for fun. He’d disown Robert. Robert’s supposed to be protecting Jonathan, not encouraging him into suicide.

Baron Zeppeli stares at Robert for a short moment, like he’s trying to make sense Robert’s expression. “Took me a while to find you, of course. I’ve been searching for the two of you for years.”

“Years…” Jonathan mutters in amazement.

Zeppeli holds back an amused smile at JoJo’s reaction. “Yes. It was only recently that I had been able to figure out your identities. It’s important I know who you two were if I wanted to understand why all these people were being turned into vampires.”

“Wait. How do you know they were turned into vampires?” Robert asks, crossing his arms.

“That’s what the stone mask does. I don’t know who or why, but someone must be forcing these people to wear the mask. Forcing them to become like this.”

“One of the vampires from earlier said the same.” JoJo says, his face falling into a frown as he recalls the young vampire from moments ago. “He told me that a man had… killed him. Made him and the others into something else.” A rat scurries past nearby, the sound deafening in the quiet of the night.

The three of them are silent as they make sense of each other’s words. Robert replays what Baron Zeppeli had just said in his mind, and feels a cold sweat begin to form over his forehead as his mind takes notice of the glaring phrase the man had uttered. Robert sees the way Jonathan frowns, and knows that the lad must have heard as well.

“Say that again— the stone mask?” Robert says sharply as memories come flooding into his head. They’re all from different times; from different aspects of Robert’s life. That cold night when his finger was cut off by a cruel boy with a sneering grin. The day he had met and just as quickly lost a woman named Mary Joestar. The taste of blood in his mouth as spikes bury deep into a man’s hip.

It feels as if no matter what, that damn stone mask always finds a way back into Robert’s life.

The rest of their conversation feels like a dream. Like time has frozen still. Baron Zeppeli tells them about the mask’s power, how whoever dons it is killed and is reborn into an entirely new being. A monster who knows nothing but a thirst for blood and the thrall of power. A vampire.

Zeppeli explains to them about the vampires’ weakness against sunlight. Of course, through years of hunting them down and studying them Robert and Jonathan already knew this. It gives them little comfort though, knowing how these creatures are basically unstoppable without the strength of JoJo’s unforeseen powers.

Hamon, that’s what Baron Zeppeli calls it. A surreal form of art that can only be attained when passed down to you. “What I wonder, is how you are able to use Hamon without ever meeting a master before.” Zeppeli muses, pointing a finger at JoJo.

The early rays of light begin to stretch across the roofs, the sky turning a slight purple as Jonathan’s brow furrows in thought. They had been talking for so long that morning had come, Robert thinks to himself, his legs suddenly aching as if they had been reminded of how long he had been standing.

“I don’t… really know.” JoJo mutters, looking down at his hands. “Is there another way? Another way for someone to acquire Hamon?” He asks, almost desperate. Robert feels a pang of pity for him. Baron Zeppeli is silent for a moment, drawing a hand to his chin in thought.

“Well, it could have been passed to you through family. Though that is extremely rare.” Zepelli says after a long time, squinting as the bright sun begins to rise even higher into the sky, bathing Crosby in a temporary warmth that will soon dissipate when the chill of October leaks into the air.

“But I’ve never heard of a Joestar with powers like these.” Jonathan whispers in defeat. “Perhaps you just haven’t found one yet.” Zepelli replies, laying a hand on JoJo’s shoulder. Robert wants to interject with some encouraging words of his own, but is cut off by JoJo.

“I’ll look into it.” He says, looking up and casting both Robert and Baron Zeppeli a determined look. The three of them fall into another bout of silence as people begin making their way into the streets, opening up their shops and beginning their day.

“We should be heading home.” Robert says, stepping away from the roadway and into the sidewalk, trying to avoid any stagecoaches that might be riding past. Baron Zeppeli gives a curt nod, and turns to Jonathan with a smirk. “If you’d like to learn more about Hamon, I’d be happy to help.”

JoJo steps onto the sidewalk as well, narrowly missing a child on a velocipede. “O-Of course! I would be honored!” He announces, his voice almost trembling with anticipation. Robert is barely listening when Zepelli and Jonathan converse on the details of Hamon, but he does catch the way JoJo’s tone finally gains a bit of life again, unlike earlier when he had been so focused the idea of a Joestar with Hamon.

Eventually the two of them bid Baron Zeppeli goodbye, but not after a quick discussion about when and where JoJo’s first lesson with Zeppeli will take place. By the time Jonathan and Robert find a stagecoach and reach the Joestar estate, the sun has been blocked by the grey clouds of the colder seasons, and the warmth from the early sunrise has faded into nothing but dull bleakness.

“We didn’t get to share any details with him regarding the murders.” Robert says, stepping down from the stagecoach and paying the driver a hefty sum of coins. “I’ll be sure to fill him in later, while I’m training.” Jonathan replies, his tone easy-going, but his brows drawn down in thought.

Robert is quiet for a moment, analyzing the look on the other’s face. “What’s wrong?” He asks hesitantly, JoJo looking up at him with dark look in his eyes. “I’m… just thinking about who it might be.”

“Who ‘it’ might be?” Robert drawls out, opting for a clearer answer. Jonathan relents and offers a quick reply as they quietly head through the kitchen doors, instead of the large entrance of the Joestar mansion.

“Who the Joestar with the Hamon abilities might be.” He clarifies, pausing for a moment before continuing. “I’ll do a bit of research in the library. Maybe there’s a clue in there.”

Robert nods, his head feeling heavier than usual. He is just then reminded of how tired he is, having gone a whole night without sleep. He studies JoJo’s face, and finds dark lines under the lad’s eyes. Jonathan must be feeling just as exhausted as he is.

The two of them are quiet for a moment as they traverse through the empty kitchen, trying to make as little sound as possible so as to not alert the sleeping maids only a room away. If they were caught, Robert would much rather die than try to explain his whereabouts to an angry and confused Mr. Joestar.

They eventually manage to reach one of the Joestar mansion’s parlor rooms, sighing in relief as they lose the tension in their movements, and allow their footsteps to once again resound through the walls.

Robert decides to mention the obvious topic the two of them should be discussing, a thought that’s been lodged deep into his mind since Baron Zeppeli first mentioned it. Robert could have very easily blurted out his thoughts right then, but decided to keep his conclusion to himself since he still needed JoJo’s input.

“…About the stone mask.” Robert begins as they both enter a secluded hallway. Jonathan’s gaze is immediately drawn to him, all signs of fatigue gone as he stares at him imploringly. “You know what this means, right? T-The man who’s been killing all these people— turning everyone into monsters, it’s—”

“Dio.” JoJo mutters.

The name is familiar to the both of them. A name that neither of them can ever forget. Robert instinctively glances down at his right hand at the mention of that bloke’s name, his four remaining fingers flexing.

No one else could be in possession of that mask. It has to be Dio. Even if he had lost it or someone else managed to acquire it, Dio’s the only lead they currently have. If that lad knows even a speckle about the mask, or about where it is, then that’s enough for JoJo and Robert to investigate him.

“I never would have thought.” Jonathan begins, his voice trembling in a way that makes Robert feel like embracing the poor lad. “I-I always thought he was just some thief. Of course I knew that mask w-was strange, but I never would have thought it was capable of doing this… never even thought he was capable of… of…”

JoJo trails off, and Robert lays a hand that he hopes is comforting over the boy’s shoulder. Jonathan sighs, the trembling of his body slowing as he inhales. “I’ll be sure to tell Baron Zeppeli about this. We have to hunt Dio down. No matter what.”

Robert offers a determined nod before speaking. “I was planning on heading to the Merseyside Constabulary today to have a look at the murder records, but I think it would be better if I headed to the London Constabulary instead. I’ll try to see if they have any information about this Dio fellow.”

All crime that occurs in Ogre Street is documented within the London Constabulary, so it would make sense for Robert to head there for answers regarding Dio’s identity. They would more likely than not have a record on him. Dio had stolen their mask, after all. If the lad had pilfered once, he no doubt had stolen once before.

If Robert is lucky, then there is the off-chance that Dio had been caught by the peelers before. If they had managed to catch him even once, then he must have listed down his personal details on the records.

Those records could contain his address, and after that, locating Dio would be a cinch for JoJo and Robert. Maybe Baron Zeppeli can aid them as well, if he wants to bask in the limelight of finding a renowned murderer.

Jonathan hums his agreement. Robert pulls out his pocket watch and gazes at the time presented. It’s already 6:10 AM. If he catches a stagecoach now, then he’ll be at the London Constabulary at about 4 hours.

“I’ll be off then. Need to head over there now if I don’t want the place filled to the brim with sweaty blokes.” Robert hopes that his statement is enough to lighten the mood, but knows that it is barely effective when all JoJo offers him is a worried glance.

“You should get some sleep. We had a long night.” Robert finishes, turning around briskly.

He sees Jonathan nod from the corner of his eye, but notices how the lad pivots into a different hallway, instead of the usual one that heads to his quarters.

A Few Hours Earlier (3:00 AM), Ogre Street, London

It’s not so bad, Dio thinks, being plastered all over The Times’ papers.

Dio glances down at the newspaper in his hand, the greyed paper displaying an illustration of a slant-eyed old man with sharp claws and boney limbs. The description reads: Possible features of killer.

Of course, the iterations they have of him are rarely convincing. Dio laughs, his throat stuttering out a slurred emulation of a chuckle. He kind of enjoys the sensation of being called a murderer. A certain thrill goes down his spine whenever he sees the headline stating another Vampyre Murder.  

He isn’t going to lie and say he’s not taken by the title.

Dio used to be a pathetic boy from the streets who couldn’t even stand up to his father. Look at him now. He’s powerful. A famous killer, enough to rival Jack the Ripper. Everyone all over England has heard of him. Fears him.

Despite the news outlets only knowing about the vampires he uses to commit the crimes, and know very little about the actual ringleader, it’s enough.

Dio’s memories come flooding in at the reminder. The screams of the people he’d confront, the way their eyes would wet with tears when he’d force the mask against their faces. Sometimes he stabs them straight in the stomach with his penknife, and he’d cover the mask with his victim’s own blood.

The last thing they’d ever get to experience would be the cool of the stone against their faces and the smell of their own blood in the air. A smirk makes its way to his lips. There are other times when he’d go after groups of people. That’s always an amusing way to pass the night.

If Dio was allowed to prey upon a group of people, he’d usually kill one first, just to see the others squirm. Then, he’d impel the stone mask against another one’s face. It’s always enjoyable watching the newly-created vampire tear apart his family or friends in a hungered frenzy.

There’s something about the way people react when seeing something they can’t even begin to comprehend. When idiots are presented with a monster, all they can do is scream and shout and then die. That’s all there is.

The letters on the newspaper blur for a quick moment, and Dio grunts as he rubs his eyes in frustration. “Another pint, barkeep.” He drawls, his words already coming out as thick as honey. Dio raises the empty pint glass in his hand, and stares at the smudged figure of the bartender as the man pours another serving.

The noise within the pub seems to die down as Dio feels another swell of drunkenness take over him. He glances at his surroundings for a moment, the other patrons absorbed in drunken conversations. The pub is nearly filled to the brim with people, the air in the building feeling a bit warmer compared to the outside’s autumnal chill.

Dio stares at the swirling golden liquid. The smell is unbearable. It reminds Dio too much of his father. The scent that would waft into his nose whenever he entered his father’s room, the foul stench that would always lace his father’s breath. Dio’s nose wrinkles in disgust.

But the sensation of alcohol is too alluring. Dio can’t help but to tip his head back and gulp down the foul-smelling drink, feeling the burn of it through his throat. His head stirs a little as he downs the drink, his vision spinning as he lays down the pint glass, already half empty.

Dio’s head throbs, and he buries his face in his palms, his breath coming out in puffs. He smells exactly like his father. Dio scowls and presses his hands even harder against his face. It’s moments like these he hates the most. The moments that remind him that he is his father’s son.

Only the son of Dario Brando would succumb this easily to the subjugation of temporary bliss. Dio suddenly feels like retching, his grip on the newspaper faltering as he brings his hand to his mouth in a pitiful attempt to eschew any unwanted purging.

“This is what you’ve grown proud of?”

Dio feels himself shudder, the familiar voice loud and deafening to his ears, despite him knowing that the sound can only be heard within his own head. He tries to ignore the voice, trying to lose himself in the pull of the alcohol and the loud swelling noise of the pub’s other patrons.

“Ignorin’ me ain’t gonna work, boy.”

Dio grits his teeth. “Leave me alone, father.” He whispers, his voice inaudible to the people around him. Dio reaches out and grasps his pint again, hoping the voice of his father grows quieter once the grip of intoxication gets a better hold of him.

This isn’t very commonplace. Dio usually only has terrors like these when he’s alone, locked in his childhood home, where the memories of his father are strongest. Dio never hears the voice of his father when he’s out in public, but it seems like maybe today is a special case.

“I told ya. I ain’t ever leavin’ you.”

The words of his father echo to that familiar memory. The night he had tried to kill his father. Of course, it never ended up the way he had thought. Dio smiles. Everything ended up much better than he could have ever anticipated.

“It’s ended up better? Is that what you think this is?”

“I-I’m famous now. Everyone in England is haunted by—” Dio begins, only to be cut off by the gruff voice of his father.

“— Haunted by the pathetic vampires you created, yes. Too bad they only seem to last a day.”

Dio frowns at the reminder. He doesn’t know how, but no matter how many people he turns into vampires, they always end up disappearing the next day. Dio had always chalked it up to the vampires’ inability to understand that sunlight is their enemy. That they’d just waltz under the sun and die.

But why was it that when his father had become a vampire, the man had so quickly picked up on the dangers of sunlight? If his daft father could understand, then why do these vampires always perish?

 “You know damn well why. You’ve considered it once before.”

“Nobody is out there killing the vampires.” Dio replies with a tone of finality. It seems like he’s reassuring himself rather that explaining to his father. He takes another swig of beer from his pint glass, the glass finally empty as he sets it down.

The idea has come to him once before, the thought of someone out there, killing the vampires he’s created one by one. Maybe one day, that person would kill Dio as well.

But it can’t be. No ordinary person is capable of killing a monster like this. When you compare a human to a vampire, it’s obvious that the stakes aren’t matched. It’s simply impossible that someone is hunting down his vampires.

“Of course. That’s as true as I am dead.”

Dio’s fingers clutch at the wooden ledge he’s set his glass upon. “You are dead. If you had been alive these past years, then you would have tried to kill me by now.” He finishes, his eyesight blacking out for a moment.

“If that’s what you choose to believe.”

Dio doesn’t know what to believe anymore. He’s never actually seen his father die. The last Dio had seen of him he had been stalking away, disappearing from Ogre Street and never coming back to this day. If Dio’s lucky, then the old man must have died. But if not…

“I’m still out there, plotting out a way to kill you?”

“You are dead.” Is all Dio says, hoping that the conversation with himself can finally end. Of course, it doesn’t.

“Fine. Keep lying to yourself. Like how you’re lying about your so-called achievements.”

Dio can almost imagine the sneer on his father’s face. “Shut up.” He hears his voice rise in volume, and hopes that the other patrons don’t hear. His head lets out another throb, as if it’s protesting at him. He doesn’t know why, but it feels like his mind is spiraling out of control.

“You think you’re worthy of praise?”

 Dio’s fine. He’s happy. Despite the bouts of addiction-crazed drinking and the nights all alone with his nightmares, he’s absolutely content with where he is right now. He doesn’t need any change; he doesn’t need to dwell on the past like this. He doesn’t need to listen to the dead voice of his father, either. This is just a temporary ordeal caused by the alcohol, nothing more.

But Dio knows how much worse he’s been getting throughout the years. Ever since he had started killing people, ever since he had heard his father’s first whisper in his head, things have only been getting worse.

Somedays, Dio can feel himself snap, like he’s ready to die. There are days when he stands in his father’s empty bedroom, with his penknife drawn against his throat. But he’d never do it. Dio doesn’t know if he’s a coward for not going through with it.

It hurts to think. Dio knows that he isn’t happy. This isn’t the new life he had wanted. He doesn’t have power, and he isn’t even special. He’s as stupid and useless as the rest of humanity.

Dio can hear his father huffing out a laugh, the sound so real that it feels as if Dario is sitting right next to him. He inclines his head a bit to the side to glance at the seat next to him, just to see if his father is actually right next to him. Of course, it’s empty.

“…You know what you are?”

The question is rhetorical, and Dio winces as he readies for the conclusion of his father’s statement. All those people deserved to die. They were all a part of the rich communities of England; and Dio loved watching the way they’d squirm when he’d force the mask upon one of them. He relished in the screams as the vampires he had created would feast upon the blood of the spoiled, higher-class, idiots of this world.

Dio likes the sensation killing gives him. It gives him that brief moment of joy he so strives for. And isn’t that what it all comes down to? Happiness. The only thing that people should strive for should be their own happiness. And Dio deserves it more than anyone else.

He’s been through so much. Strived through so much. And now he can finally rest easy and be as powerful as he wishes. With nobody to stand in his way.

“You’re pure evil.”

The phrase awakens something in Dio.

He’s evil? It almost makes him laugh. He’s only looking out for himself. What’s so wrong with that? What’s so wrong with striving for joy? Dio doesn’t understand. He thinks he’ll never understand.

But he does understand one thing. If he’s evil, then he doesn’t care. Let them call him a murderer, let them call him a monster. As long as he’s happy, he doesn’t care. Dio’s head slams against the wooden ledge, his body going slack as the alcohol swells in his system.

Is this what it is to be human? Cursed to be surrounded with idiots who won’t ever, ever understand. His father wants to ask Dio if he knows what he is? He fucking knows who he is. He’s human.

But soon, he won’t be.

For a moment, Dio’s drunken stupor seems to clear as his heart begins to pick up in pace. Maybe his father is right. He is evil. And if he is doomed to be a part of a world who thinks so, then he might as well leave it.

Dio’s shaky fingers make their way towards his coat pocket. The pub seems to fall into silence as his fingers search for the item he so longs for. He finally feels it, the cold stone grazing against his hand. Dio pulls it out, staring at the stone mask’s carved features.

He wonders for a moment if his decision is caused by the alcohol, if he’ll wake up the next day regretting his choice. But Dio knows that he won’t. It feels almost like fate. Dio grasps at his empty pint glass, and breaks it against the wooden ledge.

The glass shatters violently, sending countless shards in all directions. A few lodge themselves into Dio’s skin, but he can barely feel them as he picks up a reasonably large piece of glass. He can faintly hear the voice of the barkeep yelling something at him, but Dio tunes it out in favor of pressing the glass shard against the palm of his hand, holding it tightly.

Finally, Dio looks up to assess the bartender. The man is old, his cheeks flared red in anger as he yells at Dio. Dio can make out a few slurs and profanities, but for the most part his mind is occupied elsewhere.

Dio leans closer to the man, the barkeep stepping back a bit as Dio’s frame gets uncomfortably close, with only the wooden ledge of the bar counter as a barrier between the two of them.

Dio sees the way the bartender’s eyes shift from anger and into fear, making Dio smile. Dio raises the glass shard in his hand, and pierces it deep into the man’s left eye.

The pub erupts into noise almost seamlessly. The barkeep is shrieking in pain, his fingers grasping at the glass still stuck in his eye. Blood begins trickling down, and Dio presses his hand to the man’s face, the bartender flinching as Dio slowly swipes his hand at the blood pooling around the man’s eye.

Dio draws his hand away from the man, his fingers now covered in bright red blood. Dio can hear the telltale sound of anguish from the bartender, but by this point Dio’s attention is entirely elsewhere. He leaves the bartender in favor of gazing at the mask in his hand.

The way the mask’s cold carved features stare at him, it’s almost begging Dio for him to put it on.

So, he does.

The voice of his father vanishes into nothingness as he presses his bloody palm against the cool stone face of the mask.

Dio can hear screams as the spikes erupt from the mask, but they aren’t his own. The pain is almost unbearable. The spikes are so deep into Dio’s head, it feels like his head is going to burst from the pain alone. The spikes continue to pierce into his brain, and for a very quick moment, Dio feels the life begin to drain from his body.

Of course, it doesn’t last because then Dio can sense as his body begins to change and shift into something else. The spikes deep in his skull suddenly don’t hurt as much as they did, and Dio can hear almost every sound around him. From the yells to the glass shattering and the heavy footsteps.

If Dio strains his ears enough, he can even make out the sound of the wind blowing outside, and the drops of blood pitter-pattering onto the floor from the barkeep’s wound. His sense of smell has heightened as well.

Dio can smell every single person within the pub, and he can exactly where they are standing or if they’re moving, simply rom scent alone. Even with his eyes still obscured by the mask, Dio would fare better in a fight than any of these worthless… humans.

The mask’s spikes soon retract, and the stone mask falls away from Dio’s face. Dio opens his mouth, ready to offer a retort to his father, but finds no need to. Instead, a slow, wry noise escapes his mouth, and Dio can feel his fangs catch against his bottom lip.

He’s changed. Not only that, Dio is sure he had just died.

No matter, though. Because now, Dio is reborn.

Hours Later (4:00 PM), Joestar Estate

Robert grunts, his back cracking as he makes his way into the Joestar mansion.

He’s had a long day. Despite him arriving at the London Constabulary early in the day, the place had been packed. Apparently, a massacre had occurred in some pub down in Ogre Street. Many were thinking that it had something to do with the Vampyre Murders.

Despite Robert begging for details, none of the peelers would offer him anything other than an angry stare. Robert sighs, it seems like he might as well just wait until the newspapers cover it.

The day wasn’t as cold as Robert had thought it would be, so the Constabulary was sweltering. The number of people inside surely didn’t help. There were flocks of peelers, journalists and doctors running past him every few minutes, making the air feel tight and hot.

Robert had to wait in a tiny wooden chair in the corner of the office as the secretaries spoke to the victims’ families and lawyers. Whatever had occurred in that pub, it had to have been big.

Finally, when midday had come, Robert was finally tended to. Unfortunately, the secretary he spoke to didn’t have any records on a Dio Brando, and Robert had felt his heart stop and drop into his stomach at the news.

However, it seems as if fate was on his side when the secretary pulled out another record, this one on a man named Dario Brando, a thief who had been caught and released multiple times throughout the years, and had been pronounced missing a few years ago.

Robert had opened the file tentatively, and nearly had a heart attack when his eyes made sense of the black and white photograph of the old man. The resemblance this Dario had compared to the vampire who had tried to kill Robert within his bedroom was almost uncanny.

Despite that vampire’s face being laden with deep wrinkles and his skin being in the shade of day, it was no doubt the same man as this bloke in the photograph. Robert glanced at the man’s name again. ‘Dario Brando.’

Robert read the rest of the record, and had found a section dedicated to Dario Brando’s family. Dario’s spouse and son’s names were scrawled into the paper, and Robert was nearly leaning out of his seat as he continued reading. ‘Dio Brando: son.’ Robert felt his heartrate begin to pick up upon reading this.

“What happened to his son?” Robert asked offhandedly, flipping through the record’s pages. “Took over his house, it seems.” The secretary answered quickly. “— And the wife?” Robert had continued, milking as much information possible.

“Died a long time ago.” The response is just as quick as the first, the secretary pointing at the bottom part of the record, at a small message reading: deceased; right under the spouse’s name. Robert had quickly thanked the secretary and left, but not before memorizing the address written on the record as best as he can.

Now here he is, his eyes heavy with much needed sleep as he strides to the Joestar library. Jonathan must have fallen asleep. There’s no way that the lad had stayed up until now, not after an entire night spent awake and a whole afternoon spent Hamon training.

Robert is caught by surprise when he opens the library doors and instead finds a fully awake JoJo, his head bent down and his nose stuck in between the pages of a thick journal.

“JoJo—” Robert starts, already excited to tell him the new leads he’s got regarding their investigation, but sees the was Jonathan’s head snaps up, like he’s been planning to tell him something for hours, so Robert promptly shuts his mouth and lets JoJo speak first.

“Robert!” JoJo exclaims, running towards him as he clutches the worn journal to his chest. “Y-You won’t believe what I’ve found!” He’s panting with excitement as he nears Robert, and Robert can’t help but raise a brow in question.

“I… I know who the Hamon user within my family was.” JoJo announces, and Robert’s eyes widen in surprise. He had expected some progress regarding JoJo’s search, but he didn’t think that the boy would figure out the answer in one day.

“Well, who is it?” Robert asks, now as excited as Jonathan is. “I had to rummage through Father’s things.” JoJo begins, opening up the journal in his hands and flipping through the pages fervidly. “He usually keeps all of Mother’s old possessions with him, and I had found this.”

He pushes the journal into Robert’s hands, and Robert struggles to understand the almost faded ink on the yellowed pages. To Robert’s understanding, the pages are filled to the brim with sketches of the stone mask. Each sketch is lined with a sting of nearly incomprehensible notes, and Robert squints his eyes as he attempts to read.

“This was my Mother’s.” Jonathan says, grabbing Robert’s hand and laying it across the pages. Robert suddenly feels a warmth enter his fingers as he touches the paper, like there is a strange energy surrounding the journal. Robert quickly draws his hand back, almost aghast at the sensation.

“And look at this.” JoJo mutters, pointing at one of the notes written into the page’s sides. It reads: ‘There is more to this mask. I must buy it tomorrow to continue my studies. Must see if it reacts to my Sunlight Yellow Overdrive.’

“‘Sunlight Yellow Overdrive’ is a technique Baron Zeppeli taught me today.” JoJo pauses, and Robert almost can’t believe what he’s hearing. “It’s— a Hamon attack.” He finishes, almost out of breath.

“A-Are you saying that—” Robert begins, already knowing the answer to his question in the way that Jonathan’s eyes seem to glow with joy and utter sentiment.

“Yes!” JoJo exclaims. “My Mother was a Hamon user.”

Chapter Text

The murders get much, much worse.

Robert can’t stand reading the papers anymore, not when every headline is ridden with large italics and strong bold fonts, stating how the Vampyre Murders have claimed yet another life. And as the days go by, the number of casualties only seem to rise.

The murders were always horrific, yes; but ever since that massacre in the pub a week ago, Robert can’t help but feel as if something has changed. He doesn’t know what, but with the way the death toll just keeps on rising, and the strange emptiness the streets of London now have, it truly seems as if Dio had started something he shouldn’t have.

There is also another factor that differs. Back then, the victims all came from different societal backgrounds. Rich, poor, and everyone in between was in danger of being brutally killed.

However nowadays, the victims have all been members of prestigious families. All successful merchants, spoiled heirs and women clad in jewelry and fine dresses. Most of the murders take place within their own homes, as if the murderer had come barging in and had just killed them on the spot.

Rich old men left in their offices; their limbs torn from their torsos. Young women with their bodies ripped apart, their silks and underskirts stretched until the garters had snapped. Poor lads with their innards strewn across their baby blue bedrooms.

All without a single drop of blood left in their veins.

This isn’t the same as those vampires before. Whatever it is that’s doing this, it isn’t doing it out of hunger. It’s out of malice. Pure evil.

The peelers hadn’t gotten one step closer in their investigation on the true culprit, and Robert isn’t going to head into the Constabulary and offer them any clues. The only thing those peelers are going to accomplish if they get any closer to the truth is adding into the large pile of corpses Dio has stacked up.

Robert feels a shudder run across his spine; the cold midnight air is unrelenting as he leans his back against the icy bricks of Dio Brando’s childhood home. Robert glances at the slummy house. Unlike the other properties of Ogre Street, most of which are usually flats or factory-run lodging homes, Dio’s home is rather large for his indigent situation. The structure stands tall, with about two floors or so, with the windows barred shut and the door nearly glued to the frame.

It's taken Jonathan and him an entire week just to make their way to the bloody house. London had been issued with a curfew, the fear Dio had instilled making its way to the higher echelons of the British government. Travelling rules have also been implemented, making it harder for Robert and JoJo to even catch a train to the pathetic joint.

Robert and JoJo had offered Mr. Joestar the excuse that they were visiting one of the Joestar family’s tide mills in Brighton. Mr. Joestar had been hesitant to let his son travel about while a killer was on the loose, but had relented since the recent murders were usually confined within London.

“Hullo? Anybody home?” JoJo calls, rapping the door with his knuckles. No reply. Robert turns to the lad, shrugging his shoulders as they stare at the front door. “Where could he be? He should be at home; there’s a curfew.” JoJo continues, looking the brick walls up and down.

“Perhaps he’s out murderin’ someone.” Robert regrets his words the moment they leave his mouth. He really should learn how to shut up. Jonathan scowls at the cracked cobblestone streetway, his brows drawn as if he were thinking. Robert is just about to apologize for his crude words when JoJo steps closer to the house, bringing his arm up as a familiar golden halo cocoons his hand.

Robert knows exactly what the lad is doing without any words being shared, and steps back in concession.

“Make it quiet, JoJo.” Robert whispers as he leans his weight farther onto the wall behind him. “Lest the peelers hear.” He finishes, rubbing his cold palms together.

The shadowed figure of Jonathan in front of him stirs, the lad’s head bobbing into a quick nod. JoJo seems not at all bothered by the cold as he strides up to the door of Dio’s house, the chilly wind blowing past him not at all noticed by the lad. Robert muses that it must be nice being able to harness the power of the sun through one’s body.

JoJo grips the wooden handle of the front door, and Robert can feel the air around them both warm a bit as a blast of Hamon travels down Jonathan’s arm. Robert is only barely able to make out the golden flames that lap about JoJo’s fingers, the power coursing through the lad as the door absorbs the Hamon.

There is an eager silence that falls upon the two of them as they stare at the door expectantly. Suddenly, the door seems to come apart from its very core, the wood splinting and breaking into a million pieces. The only sound that befalls the empty streets are the clattering of thin, barely-even-an-inch tall pieces of wood as they land against the now open space of Dio’s foyer.

Robert’s mouth had fallen into an amazed gape while watching the spectacle. Despite the number of vampires lacking as of late, Jonathan had not been straggling on his Hamon training. No matter how many times Robert sees the act of Hamon, it always never ceases to amaze him.

JoJo and Robert enter the quiet home, and it is evident right away that nobody had been inside for quite a long time. There is a leak on the foyer’s ceiling, the puddle that had formed beneath had long since dried up, with the wooden floor now bearing a dark patch of mold.

Robert wrinkles his nose in disgust, and continues onwards. JoJo clears his voice, and in a steady tone inquires, “Is there anybody home?” Of course, he is only met by unrelenting silence. JoJo turns to face the staircase, and suddenly looks up to Robert with an alarmed look on his face. Robert rushes over to JoJo’s side as the lad points at something on the wooden floor.

There are dried drops of blood; leading from the top steps to the bottom, as if someone had been bleeding while they descended. Robert sends Jonathan a worried look as the two of them begin to walk up the staircase.

They reach the top floor of the old house, and are greeted with two doors. After a quick glance at each other, they draw closer to the one by the right and carefully open the door.

Robert crosses the threshold that separates the room from the small hallway leading to the staircase, and his eyes first land on the shockingly large pile of empty alcohol bottles. Some are cracked, bright shards covering the wooden floor until almost none of the ground is even visible.

He hears JoJo gag next to him, and turns to lay his gaze upon the rest of the room. Robert then notices what had caused such a dramatic reaction from the lad. The bed on the far-off corner is covered with an obscenely large amount of blood. The blood has long since rotted, leaving only a stain on the sheets the color of coal.

Robert feels bile rise to his throat when he sees a large hairless rat chewing the edge of the bed sheets, the starving creature trying to lap up as much of the blood as it can. The smell of old alcohol becomes too much, and Robert has to stride past Jonathan to put some distance between himself and the contents of the room.

There are no other pieces of furniture within the room that could provide them with any information, so Robert and Jonathan step out of the room, taking deep breaths of the clear air awaiting outside. “What do you—” Robert begins, his voice so low that he thinks JoJo couldn’t heard him.

“I don’t know.” Jonathan mutters, his face in such a deep frown that Robert worries it might stay that way forever. They step towards the other door, already open as if it were waiting for them. JoJo crosses inside first, and Robert can hear the sigh of relief leaving the lad as he takes a gander inside the room.

It’s very much different from the room beside it, and Robert feels the pace of his heart ease as he gazes at the apparent normality of this room’s contents. He comes to the conclusion that this must be Dio’s room as he glances at the lived-in bed and the wooden writing desk warped with use.

Despite this, the room is covered by a smearing of dust, as if nobody had been inside recently. JoJo quickly strides towards the drawer table situated beside the bed, and makes quick work of rummaging through them. Robert saunters to the bed, flipping the mattress over to look for anything hidden away.

“Seems like he isn’t travelling.” JoJo says, raising a British passport. They both come to the silent conclusion that it is impossible for Dio to be anywhere else besides England. The fact that strict travelling rules had been implemented means that Dio must still be within London, as well.

“He didn’t even bring any money.” JoJo states, holding up a leather pouch for storing money, and tipping it over to show Robert the large sum of coins and paper money.

Robert finds nothing under the mattress, so he drops to his knees and glances at the bottom of the bed frame. He can barely make anything out from the dark shadow that looms over the expanse hidden under the bed. Robert straightens his arm out and thrusts it under the bed, sweeping his hand across to feel for anything that might be hidden.

All of a sudden, his fingers brush against something that feels distinctly like an edge. Robert quickly grasps at the general direction of the object, his hand rubbing against the unique texture of wood. Robert grabs the unseen object, and raises himself into a kneel as he inspects the object in his hand.

It’s a wooden box, about a forearm’s width, and only the height of his hand. JoJo looks toward Robert immediately, imploring Robert to open it. Robert gives the lad a nod as he flicks the box open, revealing the contents inside.

The wooden box is filled to the brim with trimmed sections of The Times’ papers. Robert’s brow furrows as he picks one of the trimmed pieces of paper up from the box, and his eyes widen when he reads the text plastered. ‘Vampyre Murders Claim 14th Victim in Brixton!’

JoJo falls into a kneel next to him, and picks up another piece of paper. It states: ‘Vampyre Murders Take Life of Famous Merchant!’

“H-He’s been keepin’ all of this?” Robert asks in a trembling tone, his eyes glancing at the other trimmed pieces of paper that are tightly packed within the wooden box. JoJo reaches his hand into the box, silent as he draws his hand against the papers’ edges. As he does so, something catches Robert’s eyes.

“Wait. Did you see that?” Robert asks in a soft voice. Jonathan quickly stills his movements, and brings his hand towards one of the papers at the back of the box. It is barely noticeable, but the previously mentioned paper looks different when compared to the others.

JoJo pulls the slip of paper out, and finds that it is in fact 3 larger sheets of paper that had been folded into a small square. He unfolds it, and scowls when as he passes the first paper to Robert. It’s a document of some type, and Robert scours the sheet of paper for further answers. Finally, he sees the header of the document and is about to read it aloud when JoJo does it for him.

“Saint Augustine Cemetery…” Jonathan mutters, stating the words written on the paper. Robert recognizes the name almost immediately. “That’s a cemetery near here. I used to see it every day when I’d head to my lodging house.” Robert replies, dragging his eyes back to the document to read the rest.

“It’s a… commission for a new headstone?” Robert says, reading out the careful paragraphs of the document. “It’s signed under Dio’s name. For a lady named Lenora Brando.” He continues to read, falling deep into the specificities of the headstone.

 “‘Beloved mother and wife.’” Robert states, “That’s what Dio wanted written on the new headstone.” He finishes, looking up at Jonathan in confusion. JoJo draws himself closer to peer at the paper as well. “Look, the expiration date for payment is… today.” Jonathan says, pointing at the stamped date at the bottom of the document.

Robert lays the sheet of paper down to pick up the second document, which they find is a notice. ‘Notice: Regarding Commission’ is printed in large letters onto the paper. “It’s saying that Dio didn’t pay for his commission yet.” Robert states, glancing at the date printed along with the notice. “It was sent to him two weeks ago.”

JoJo picks up the final document, his eyes flicking across the words as he begins to speak. “This was sent to Dio only five days before today.” He falls silent as he continues to read. “‘It has come to our attention that so far you have failed to provide us with the needed compensation for your desired commission.’” Jonathan reads aloud, pausing for a moment.

“‘Our offices will be closing in the near future due to the recent tragedy that has befallen London. Due to this, we have set your settlement date to be October 30 1888—’”

“That’s today!” Robert intervenes, his voice rising in excitement. Finally, they’re actually getting one step closer to figuring out where Dio might be. JoJo continues on, barely even fazed by Robert’s reaction.

“‘Please visit our office to claim as well as to provide payment for your commissioned headstone. Thank you.’” Jonathan finally finishes, clearing his throat a bit after reading the entire document.

“Do think he’s—” Robert begins, and Jonathan looks up at him and finishes the statement. “At the cemetery offices to pay for that headstone? I think so. But it’s strange that he didn’t bring any money with him.” JoJo nods to himself, becoming more convinced in his idea as he speaks.

Robert stands up, patting dust off his trousers as Jonathan does the same. “I wonder why he’s still out. He should be back already if all he did was pay his fees.”  

JoJo shrugs as they both make their way out of Dio’s room. “We could be wrong. But if these documents are anything to go by, I think this could be an important lead.”

The two of them move in sync, already affirmed that they will head to the cemetery without even speaking. They are silent as they pass in front of the room with the bloodied sheets, and descend the staircase in constrained silence.

The uncomfortable air seems to dissipate as the both of them finally reach the front door. Robert shivers as the chill of the late-night streets wafts into his thick, wool suit jacket. “I know where Saint Augustine Cemetery is. It was rather close to the flat I had used to own.” Robert states, and begins striding in the familiar direction.

JoJo follows him with little resistance, and the two of them fall into another bout of quiet. This is different from the reticence that had befallen them within Dio’s home. That had been oppressive, as if Robert couldn’t breathe through the thick murky air that a famed murderer’s home presents.

Now, this is nothing but a companionable silence, an absence of sound that has been carefully crafted through years spent together and a life spent as brothers. Robert feels his body come to a slow stop as he comes across the familiar structure that used to serve as his home.

It looks not at all different. The walls are still cracked, and the muddy ground that separates the lodging house from the cobblestone road is still covered with tiny footprints of the children that live within. Robert distinctly remembers the three children that had delivered Mr. Joestar’s letter to him. He wonders if they’re doing fine.

JoJo falls into place next to Robert, the lad staring up at the rather sordid-looking lodging house. “This is where you used to live?” His voice is so small that Robert has to incline his head a bit just to hear him.

Robert hums, and raises a finger to a window near the very top of the lodging house. “In there.” He answers, smiling a bit as his eyes land on the familiar window. The very window that used to present him with a view of the underwhelming expanse of Ogre Street.

“In that very room. There was a leak the last time I was in there.” A course of nostalgia makes its way through Robert’s mind, and he smiles as he recalls the rickety bed, self-built wooden table and the rusty stove he had owned, all those years ago. “I wonder if the ceiling still leaks.” Robert mutters, feeling a little bit sad as he does so.

A life carved by a lonely child. That’s what that flat had been for Robert. That old life of his feels so strange now. When Robert recalls the sensations of hunger, painful solitude and the ache in his feet from running about for hours on end, all of it almost feels like a dream.

Speedwagon had died a long time ago. The young thief who was trying to make his way in the world was long gone, buried and hidden away by Robert in the recesses of his mind.

Robert can still feel a part of his current selfs clinging to that old personality. It’s in his proficiency at aiming and firing a pistol, the way he flinches when he hears a peeler so much as raise their voice, and especially in the letters he receives from the young’uns who had escaped that life as well, still addressing him as ‘Mister Speedwagon’ in their letters.

JoJo is looking at him with a strange look. Not a bad look, but something that looks like a mixture of sympathy and sadness. “Do you ever miss it?” JoJo asks, and his voice is so soft that it makes Robert want to ask Jonathan why he’s acting so unsure. All of a sudden, Robert feels something hot slide down his cheek.

Ah, Robert realizes. He must be crying.

Robert wipes at the tears that have accumulated around his eyes, and shakes his head in response to JoJo’s question. “Ya don’t ever miss a life like that, lad.” That is all what Robert says, his hand coming away wet from the tears he had to rub away.

Robert would never trade his current life for the pathetic situation he used to be in. He’d never, ever want to go back to a life like that again. And no, Robert isn’t talking about the poor living conditions and the fact that he had to live a life off of pilfering from others.

It isn’t that at all.

Robert would never want to return to a life like that, simply because he was just so… alone.

A life without any family. Friends— of course he had plenty of those, from the young’uns of the Ogre Street Gang to Portia, he was never in short supply if he needed someone to talk to.

But the young’uns had their own families. It’s one of the main factors as to why Robert had been the one adopted by Mr. Joestar; instead of offering the older man another ward from the large expanse of lads that Robert is familiar with. Portia didn’t have as many family members as those lads, but she loved her dear brother with her life.

And Robert had nobody. It’s enough to drive someone mad. The sight of everyone else with their happy families, while all Robert had was an empty flat and the rats that occasionally dwelled in it.

But Robert has a family now.

JoJo and Mr. Joestar are the closest things to family that Robert has, and he’d never trade them for anything else. Robert would much sooner die than do any wrong to the Joestar family.

So no, Robert doesn’t exactly miss his past. He much prefers his life now.

JoJo is quiet as if he were listening to Robert’s thoughts, and for some strange reason Robert feels compelled to fill the silence. “I’m just…” Robert trails off, not really knowing what he’s saying. His mind is travelling like honey, memories from the past and thoughts during the present making him feel a bit sluggish.

“I’m just happy that I met you, is all.” Robert finishes. He feels a tad bit embarrassed, that the phrase his mind had come to a conclusion on was so awkward. Before he can take back what he had said, Jonathan replies.

“I’m happy, as well.” That is all he says. Robert doesn’t hold back his smile in response.

Robert spares his old home another long glance before turning back to the cobblestone road. Enough reminiscing. Robert still has matters to take care of. Matters within the present.

The two of them eventually come across the metal archway that cemeteries always seem to present as an entrance. The archway bears long, flowing script that reads: ‘Saint Augustine Cemetery’, with creeping vines accenting the dark black metal.

JoJo and Robert step into the cemetery, keeping their stance low as they take sweeping glances through the columns of headstones. There are barely any fixtures of light within the cemetery, keeping the graves in a looming shadow that causes a shiver to run down Robert’s spine— which, for the first time tonight, isn’t caused by the cold.

The deeper they traverse through the cemetery, the more the air seems to still. Like the wind had decided to stay quiet as they searched for Dio Brando. Jonathan suddenly comes to a stop and ducks down into a low crouch, dragging Robert down with him as they press their bodies against a large marble coffin.

Robert’s head is spinning about, trying to catch a glimpse of what might have caused JoJo’s reaction. After a long glance into the dark, he finally sees it.

A figure.

A man, slumped over beside a gravestone, his mouth dripping blood and his legs missing. Robert has to hold back a surprised gasp. Next to the man are two others, slumped and dead, their bodies all deformed in some way.  JoJo gently taps Robert by the shoulder, and points at something in the far-off corner of the cemetery.

Robert squints his eyes. He hears, before he even sees anything. A low, squelching sound. Like someone is trudging through wet mud. Eventually, Robert’s eyes adjust to the dark and his eyes finally take in the obscured figure of a man.

He’s pushing something into the dirt, his hands slamming against the strange object as he forces it into the ground. The unknown man finally stills, apparently content with what he had done. JoJo turns to Robert and mouths a single word: Headstone.

Only then does Robert understand that the unseen object the man had been ramming into dirt was a headstone, the smooth stone poking up from the ground. Robert watches as the man steps back from the headstone, looking intently at the grave situated in front of him.

Robert can barely read the words carved into the headstone, but he manages to make out one phrase. Lenora Brando.

It is then that the man turns around, in the exact direction of Jonathan and Robert. And Robert sees the man’s face. And it is familiar. The bright, dandelion yellow of the man’s hair, the smirk playing on his face, and the cruel, evil look that remains in his eyes.

It is Dio Brando.

“My senses have heightened.” Dio calls, and Robert’s eyes widen when he sees fangs glisten. Dio’s eyes flick to the space where the two of them are hiding, and Robert catches the red glow of the other man’s eyes. He’s a vampire.

“I know you are there.” He finishes, his tone as cold as the wind blowing against Robert’s cheeks.

Robert’s thoughts all come barreling in. This is why the number of vampires had dropped. Because Dio had decided that he wanted to become one of them, that he wanted to be the one out in the fray, killing for pure enjoyment. The thought sends a terrible feeling down Robert’s spine, and he shudders in horribly-contained fear.

All of a sudden, the air that is surrounding Robert turns warm. As if the sun itself were shining directly on him. And the sensation is familiar. That comforting heat that is always carried about wherever Jonathan goes. However, this time— it isn’t as comforting as it usually is.

The air feels like it is on fire, and Robert snaps his head to the lad next to him. JoJo has his eyes closed, his head dropped, making him look as if he were bowing. Robert watches as he takes a deep breath, JoJo’s chest puffing up as he takes in as much air as he can.

The breaths are deliberate, and Robert is silent as Jonathan exhales in a long, drawn out sigh. JoJo snapes his eyes open, and snaps straight up into a standing position. Robert wants to yell at the lad to sit back down, wants to shriek in his face and ask why the bloody hell he’s letting Dio see him.

“Ah, so you’re approaching me?” Dio exclaims, leaving his spot near the Brando woman’s grave to come to a stop in front of JoJo’s approaching figure. Dio is smirking, and Robert struggles to get up onto his feet when he sees the other man’s fingers covered in blood.

“Why did you kill them.” Jonathan snarls out, his voice empty. Robert swears that he had never once heard the lad’s voice so devoid of emotion, even though he knows how JoJo’s thoughts must be swirling out of control.

Dio’s smile falls, his eyes squinting as he takes a closer look at JoJo. “Do…Do I know you?” He asks, his voice coated with sincerity and genuine curiosity. JoJo is quiet, continuing in his trudge forward until he is now only a few feet away from Dio, the lad’s eyes looking slanted by the severity of his scowl.

“You killed them because you wouldn’t pay, right? Because you wanted your headstone?” JoJo asks, almost begging in his tone. “— But you had money. Why? Why did you have to kill them?”

Dio is now frowning, all notes of amusement gone from his face. “How did you know that?” He spits. Robert finally stands up tall, staring at the two men who are situated in front of him. Only then do Dio’s eyes widen in understanding.

“Robert Speedwagon…” Dio mutters, his eyes landing on Robert’s right hand, taking in the sight of his missing little finger. Robert’s face instinctively falls into a defensive scowl, his mouth threatening to say something in response. However, he decides to keep quiet. Who knows what idiotic thing he might say.

“— And little Jonathan Joestar, of course.” Dio’s eyes flick back to JoJo, and Robert can see the way that the poor lad is trembling, JoJo’s breath coming out in deep puffs as he stares at Dio head on.

“Have you two been looking for me?” Dio begins to smile again, his fangs somehow visible even through the dark shadows. “No matter. I suppose it is time I finally finish what I had started.” He sounds almost uncaring as he leaps forward, quickly closing the distance between him and JoJo in mere seconds.

Robert can hear the last breath that JoJo draws in before he slips his suit jacket off in one quick motion, draping it in front of him as Dio nears. Robert sees the threads of the jacket immediately straighten, the cloth suddenly infused with Hamon, becoming a make-shift shield as the jacket’s material changes to something akin to raw steel.

“What the—” Dio begins, taken aback by the sudden wall between him and his target, slamming his frame into the stiff barrier. Robert hears the sharp sound of JoJo taking a quick breath as the lad drives one of his hands onto the suit jacket. His golden flames seem to travel through the jacket’s threads, his Hamon leaving the jacket unharmed but quickly travelling towards Dio.

“Sendo Ripple Overdrive!” Jonathan exclaims in a loud voice, Dio spiraling backwards from the force of the Hamon-infused strike. “H-How did you—” Dio begins, his body barely scratched, but his mind still reeling from the unknown power that had emerged from JoJo.

Robert’s eyes catch the creamy white object that slips from Dio’s coat pocket immediately.

It’s the stone mask.

Dio quickly notices this and shoves the mask back into his pocket, obscuring it from view. Robert can’t help himself and asks in an almost deafening volume. “You’re the one killin’ all those people, aren’t you? You’re the one who’s turnin’ innocent people into damn vampires!”

Dio smirks as he brings his gaze to Robert. “Oh, Speedwagon. Still acting like the hero.” He tuts, pausing for a moment as JoJo sends a Hamon-infused kick his way. Dio ducks away, striking Jonathan on his chin, subduing JoJo for a very quick second as he continues to speak. “And you two are the ones who’ve been killing my vampires, yes?”

“You bloody bet we are.” Robert finishes, quickly reaching into his pocket and drawing his pistol out. Dio nearly laughs when he sees the sight. “Ha! You idiot— do you really think that a measly pistol is enough to harm a vampire?”

Robert only responds with a triumphant grin as he leans back and tosses the pistol towards JoJo. Jonathan snatches the pistol as it soars through the air, and brings his arms up without wasting a second to draw aim. Dio barely has time to react before JoJo pulls the trigger, his Hamon travelling into the pistol and infusing into the bullets.

Jonathan’s aim isn’t as efficient as Robert’s, but he is able to send three consecutive bullets into Dio’s chest, the other man shrieking in pain as the Hamon burns into his flesh. “Wh-What is this?” Dio mutters in shock, nearly falling over. The bullets slip out of the wounds, but Robert knows that Dio will have a much harder time having to heal from injuries caused by Hamon.

“He’s got the mask in his coat pocket, JoJo.” Robert calls, Jonathan nodding and not wasting any time as he draws himself closer to Dio. JoJo takes a deep breath, his Hamon stilling for a moment as he directs it all into his right arm. When he exhales, the arm dislocates, stretching forwards and catching Dio’s jaw, sending the vampire off a few feet from the impact.

“No, no, no!” Dio is shrieking, JoJo ignoring him as he trudges even closer. “Overdrive Barrage!” JoJo announces, inhaling deep before leaning forwards and delivering a flurry of jabs so fast that Robert can barely see anything besides the blur of Jonathan’s hands.

Robert can see the way the air leaves Dio’s lungs, the vampire slumping down, exhausted as JoJo leans down to grasp at Dio’s exposed neck. “Grab the mask, Robert!” JoJo calls, his Hamon flowing through his arms in golden flames, coming to rest on his fingers as a real fire begins to manifest through his hands.

Dio is shrieking in pain as Jonathan presses his flaming palms against the vampire’s neck, the collar of his blouse singeing away into ash from the fire. Robert rushes forwards, crouching down beside the writhing vampire, stuffing his wandering hands into Dio’s pockets.

Robert feels the smooth texture of the mask within one of the pockets, the pads of his fingers grazing against the stone mask’s carved surface.

“No! Stop—” Dio is crying out, his face almost engulfed entirely in flames as JoJo holds the vampire’s frame down.

“—Got it!” Robert exclaims, pulling out the mask and shoving it into his own pocket, the milky shade of the mask in deep contrast with the current darkness of the cemetery. JoJo grunts in affirmation, his grasp tightening on the vampire’s neck, trying his hardest to subdue Dio.

It’s impossible, the vampire still clinging to the edge of consciousness, his red eyes baring holes at JoJo. “I, Dio… s-succumbing to you—” Dio whispers, his throat tightening under Jonathan’s tight hold. “No! Never again, Jonathan Joestar!”

Dio eyes begin to glow a bright magenta, the blood red of his eyes fading away. And Robert doesn’t know exactly why, but he leaps forward and pushes JoJo off Dio’s frame, the lad landing on the cemetery ground with a thump.

All of a sudden, a piercing light erupts from the vampire’s pupils, two straight beams of pressurized fluid jetting from his eyes. Dio’s shrieks are deafening to Robert and JoJo’s ears, the two of them crouching low to avoid the sudden jets of fluid streaming forth from Dio’s eyes.

A tree by the cemetery archway meets the force of the jets of fluid, and the trunk of the tree comes apart as if it were only made of paper. As the beams slice through the tree as if it were nothing, Dio slams his eyes shut and presses his palms to them, as if the beams of fluid were hurting him.

The vampire stands up on two shaky legs, and only spares Robert a hateful glance as he turns to face JoJo.

“Tomorrow, I find you— and I kill all you hold dear.”

This is all Dio says before he leans down and bounds into the air in a high, powerful jump. Robert and JoJo are silent for a moment, staring at the vampire’s retreating figure.

“Why… Why didn’t he just bloody kill us right here?” Robert asks in a shaky tone, his voice cracking. He is expecting JoJo to be in a similar state. Of course, Jonathan always finds a way to surprise him; the lad’s face laden with pure determination as he turns to look at Robert.

“Because he considers us a threat.” JoJo replies. And despite Robert’s reluctance, he knows this is true. If the stone mask successfully retrieved and now carefully tucked into his coat pocket has anything to say about it, of course.