Malcolm d'Volio

---

Laying down on his favorite (and only) love seat, Malcolm would take a gracious bite of the apple he was holding in his left hand. He would rub his temple in confusion, not particularly understanding the situation fully at hand. This man, Diavolo, was here a mere few moments ago, and he too, had been affected by the curse that was making every individual vanish from thin air. He would sigh, and quickly, very quickly, grab a fresh fountain pen from his bag. He would draw a sketch of the area he had initially been taken too, that bizarre dreamscape that made him choke when he tried to breath. He would then grab the remote to the television, and tape the missing persons report. To the best of his ability, he would make a tally for every single name that he saw on screen, rewinding the tape in his DVR if necessary.

...

After about 10 minutes of reading names, he would look at his list and sigh in realization. He would count up the tallies he had taken note on. He would turn a page, and another, and another. Over five pages had been filled with tally marks from top to bottom, showing a great indication that this was no regular act of violence... This was the ability of an enemy stand user. He would rub the crease between his eyes and then move his hand to his hair, speaking to himself he said, "A total of over 1,230 people, and the report continues to drag on." He would look back up at the television, and the names rolled on. He would look at his rough hand he continued to eat the red fruit with. He would take another bite, and stand up, and return the pen and notebook back to their respective places in his backpack.
Malcolm had heard from Diavolo that there was a wide array of power's similar to his own, and at first thought it was a joke, but he now understood what he meant. Malcolm would pop his back and stretch before heading off to find out who had been causing these very odd occurrences. He would stand at the entrance to his door, and extend his arm out to grab and turn the door knob. He would grab his pink rabbit pin, and place it gently on the strap of his school uniform. He would fix up his hair, and then head out the door.

---

---

The sky was a beautiful blue and orange, signifying the soon turning of evening to dawn. Malcolm would take a deep breath of the cool city air, filling his lungs with any determination he could muster. He would look at his watch, and take off the face, and place a very broad note that he had received from his father. He would seemingly pray, and then return the face of the watch back to it's rightful location. He would begin to walk around town asking people if they had heard of the man named Diavolo. Most people said "Yes, he is the general governor of Florence, didn't you know that." Malcolm would ponder what he had heard from the sources he gained. Where...? This man... I need to pay more attention to local politics... How did the GG of my own city suddenly vanish.
He would go to the local pub, and ask anyone "Have you been to a room where you couldn't breath, and it felt as if you had died?". Every response he received was a confused and negative shake of the head. He would ask the bartender for a glass of milk, and continue to personally interrogate every person at that pub, to get a lead on who may have connections to the cause of the mass of missing people. He would look around for any individual who may help.

Jon, being the odd one out as usual, was at a bar not drinking. Why, you may ask? Well, he was observing people. Their mannerisms, their speech, everything about them. Jon could usually tell the type of person from just a glance in their general direction. The reason he was observing them was for a report he was doing about mental psychology and its effects with alcoholism. So far, he has gotten some funny interviews with an eccentric pair of drunkards, but nothing warranted of writing it down. "Damn," He said. Shaking his head. "This paper is not going to write itself..." He burrowed his hands into his face, stressing about this whole project.

Jon stood up, about to leave. But that was when a catalyst walked into the room. A catalyst that would change his entire life. This green haired man was asking about being in a room where you could not breathe. Jon's first thought was "Isn't that just clinical anxiety?" but everything seemed to unravel around him once Jon got to analyzing. This man knew more than he let on, and it was quite obvious (at least, to Jon). So, the beanie wearing detective-in-training decided to discretely follow the interesting man, gaining intel along the way.

"Bartender, One scotch please, make it smokey and on the rocks please." Jon never drinks, but in order to blend into a bar, you need to have a drink.

A hearty workout did the body good--Benni felt it during her routine, and however tired she felt now, that satisfaction lingered still. Loose, slightly sore muscles made her walk back home languid, but she did not at all mind taking the stroll at a leisurely pace, especially given the sky at this time. Gorgeous in its vivid, discordant hues, it hung over the earth like a painting in a dream. At moments like these, feeling tired and content, and privy to something beautiful, Benni felt about as high as one could get on life. It didn't get any better than in Florence, either; the sprawling, easy-going town was a far cry from the cluttered floating labyrinth called Venice or the perilous, red-hot hustle and bustle of Rome. She could easily duck into any no-name mom-and-pop cafe on the street here, and without so much as speaking procure a slice of today's freshly-baked pizza or a few ragu-stuffed arancini from the genial locals. It was a lovely day.

Her Nokia's buzzing and vibration broke her out of her reverie, bringing her back to the avenue sidewalk where she meandered in a grateful daze. Benni turned it on to see a call incoming from one Manzo Stufato. "Huh. Whatcha got to say this time o' day, big guy?" She slid it up to her ear. "What's up, dude?"

She reeled back as a burst of overexuberant Italian slammed into her. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, chill out!" A few familiar words reached her, in particular 'SkyVer', the common abbreviation for Sky Versus Shattering, a new fighting game IP that came out some time ago in Japan. Just mentioning it got her excited, but she knew her enthusiasm was wasted. While some arcade cabinets might make it out of Japan, the chances of one appearing in Florence were next to zero. Its mention piqued her curiosity, however, but before she could learn more Benni needed to bring her friend back down to earth. "You know I can't follow when you go full native. What's the deal?"

Manzo's frenetic tone came in reply. "It's SkyVer, ragazza! Panepiatto has it! He must have ordered it for the local scene, or something!"

Eyes wide, Benni could scarcely keep from shouting. "Are you serious!?"

Her friend chuckles. "Yeah, yeah! And that ain't it! I'm there now, and I saw the opening on the machine. Remember the rumors saying SkyVer would be crossing over with an older fighter? They sure are, and I bet you can't guess what it is."

Benni's heart was already pounding. "Shut up."

"Heheheheheh," came the voice over the phone. "Come over and see for yourself!" Whatever else he said Benni did not hear. She took off sprinting down the sidewalk, recklessly pounding her feet against the pavement in her mad scramble to get to the arcade. She scarcely notices when her foot calf scraped against a bent length of iron sticking out from a curbside fence hit by a car, but each step after that started hurting more and more. Eventually, the pain overcame Benni's elation and she looked down to find blood flowing freely down her leg. "Aw, crap!" As much as she wanted to tough through the pain, it was a bad cut, one that could leave her lightheaded at best and woozy at worst. At the very least, she wouldn't be taking any sets in that state. Right now, she needed to bind that wound.

Looking this way and that, she spotted a nearby pub. Good enough. Like a woman possessed Benni ran inside, almost shoving past a man with green hair as he went in. "Scusa!" she cried as she hustled to the counter. "Hey! Hello? Do you have any...uh, bandages? Paper towels? Napkins?" One look from the bartender convinced her that he didn't speak a lick of English. With a heavy breath, Benni picked up her leg to show the man her bloody leg. That at least got him moving, and Benni sat down to wait. Her leg was really stinging now, and the bleeding plus the exertion had her feeling lightheaded already. "Man..." she moaned. If only she paid attention. It was such a simple mistake to make, so easy to undo. But Rubberband Man wasn't about that life. Benni looked down to see him partially manifesting, peering at her cut quizzically. All he could do was bounce back, so she would have to, too. Once the bartender returned with some kind of solution for her exsanguination, she could be on her way.

---

It was just the time of day Sia enjoyed most. Back home, this would be when the majority of people were rushing home or rushing out, busy with families or avoiding them. It was a time where most people were more concerned with themselves than with others for once. It was then - and now - that Sia chose to enjoy it by sitting alone at an outdoor restaurant and sipping on a delicious caffè americano. She'd only spent a few months in Italy, but she had admit the food and drink were something else. In fact, sampling the local flavors was a growing passion of hers.

I should write a food blog, she mused, occupying her time with people-watching as she enjoyed her drink. Lately, with all the disappearances making the news, Sia had actually felt more comfortable in public than out of it. Of course, this only meant in situations like the one she was currently in. Alone, but surrounded by people. Ignored by most as she sat tucked away in the patio's corner. Here in the little space she occupied in Florence, she kept her eyes on the crowds and slowly drank her beverage.

Nothing and no one stood out to her, not yet anyway. She'd been feeling unnerved since her meeting with the strange pink haired man. The mere thought that there were other people that had some kind of... ability, similar to hers, was also unnerving. Ah, maybe she wanted to go home and be truly alone after all. Sia sighed to herself, pulling out a small notepad from her purse and jotting something down in it. The caffè americano at Oblate is good. 4/5. Or like 8/10?

Today had been bright and sunny throughout. The best kind of day - the kind of day where one could forget about traumatic events like losing the majority of one's casting crew to a supernatural phenomenon, or being subjected to the chill of literal fucking death in psychologically-projected landscape form. The sort of day where, normally, Phil would have been practicing his board tricks all day, likely to an audience that could appreciate them.

Instead, he was out shopping, because that was what the guy assigned to look after him was doing. Something about keeping up with fashion trends? But the thing about trends is, if you follow the trends, you aren't setting the trends. And how did you set trends? Consistency. Phil wasn't much of a shopper for that reason: his outfit had been relatively the same as it had been for about the past six months. Sure, it wasn't literally the same items the whole time, but the majority were only slightly different throughout, maybe changing the designs on his cap and shirt, or from time to time the colour of shirt, cap, pants, shoes, or any combination of the above.

Because of that consistency, though, he had a Look - an iconic appearance, something people could glance at and recognise him, and say "Hang on, are you Phil Jaegger?", or say to somebody else "Hang on, are you taking inspiration from Phil Jaegger?" to which the recipient could reply "Yes. Hell yes. Hell. Fucking. Yes.", offering all due credit to the man who had first inspired the Look. Or, if the situation really needed it, he could spend one day in a different outfit, shock and awe the viewer, then return to his Look as if he hadn't just broken the mould like the coolest cat in town rubbing itself up against a mould, then hitting it with a hammer to shatter its frozen-over and newly-brittle form.

The point being made was that inspiration of idolatry was a tough business to manage, but Phil had worked it out to a science, he felt. Therefore, clothes shopping didn't greatly appeal to him, not least for the aforementioned reasons, but also because everyone was too preoccupied with their own shopping sprees to keep an eye open for celebrities doing much the same thing. And apparently, clothes were all Ciaran really cared about. Clothes and his own legs. Sure, they were nice legs, but not anything to get worked up over.

'So you got enough new clothes yet, man?' he asked casually, glancing over to Ciaran. Phil had deigned to buy himself a new shirt in his size that fit his Look, after a few hours of not buying anything, but by comparison, Ciaran's stack of bags was pretty hefty. You'd think it would be a pile of clothing, but clothes generally come in bags, which stack rather than pile up in one's arms, and so a stack of bags it was.

Caffe shook his head with arms crossed, leaning back against a white marble pillar. ”No no no fratellino, you’re going about it all wrong!” He chastised his long lost, now found, half brother Birra. They were secluded in the back of the Lucidostella Manor in the garden which had, at one point, hosted a number of parties and soirees. Now the glass tables and chairs had been set aside for large mannequins and training dummies. The family butler, Frederick Mercury, was busy throwing a scorched dummy into a large pile of other scorched, blown apart dummies, then dutifully got back to work setting up another in its place.

”If you’re gonna master your stand, you’re gonna need to put some more OOMF into it!” To emphasize his point Caffe punched into his open palm. It wasn’t the best direction he could give his little brother. After all, they were just too different people. Caffe enjoyed living on the edge, something that caused Frederick no end of discomfort, but Birra? He was another type of personality entirely.

As for Birra himself, he was...not used to this kind of physical labor. REG boosted his strength, stamina, speed, durability, and reflexes dramatically, to the point where he felt like he could rip a car in half with his bare hands, run a marathon in thirty seconds, dodge a speeding bullet, or walk off a tank shell to the face.

So it should say something that he still was breathing heavily, drenched in sweat, from how hard he was being pushed.

If other Stand users were as dangerous as he was told, he couldn’t rightly stop, But continuing like this was Einstein’s definition of madness. He needed to up his game. He decided to focus for a moment, steeling himself and concentrating on his right hand. Then, put all of his enhanced physical strength into a lightning-fast body blow to the dummy.

Its arms, legs, and head blew clean off, but the torso flew backwards with a dent and a spiderweb crack in its midsection as flames licked at the impact site. It flew between the gaps in the courtyard’s pillars and smashed open a formerly-locked pair of double doors. It kept flying. He heard something crash inside and the familiar scratching of the claws of Zaffiro, the family cat, against the floor as she booked it towards another part of the manor.

Then Birra’s blood ran cold as he heard Acqua yelling back, “DID YOU HAVE TO HIT THAT HARD?! THAT DUMMY HIT THE DINNER TABLE AND NOW IT’S CUT IN HALF! AND MY LUNCH WENT SPLAT!”

“Uh...sorry! I didn’t expect that to happen!” Birra called back, now sweating even more profusely. He turned to Caffe. “Dammit, I didn’t mean to cause property damage…” he said, putting his hands to his head.

Caffe grinned. As troublesome as it all was, the loud noise, the destruction, the accidents, it was… Lively. He wiped the grin from his face, almost literally, by taking a pose and pointing down in the direction of Birra. ”You dropped your guard, fratellino!”

“Wait, what?” was all Birra managed to say before--”GACK!”--he took what felt like a prize-fighter’s fist to the stomach, knocking him to the ground.

A button had shot back from inside the manor with the speed and force of a high caliber rifle, punching right into Birra’s exposed gut. If he hadn’t been actively using his stand to empower himself, there’s little chance Birra could have survived the blow, but where did it come from? And how?

”Before Mercury set up that doll, I touched one of the buttons with Walk the Line.” Caffe explained, shifting his pose and leaning against the pillar with a single open palm. ”It spent several seconds dancing around the seams of that doll. As soon as you knocked the doll outside of my effective range, well…” The elder brother shrugged, smiling a big goofy grin with closed eyes. ”Even when you think you’ve won, you can’t ever drop your guard against another stand user. Not until you know for a fact it’s done and over with.”

“Are they all that inventive?” Birra said as he got to his feet.

Caffe took a step forward and held out his hand to help Birra back up. ”In my experience? If they were, I’d already be dead. Heheheheheh. But they’ve come damn close. Most stand users are quite creative with their stands. Sometimes it’s situational and you have to think on your feet, aware of your surroundings. Since yours is as subtle as a sledgehammer to the face, you’ve got to work extra hard in creative application, fratellino.”

Once Birra was up, Caffe turned back to the butler just as the stoic Englishman was about to clean up the mess. ”Don’t worry about that, Mercury. We made this mess, it’s only fair we clean it, am I right?” He looked back to Birra to get his little brother’s confirmation.

“Uh, yeah. I guess after we’ve cleaned up the courtyard I’ll go to the furniture store for another table, and call the locksmith about getting the door lock replaced.” Birra said. “God, that can’t have been cheap. Sorry again, Caffe.” He began gathering up nearby dummy parts, using his massive strength to carry several dozen pounds of mannequin.

“Uh, sir, please, it’s no trouble for me to-“ Frederick Mercury couldn’t get out anymore before his young master interrupted.

”It’s no trouble for me you mean. You’re always working so hard, let us get this.” The butler sighed in defeat, remembering what happened the last time Caffe opted to “clean up” for him, and event destined to repeat itself. After a minute the random debris bits had been gathered up and put into a pile with the rest of the broken dolls and mannequins.

”Time to go to work… WALK THE LINE!” Caffe stood tall, stretching himself out as much as he could to the point of standing on his toes. He dramatically pointed an index finger to the sky, his stand appearing next to him as he did so. Shingshingshingshingshingshing came the sound of slicing air as the mechanized stand rapidly punched the pile into a large clump of broken debris, each fragment no larger than a silver dollar. Then a metallic green aura appeared around the pile and it shot away from Caffe at bullet-like speeds, zipping along between the tiles! Going, going, GONE! The debris flung itself straight out of the yard, over the iron fence and hundreds of meters away… into the neighbor’s yard.

Mercury sighed, shaking his head. “I shall go wait by the phone for the inevitable complaint…”

“I was going to take those to the porch….” Birra said, looking at his brother incredulously. He then said, waving his arms, “I was gathering them into a pile so I could get something to put them in! The neighbor’s yard is not a magical place where all trash disappears! They have grounds to sue us now!”

He looked at Frederick sympathetically. “Yeah, you know what, I think you should handle the rest. I’m going to go practice guitar.” He began to walk off, but wasn’t quite out of the courtyard yet.

Caffe scoffed. ”Tch. If you’d ever had one of the Spinelli’s shrimp cocktails then trust me, you’d agree they’re trash.” He moved to catch up with Birra, which wasn’t too difficult considering one was on foot, while the other was wearing professional grade roller blades.

”Did I hear you say you’re gonna practice guitar? Fratellino, we must take responsibility for our actions!” he clapped a hand against Birra’s back, then used that contact as a swivel point to roll circles around his younger brother. ”You mentioned earlier going into town for a new door? Or was it the table? Either way, I’m sure your mother would appreciate if we followed through on that promise. Come! I will drive!”

Birra internally sighed. He was really reluctant to do this after Caffe’s response to simply taking out the garbage was to launch the garbage into the fucking sky. But whatever. “Fine. Let’s go.”

Soon enough, they were in Caffe’s absurd sports car, driving to the furniture store. What was this thing, a Ferrari? A Lamborghini? A Bugatti? He couldn’t tell anymore without checking the marque, Caffe had so many sports cars that Birra felt that he was in a new car every day. It was insane.

He felt the wind on his face as they rushed into town, idly playing with his GBA during the car ride. He had REG attached to the outside of the passenger-side mirror, letting him see from the Stand’s perspective as the wind rushed by.

This was one of his favorite things about his Stand. Having a second pair of eyes around you. Invaluable. Especially when it made the best car airbag possible.

---

There was a tune, a rhythm on the roads of Florence that one young man was tapping to as he rapped his fingers on the impressive haul he made - shopping bags, boxes towering on top of each other, all filled with multitudes of brand items, from Gucci, Prada, Valentino, with the list going on. It was quite the surprise that Ciaran could even carry all of these items, let alone be able to watch where he was walking, but in his own peculiar way, he managed it.

Ciarans face looked to be obscured by the befuddling array of clothes and shoes he may or may of not of purchased with some of the funds he was given by the Speedwagon Enterprises, but he didn't let that possible trouble deter him, nor did he let this wall that was as tall as the man he was supervising prevent him from observing not only the new stand user, but the vicinity.

Alas, this all came to an end when Phil interjected, questioning if he had enough clothes, which resulted in Ciaran turning to face the man, his head no longer buried in the copious amounts of clothing as he coyly tipped his head to the side before a small quizzical frown formed, "Do I have enough clothes?"

He pondered this and from the way his eyes were flickering about, it could almost be mistaken that he was performing quantum physics over how to create a more fuel efficient rocket and looked at different avenues to work from...

"Now dooooo I?"

If you completely disregarded the sing-song voice he chirped out as he pursed his lips, before smirking slightly. "I dunno Phil, there are plenty of other stores I want to go to and these bags are reeeeaaaally getting heavy," Ciaran pouted, sticking his lip out and looking at the taller man with puppy dog eyes.

In reality, it really didn't burden him much, and the closest burden he would have right now is a financial one. While the Speedwagon Enterprises were paying for his room (and by proxy, Phils), he did have to purchase his own food. He would purchase some fine dining, but alas, even he had to make sacrifices such as this - designer brands and clothes or luxurious and delicious Italian food? The choice was, sadly, clear from the get go.

"Maybe I could get a big, strong man to ease my physical woes, my poor, poooooor arms can't taaaaaake this anymore," he teased, his toothy grin widening as he looked over at the guy and chuckled heartily to himself.

Even with the deceptively ditzy attitude, he still kept on high alert and was keenly aware of the environment around him. Even with his face stuffed in the clothes, he had been noting a couple of the more unassuming landmarks, observing people pass by him, etc. One woman dressed in Prada and a bright red specialty designer jacket with a golden gryphon layer over the red had passed them about 2.8 seconds ago and was now about 2.94 meters away. About 5 meters away, there were two men, gossiping and chattering about differing subjects, one of them mentioning about how their cousin was accosted by some Passione mafioso a few weeks ago into another town and that was just a small portion of it all; he could only thank heuristics as he sifted through the crowds while babysitting Phil.

After all, he needed to be ready to fight at the drop of a hat as his shadow rippled a bit, as if someone cast a pebble into a calm, unperturbed lake, mimicking Ciarans every movements.

Malcolm d'Volio

---

Malcolm noticed the small woman who walked into the pub almost immediately. There's a certain presence resonating off this specific individual... a reek of eeriness and mystery... He would approach the girl sitting at the bar counter and look at her with an odd expression. He would look down at her, slightly with a twinge of wonder. "I see you're hurt, signora." He would take a moderate swig of his milk as he looked at her. He cleared his throat, thoughtfully scratching his chin as he examined her. "You know Governor Diavolo, correct? I heard he... disappeared suddenly... You happen to know anything about this?" Shoot to Thrill stood in the corner of the room, prepared to defend his master when given the command. Suddenly, Malcolm's glass of milk would suddenly press against Benni's lips, as he tilted the glass upwards. "You know, milk is a great source of calcium and strongly supports bone growth?" He continued to empty the glass into her mouth, but it was no longer filled with milk, now the iron-y tang of blood rested on her mouth as Malcolm smiled cruely and waited for her reaction. It was not extremely obvious, but he was testing her.

As she waited for the bartender to return with a bandage or something, Benni sat with a sigh. Her entrance and obvious distress attracted no small amount of attention, but for good or for ill nobody bothered her until some glasses-wearing, dye-haired weirdo leaned over. His opening statement, remarkable in its uselessness and a little too friendly, earned him only the briefest glance. Benni had no plans to stick around this place, and if someone didn't plan on helping her, they could mind their own business. This dude, however, didn't get the picture. His eyes were all over her, none too subtly, until he asked a question. Immediately Benni froze, her mind racing to try and figure the situation out. Was this guy someone important? A friend of Diavolo's? An enemy? A third party, just investigating? Of course, Benni knew almost nothing herself. She harbored almost no idea of what went on in the shadows, nor did she care to. Her life was exciting enough as it was.

So lost in thought was Benni that she didn't notice as Malcolm suddenly reached up and started trying to force her to drink something. The shock, both of touch and taste, made her sputter, spraying milk over the countertop. For a half second she didn't comprehend what was going on, but it hit her soon enough, and with the realization came a surge of indignant rage. Refusing to swallow a drop, she tried to yell at him, only for her mouth to fill with what tasted like blood. All the while, he prattled on, all smug and vile. Just like that, Benni's restraint broke. That's ENOUGH.

Shoot to Thrill might have been lurking in the corner of the room, but Rubberband Man manifested straight out of Benni's body. It's torso leaned out of her, incredibly fast, and let fly a brutal hook toward Malcom's kidney. At the same time, Benni herself swung with her entire upper body weight in her right arm, aiming a hook at his head. The force carried her off the barstool and onto her feet. She stumbled a short distance away, and as Rubberband Man flickered off, she wiped fluid from her jaw. "You just crossed a line, freak. Jam crap in my mouth, will you? How about a little trivia yourself? Kidney punches are the real deal. They're so dangerous they're illegal in boxing, but, uh, assault's illegal everywhere, right?" She slammed one fist into her palm. "So you'll be pissing blood for a week. Touch me again if you want to make it two!" Just in time, the bartender returned, and Benni turned to take some of his paper towels with a forced smile. She planned to leave the bar in her dust immediately.

The guy was taking the mickey. Phil knew he was, because that was Ciaran's general character - a lack of seriousness, or indeed a lack of desire to take things other than the mickey. Which was, he considered, actually an interesting point - the phrase was colloquial, intended to refer to annoying somebody for laughs, but how exactly did that relate to the mascot of a major film company and/or theme park chain? Or was it more in reference to that 80's song by Toni Basil? That seemed less likely, for how long said mouse had been around. On the other hand, this was a mall, not a film. An Italian mall, at that.

So, yeah, he was having a go at him. And yet, despite knowing that, Phil felt it would probably be pertinent to do the right thing and just, casually, lift half the stack of bags out of Ciaran's hands and oh dear it was toppling. Or was it? Quick as a flash, a quartet of shimmering, kaleidoscopic arms leapt out of Phil's shoulders, smacking the sides of the bags to push the stack back upright, ensuring they remained balanced. Wherever they touched, a sigil was left behind, each shimmering briefly as the impacts left upon them were reiterated again and again, until every minor imbalance had been cancelled out.

And then he put the stack down and split it into two again, picking up one half securely with each hand. 'You're welcome,' Phil offered matter-of-factly, taking it as though it were just the right, humble thing to do. That was when people tended to thank you for the assistance, not when you were bragging about how helpful you had just been. Of course, he half-expected Ciaran to keep on pestering him for falling for his obvious wounded deer ploy, and maybe point out how enemy Stand users might make use of it to harm him later, but shit, he wasn't exactly falling for it if he knew it was a ploy. That was the point of an ambush, after all: to take people by surprise. If they weren't surprised, if they were approaching the situation with a plan for how to counter the surprise attack, then it wasn't a successful ambush. It was just a regular sneak attack. And that would be something Phil might have to teach Ciaran about, all things considered.

---

Even with the brisk movements of the stand, Ciaran easily caught each and every movement as it struck specific points on each of his bags, small boxes, and such; helped that he could feel the places the stand bumped and tapped. It was simple to identify what he was doing, finding that he was targeting the more unstable portions of his impressive haul. He felt no different than Neo, as everything felt like it was moving in slow motion.

Once Phil finished showboating, he refrained from rolling his eyes, instead keeping that ditzy facade up as he gave a toothy smile and batted his eyes while gasping. "Oh my, why thaaaaank you Phil," he exclaimed with a light, silvery giggle as he buried his face into the clothing products for a second before he peaked with one eye out. That same smile was obscured, but the way he eyed the taller man was different.

Ciaran's eye appeared much more keener, blinking for a moment as if to readjust like a camera focusing in on a specific subject, glaring at him. Slowly, his face turned, revealing a smile dissimilar from before. Of course, it would be easy to claim that it was the same as before, but this smile didn't reach his eyes.

Following that he tilted his head, nestling his head on his clavicle, before saying "Phi-iil~," as coyly as he could before leaning over, getting in so close that he was absolutely certain he was invading his privacy at the moment.

Even if this was the case, Ciaran didn't care.

"Don't be so naive and use your stand like that, especially its ability," he dropped all pretenses as he whispered into the older mans ear, hissing between the crevices in his teeth as he glared at him with sheer vexation. "I know you're just playing along, but why did you do that? Don't answer that, there's no right answer besides you shouldn't of," he silently spoke to Phil before returning to his position, his smile faltering for a mere moment, never truly regaining that same affability, at least for right now.

"That's just reckless, especially since you brought it out in a public place. There could be other stand users here, as well as a lead on this case," he talked low enough for Phil to hear only, continuing to lecture him, "using it could potentially scare them off or give them knowledge about your stand and possibly its abilities, allowing them to possibly get the jump or exploit its weaknesses."

Ciaran sighed, shaking his head before his smile somewhat returned to normal, "Basically keep its appearance and usage to a minimum ,and only utilize it when necessary, do you understand?"

Apparently, one of the few ways to actually get past Ciaran's facade of nicety was to upset him. And based on how into Phil's face he was getting, he was very upset. Or at least angry. There was a subtle yet key difference, namely that "upset" also covered sadness mixed with the anger. "Smad", as one absurdist response to a post querying ways to convey simultaneous rage and sorrow put it.

Honestly, Phil didn't really care, and his expression remained blank behind his shades. Wasn't that the point of Stands, anyway? That they sort of... how did that one SORE guy put it, pulled together like magnets or something? Sure, the change in expressions was a somewhat worrying indicator of Ciaran's psychological health, but in the end, that emotion Ciaran was feeling was on Ciaran. He had the problem with showing off, not Phil - indeed, he was the one who was more likely to draw attention at this point, all things considered. He made them look like two lovers having a spat shortly before they stopped being lovers. Gay lovers. Which was an odd thought, since they'd only met very recently. Admittedly, Ciaran did have nice legs. But then, if looks were all that mattered... actually, Phil put a lot of emphasis on looks, huh? So, alright, the phrasing was off, but he had time to come up with a better way of putting it whilst he made a counterstatement.

'Look, I think you're getting a little overexcited,' Phil began, keeping his tone quiet, relaxed and even friendly. You know, approachable. Unlike his arms, which were still pinned beneath two separate stacks of bags, and thus were unable to emote anything, though he could certainly shrug. 'A few hands might have been visible for, what, a second? You'd have to be actively looking to see something like that. Besides, the sigils don't stick out that much. Look, they're already vanishing, it's totally fine.' Even as he spoke, the fifteen second limit began to strike, and the lotuses began fading out in order. Practically unnoticable, and even if somebody did notice, what would they make of it? It could just as easily be a trick of the eye for them.

'Anyway, I'm sure it'll be fine,' he continued with a shrug, now entirely secure in his position. 'Stand users are, to my understanding, extremely rare as it is. The chances of another one showing up here are practically nothing.'

---

As the day wore on a little more, Sia eventually decided it was time to leave. Wandering eyes of strangers were starting to stare, and whether it was because of her appearance, outfit, or simply because she may as well be a tourist, she didn't care. The looks made her skin itch and she sighed, downing the rest of a second cup of coffee and standing briskly.

She checked her watch. It wasn't that late yet, and while she was still relatively new to the area she should spend her time exploring. Not only did she have to get used to the city, but there was the matter of the 'other stand users.' Her brush with breathlessness and meeting with the man who'd introduce himself as Diavolo was starting to feel like a fever dream at this point. Logically, she supposed there would be other people with the same kind of abilities as herself, but the likelihood she'd find one? If people like her really drew close to each other by fate alone, why had she never met one before?

Italy's a much smaller country than America, maybe that's why, Sia thought to herself, Everyone's a little closer together already.

The brunette walked the streets of Florence with no real destination in mind, but soon enough she came upon what looked to be a shopping center. She was contemplating a shopping trip when something strange caught her eye. Two men with an almost comical number of bags - and a shimmering, extra pair of arms. The light faded quickly, but she'd seen it. I - I did see that, right? It was...! Like...! Like her own ability! Speak of the Devil, huh? Sia was struck with the urge to follow them and make sure of what she'd seen. She didn't want to approach them, what if they were dangerous? But she had to find out. Across the street from the pair, Sia made her way in the same direction, keeping a close eye on the man who'd manifested the extra limbs. When she could no longer follow from her side of the street and needed to cross, Sia didn't even think twice about it - she rushed across in order to get closer to the men.

Of course, rushing into a road is not usually a good idea. A shiny sports car came speeding through, and Sia narrowly avoided being hit.

"H-hey!" She stumbled away from the road with a shout, though it would have been entirely her own fault should the car have struck her. She backed away from the road quickly, and her panicked escape had her careening right into the pair of men she'd been stalking.

---

Ciaran couldn't help but roll his eyes as Phil made light of the situation, though as much as he really wanted to grimace, he opted to just sigh before observing the are around him, gauging if anyone had even took notice of what had transpired before gazing back at the man with a burning look that was possibly hotter than five suns combined. "Yeah, unlikely to run into one, sure," the mans greenness was showing, but then again, he never told Phil his real job, outside of just keeping an eye on areas that had possible stand activity.

"That might be true for regular people, however," Ciaran moved the slews of baggage to one arm, turning his walk into an awkward balancing act as he barely avoided careening off to the side before pointing an index and middle finger gun at him, "from what I can recall, the researchers back at SORE did have a statistic that there is a ninety-six point three percent chance that stand users will encounter another stand user."

Ciaran touted his free hand like a cowboy preparing to gun down a whole horse before squealing as he lost a bit of balance, tipping the clothes over so they would fall into his other arm once more, nullifying the actions of his stand. "Just to point out, this statistic comes from over twenty years of research, so I would cull that mindset... also, there's the fact that I've been at this longer than you, just wanted t'point that out."

With a huff and a pout, Ciaran shrugged before jutting his chin out into his clothes, somewhat obscuring his vision once more, "Anyways, lets drrrrrrop this stuff off and grab some lunch! Say, whadya' feelin' today?"

Before he could receive a proper response, something or someone had collided into Ciaran, causing the swathes of clothing and boxes to comically shoot into the air before they all landed, splayed and scattered around the vicinity; of course, this also resulted in Ciaran and the other person to topple to the floor with a whumph.

The man didn't groan for long as he shook his head and brushed off his hair as if they had been infested with cobwebs for one-hundred years before blinking. He couldn't believe what he was seeing; his eyes widened, jaw dropping, almost quivering if you will, as he stared across from him. "OH NOOOOOOO!"

The effeminate shriek reverberated through the mall, the palm of one hand plastered on the side of his face, the other hand shooting outward, wide open, almost like a claw as he exaggeratedly twist and shook it around. "MY DESIGNER BRAND CLOTHES!"

Instead of going up to help the girl, Ciaran was back on his feet in an instant, bolting for all the items he had just purchased and plucking them like a vulture devouring carrion. Funny enough, the speed he was going at would put Phil’s stand to shame as he began collecting all his scattered brands purchases.

Strangely enough, as he did this, there seemed to be a strange, thin red crystal painfully jutting out of the side of his hand as he continued to do this. Ciaran didn't seem to react to it, however, as he was preoccupied with reacquiring everything he had just 'lost.'