Chapter Text
Prologue: Egypt
In this world of ours, our actions follow a path known as fate. While it may appear as a predetermined set of actions, that a human has no impact on, this is false.
To the contrary, human fate is decided through human decision. What is certain to happen in the future, is undoubtedly the result of a decision that was made in the past. Through every choice a soul is offered in their lifetime, they pave the path that fate will take them.
While some souls are brought together through the choices of fate, others are torn apart through the crossroads of time. This is merely the way of the world, and will continue until no souls remain.
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Around midnight, on January 16th, 1989, the city of Cairo was stained red. Bourbon O’Hare remembered boarding a helicopter that flew over the moonlit city streets of Egypt, and the quiet beauty he could see below. What had happened that night was too quick and too far away to be noticed at first glance.
That night, the Speedwagon Foundation had received notice that after a nearly 50 day journey across the world, the Joestar Family had not only located, but was currently engaging the enemy they had set out to defeat. Bourbon and his fellow coworkers had little time to prepare on such short notice, but nonetheless had flown out with haste, hoping to provide aid and ensure victory in the battle that would follow.
Unfortunately, on that night in Egypt, time was not on their side.
As the helicopter began to lower down towards a marked rooftop, Bourbon caught a glimpse of something unusual from outside the window, the first sign that something was wrong. A water tower had been crushed, it’s side crumpled in and smashed.
On closer inspection, in its crater slumped a body, cold and lifeless as water trickled down from behind its back. A separate team could be seen descending to the tower from a separate helicopter, and lifting the limp body onto their transport. Dimly lit by the lights of the city below, the corpse appeared to be wearing a green school uniform, and had hair colored cherry-red. It was a face that the Speedwagon Foundation knew well.
As the evacuation team gently lifted him upwards, halted gasps took to the air. The boy’s stomach revealed a hole smashed through to the other side, blood splattering the uniform that was otherwise kept so neatly. Over communications, a cold voice cleared its throat, and in words that sent a chill down Bourbon’s spine, announced:
“Noriaki Kakyoin is dead”.
Noriaki Kakyoin was only 17 years old when he was found with a hole in his chest in Egypt.
Bourbon had only spoken with the boy on one occasion, when the latter had been admitted into the care of the Speedwagon Foundation as medical professionals worked to save his vision from a critical injury. Although Bourbon had only been there to observe the work being done and copy a few documents that the doctors had given him, he had once asked Kakyoin if he would continue to travel and fight once his eyes were properly healed. To his surprise, Kakyoin hadn’t hesitated for a single moment before saying yes.
Bourbon had always wondered why the boy had been so quick to respond. He must have had a family, right? Was his dedication out of a sense of responsibility? Of gratitude?
Whatever Kakyoin’s answer, there was no chance Bourbon would ever get to hear it. As the body was lifted out of view, he felt his stomach sink with fear. What could have happened that night in Egypt, to cause so much destruction in such little time?
The helicopter descended to the ground and Bourbon exited the vehicle only to find himself entrenched in a painful world of color and sound. Sirens blared and flashed in his ears, ambulances raced nearby, and everywhere people yelled and shouted at one another, telling where to go and what to do. Even the most composed individuals had descended into panic, as the amount of uncovered damage seemed to increase with each passing second. The fight may have been over, but one would think that it was the end of the world.
Men in uniform raced by pushing an old man on a stretcher, who had a gaping knife wound in his throat, and skin dry and shriveled like a raisin. Behind them followed a teenage boy in black uniform, with sunken and exhausted posture that looked like he had been through hell twice over. As they moved out of sight, Bourbon lurched over and resisted the urge to vomit. There was no chance of recovery from a wound like that, not unless you had the skill to cheat death itself.
Joseph Joestar. Jotaro Kujo. If there was a single member of the Foundation that didn’t know their names, or their story, they would have been lying. When the Speedwagon Foundation had been formed in 1910, it was made abundantly clear that should they be in need of assistance, the Foundation was to aid the Joestars till the ends of the Earth. And now, because he had been too late, Bourbon was watching one’s corpse being wheeled away from him.
Before he could get a closer look, more Foundation members arrived at the scene, increasing the pandemonium in Bourbon’s head tenfold. Voices filled the midnight air one after another, echoing and drowning each other out until nothing seemed to make sense.
“Has anyone located Jean-Pierre Polnareff?”
“What’s the status of Joseph Joestar?”
“Has anyone made communications with Kakyoin’s parents?”
“We have an unidentified steam roller at the bridge—”
“Someone contact Susie Q and Elizabeth Joestar—“
“Where are Muhammad Avdol and Iggy?
“We have several injured civilians—“
“Someone find out the status of Holly Kujo—”
“We’re requesting a blood transfusion—”
“Requesting the corpse of—”
Bourbon rushed through the crowd to make it to his ground transport, but halted at the sight of another body being carted to Joseph’s ambulance. It was bloodied, and split in half as if part of it had blown up. The figure wore clothes and injuries no civilian would wear, and looked familiar in shape. It appeared to be a man, with a torso incredibly muscular and larger than life. The figure had no head whatsoever, but had blood splattered about all across its clothing. Bourbon pondered for a moment, and froze in the realization that it was true— Dio Brando was dead.
Bourbon wanted to feel joyful. He should have been elated that despite everything, the mission had been a success. But no matter how still and lifeless the husk of the vampire was, he couldn’t convince himself to get any closer. This man- this single man- had nearly taken over the world, and Bourbon couldn’t have done anything to stop it. If a single mistake had been made outside of his control, Dio would have achieved a perfect victory, and likely would have massacred the Speedwagon Foundation upon their arrival in the city.
It wasn’t until he felt an arm on his shoulder, leading him away from the middle of the road, that Bourbon remembered that he was alive.
Bourbon didn’t look back a second time, and flashed his identification to the driver of a transport vehicle waiting for him on the side of the street. As the door opened, he glanced back on the violence that had unfolded in the battle. It had ended as soon as it began, but by now all medic and relief officers were arriving, Speedwagon Foundation, local hospitals, and otherwise. The wind howled, voices wailed, and a city that had once looked beautiful in the night now looked as if it was lit aflame.
None of the members in the vehicle spoke during the drive away from hell, until the driver announced that they had arrived at their destination: Dio’s Mansion.
Bourbon and three others had been sent to investigate the manor where Dio had resided until that night, for anything, or anyone, that could help provide context for what had happened. There was never any confirmation that Muhammad Avdol nor the canine unit Iggy had left the Mansion, and Bourbon’s team of him and the three men next to him had been tasked with finding them, one way or the other.
As the transport dropped them off in front of the grand marked building, each man stepped warily towards the manor as if expecting a ghost on the other side. They split up inside the building on their own, as early testimony had suggested that none of Dio’s underlings remained in a state fit to guard it. Regardless, the stone cold walls and dim atmosphere didn’t do well to provide a sense of security.
Bourbon carefully traversed the cobwebbed catacombs, no sign of any life other than his own, when he spotted a perfectly carved hole in the wall. Looking left and right, he found that similar holes appeared in parallel walls as well. Moving to find doors that lead along the path of the carvings, he came across an open room, one softly lit with an intake of moonlight from the outside world.
The floor was carved in a spiral motion as if one had scooped it with a giant spoon, and the air was littered with clumps of sand gently descending to the ground. Before Bourbon could take a closer look at the bizarre surroundings, a short burst of static spoke on his communications, and proceeded to speak.
“We have located Jean-Pierre Polnareff. According to his account, Muhammad Avdol has been killed by an enemy stand. There should be no sign of his corpse. Do not look for one. Please, Mansion team, stay alert for further information.
Bourbon had only spoken with Kakyoin on a single occasion, and he couldn’t recall any time in which he had directly met either of the Joestars. But as the line cut out with a click, Bourbon felt as if something had suddenly gone colder inside of him, welling up a feeling of grief far more personal and frightening than the others.
How many times had he asked Avdol questions, and gotten them answered with a hearty laugh and a smile? How many times had Avdol volunteered to aid the Speedwagon Foundation with his gentle strength, and his burning conviction?
Bourbon found himself taken back to a night in New York City just months earlier, upon a rooftop and sitting on top of his luggage as he joined his team in a circle under the stars. It had been a long and strenuous day, but by the end of it, rather than turning in for the night, Avdol had asked them if they wanted to see a magic trick. One trick turned into a hundred, and before they knew it, the group found that they had been joking and howling with laughter well into the night. Before they had gone to bed, Avdol had handed Bourbon an upside down playing card, a two of hearts or such, but when he flipped it over later, he saw instead a drawing of a man with a crown, and a label that read Emperor 4. He never did find out how Avdol had done it.
As Bourbon stood alone, shivering in the empty room, he wondered what memories others held of Muhammad Avdol, and if they had been as bright. After all, with no corpse, memories of Avdol were all that they had.
Bourbon’s mind became fixated on yet another thought. Iggy. The canine was still yet to be found, and given the general state of things, a slim chance of the dog being alive was all that he needed. Bourbon searched up and down the valleys carved in the floor, looking from corner to corner across the mountains of sand, before feeling something small buried in front of him. As he gently brushed a handful of grains away, Bourbon’s heart sank down in his chest, and he fought to choke back a sob. Before him, a Boston Terrier’s small body lay limp and cold, bloodied and disfigured around his stomach. There was an awfulness in having to hear about death, or see it with his own eyes, but feeling it in his hands was something different altogether.
Iggy was rude, unreasonable, and in all senses of the matter, impossible to manage. The dog was another face every Foundation member seemed to know, for better or worse. If there was anything that Iggy was known for, it was his instinct for survival, but there was no mistaking it. There would be no chance of recovery for him, not with all the medical resources in the world.
“Mansion Team, Jean-Pierre has just informed us all that the canine unit Iggy—“, the radio feed sounded, before Bourbon found himself interjecting, his voice dry and hollow.
”I've found him. Iggy is dead. His body has been located within Dio’s Mansion.”
With the words spoken, Bourbon fell to his knees and gazed around the room in despair. It was different from the city streets, with its fiery chaos and sensory overload. Cutting voices and blinding sirens were replaced by a chill of silence, and a silent rain of sand onto the broken floor. The men who had died that night would had no way of knowing whether they had succeeded in killing Dio. They had died in uncertainty, and in pain. As the thoughts swarmed Bourbon’s head, he felt himself stumbling away from the room, hearing the cry of death in his ears until the last dusting of sand lay to rest on the ground.
Bourbon didn’t know where he was going as he blindly traversed the halls of the manor, and didn’t even realize that he had been walking until his trance was broken by the glint of an object hanging on the wall. The room that he was in was covered in darkness, not even lit by candlelight, and yet there was something catching his sight, shining in a seductive gold hue. As he approached the object, it became apparent that it was an arrow, likely fit for a large wooden bow hanging beside it.
There was no reason for Bourbon to believe that it was more than decoration, yet his hand reached towards the arrow, prying it from the wall where it hung. As he lifted the arrow down, it jerked out of his hand with seemingly a mind of its own, and skewered itself in his neck with an invisible push. What came afterwards was a searing pain, a burning emotion so intense that Bourbon felt as if his soul was being pried from its body. Every nerve end screamed, his ears pounded as blood rushed through his head, but as Bourbon opened his mouth, he couldn’t muster any noise at all.
The burning sensation left Bourbon’s body in an instant, with the same blinding speed as it had come. He lurched forward, but his body fell toppling back. The piercing chill of the air felt dull against the numbness of his skin. The broken walls and ceiling of the room began to blur and fuzz through his eyes, as they began to slowly open and shut. Before he fell completely unconscious, Bourbon caught a glimpse of a small, furry animal sitting on his chest. What was it? Where had it come from? And why did it look… no- why did it feel so… familiar?
Bourbon’s body was found in the room by the other members of the mansion team, and he was carried back to the Speedwagon Foundation relief camp. The arrow was separated from his body and with immediate treatment to prevent blood loss, the wound began to heal. With what conscious strength he had, Bourbon pleaded that the arrow be kept, desiring to understand what had happened to him. The Foundation had no real reason to disagree, and kept the mysterious arrow, but would keep it safe and unknown to the majority of personnel in light of its potential danger.
As with the countless bodies that he had seen lifeless and empty that night, Bourbon O’Hare was set in an abundance. As the sun began to rise, the Speedwagon Foundation left Cairo, Egypt, the city where souls had met in a duel to the death.
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A great many things happened that night in Egypt. The story is not unfamiliar.
The battle was won, but the day inflicted eternal consequences that could never be changed.
Children died, while their parents still thought them to be missing.
Men chose to offer themselves as sacrifice, and were killed in retaliation.
Those who survived would have to bury those who didn’t.
Bystanders unaware had their entire lives ruined, in the span of mere minutes.
Fear that was sowed would remain in those who remembered it, festering and growing stronger.
Every decision, every choice made that fateful night was the union of choices, the paths to the future every soul makes. The simple burning of a diary alone would determine the future of a girl across the ocean, 22 years later.
Each choice made during this crossroads of decisions would determine the fate of the world for years to come, and bring triumph and tragedy alike.
As such, this story does not end in Egypt.
This is a story of crossroads, and how the combined choices of many would result in both joy and calamity.
This is the story of two brothers, and the ways they chose to forge their destinies.
TO BE CONTINUED
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Prologue Title Reference: “Egypt (The Chains Are Off)” by Dio