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[epitaffio]

WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, PURPLEPIPER. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 541.26.365.77 *** PURPLEPIPER has joined 541.26.365.77 <PURPLEPIPER> Am I doing this right? <PURPLEPIPER> Pretty weird to just leave a message like this is an answering machine or something <PURPLEPIPER> ME leaving a message I mean! <PURPLEPIPER> You can leave one if you want and I'll just get back to you whenever I can.

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[epitaffio]

[He can do this. He can do this, and he has to, because otherwise-- otherwise the Boss will keep being in pain, and he can't just tell him what to do, so he has to just know--

In the Boss's arms, Doppio's breathing eases, but only a little and not for long. It's as if the effort of trying to remember makes his lungs forget how to do their job in turn. This town... He remembers the town he passed through, on his way to the Costa. If he tries harder...

Don't some things look out of place? Aren't some stores in spots where there should be houses, or vice versa? He can't be sure. But he has to, because otherwise--

Another stranger appears just down the road. Doppio forces himself not only to glance, but to look.]

Ah! T-That's...!

[Not a stranger. He knows it can't be. But he can't tell if he remembers the priest from the photograph, or if he remembers him the way he's suddenly supposed to, the way the Boss needs him to remember. Did that man have a name? He had to have had a name, but it isn't coming to Doppio's mind. Does he need to look deeper? How?

Doppio makes a small, whimpering noise before he even notices the priest coming their way.]

[fateschosen]

[Diavolo's arms press closer at the whimpers. When he notices the priest, he tugs Doppio back half a step on gut instinct, feeling suddenly very small again. It's unnatural to see the man alive and well, like he'd never been reduced to a mangled heap bleeding out on a tile floor.

The priest walks slowly but purposefully, a smile wrinkling his face as though nothing in the world is wrong. How old would he be if he was alive today? Eighties, nineties? But he looks exactly the same as he does in memory. Seeing him is like seeing a ghost, and it chills Diavolo. He tenses, his fingers digging at Doppio's skin as that small part of him expects hatred and retribution, imagining the rest of his years rotting away in prison or worse.

But, of course, none of this is real, and there is nothing to fear. Diavolo is not helpless, not weak, and nothing here can hurt him. If he wanted to, he could walk out right now. But he survived their last meeting and he will do it again — more than that, he thrived afterward, more than anyone in this small town ever thought he could, at least until the day everything fell to pieces in his hands.

—He's close, now, that gentle smile brightening at the sight of ... not him. Of course not him, not the way he looks now, so very different from the way he did as a teenager. He must stand out in this small town. No, it's Doppio the priest looks at.]

[epitaffio]

[The Boss's tightening grip brings a strange kind of comfort; if their roles were inverted, Doppio thinks he'd be doing the same thing. It all makes a little more sense now - he hates this, but he's not alone. They both do, but neither of them are alone. Thank goodness.

Each step the priest takes offsets that comfort. He wants to back away, but the Boss is right behind him, and...

And something about this feels nauseatingly familiar.

The sensation is vague, so vague it's hardly there at all, but vague sensations and faint deja vus and distant familiarities compound, and all of them make him feel like he can't quite feel his limbs anymore. Now that he knows what he knows, he wonders if that's only wishful thinking.

The priest opens his mouth. He says, "I'm not angry with you."]

[fateschosen]

[Isn't something about this chillingly familiar? Memories are bleeding together. Nothing makes sense. This was all impulse, a half-formed idea, if even that. Wasn't it supposed to be different? Why is the priest walking towards them at all — why does he speak, why does he say that?

If it was him alone, he could handle this. But it's painfully clear that something is wrong with Doppio. His breathing is erratic, his movements anxious, his words strained, and the sum of it makes Diavolo ache. He's getting exactly the result he wanted, but it doesn't feel like the victory he expected.

Instead, it feels a little like guilt.]

Enough. Leave.

[He doesn't quite know how the room operates, he didn't pay enough attention to understand. All he can do is growl out a command to the priest and hope he obeys. It doesn't feel like enough. If he could do something more—

He doesn't feel it happen the way he should, no warm and familiar surge of energy beneath his skin, but King Crimson manifests at his subconscious call all the same, shielding them both from the memory.]

[epitaffio]

[Relief comes quickly, even if Doppio isn't sure who the Boss's words are meant for. Leaving. Leaving would be nice. He hopes he's the one who's leaving. The priest starts to say something else, and Doppio feels his chest tightening - a name begins to form on that man's lips; the dread he feels is so tangible as to be alarming -

But then they're somewhere else.

And he doesn't quite get this either, but it feels easier to look around now. It looks like...]

... One of your barriers? [Then he sees it, standing right beside them.] Ah! King Crimson...!

[... Wow. He'd actually rather look at those horrid little faces than... do what they were doing before.]