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[ This has been a stressful trip. But what else is new? Life's stressful and hectic and full of the sorts of twists that Polnareff is vaguely aware other people maybe don't have to deal with regularly. (Unless most people have been de-aged and chased by an axe-wielding maniac, and played a poker game for their soul. It's not impossible, right?)

But it means the very few evenings where nothing's on fire, trying to kill them, or otherwise decimate their group really stand out. The desert countries they keep passing through also all have one thing in common — plenty of places to go get ice cold drinks.

And in the evening, it's best if those drinks have a bit of alcohol in them. You know. For courage. To unwind. To amplify everything into a dizzying cloud of sensation.

And for the excuse to be loud in public with less staring as a result, maybe. (It's possible that that last reasoning is why Polnareff was abandoned at the bar by Avdol and Joseph, who are now in a quieter section of the restaurant together.)

Polnareff's cheeks have a slight flush to them by the time this particular person at the bar catches his eye. He thinks it's one of the people who was singing tonight — one of the women from earlier? Must be, since it can't be the baritone that was just blaring out from behind him for the past couple of minutes...

Her hair's in dark, wavy little coils that curl in towards her cheeks, and Polnareff's done for as soon as he notices the way she's politely smiling at the bartender, waving him off. ]

What, no money for a drink tonight? It's on me. [ Polnareff, thinking he's solved why this woman's being demure as she rests at the bar, scoots one stool closer with a smile. He fumbles only a little bit with his wallet while he fishes out the current currency— wait, no, that's yen, where's the— there it is— and turns his smile back on the woman as he slaps ten of whatever they use in this country on the bar. ]

Can't have someone as beautiful as you sitting alone without a drink.

[ And as is usually the case, Polnareff has...zero idea that he's chosen the most dangerous possible offer for who he's now sitting next to. ]

{ once he had reawoken to the world, the earth above him pulled away and he, a shriveled set of remains to what he still was, elevated back up to the air and the open night sky, the realizations of a lost century and a half were shattering...only for a time, and a brief one. the processes of grief were fluid, nearly simultaneous.

what resulted — wanderlust.

Ambrose has always been prone to melancholy, but this new morose affect to him had him wanting to roam, as opposed to hide. he travelled to what seemed the most exotic — the glamorous and powerful United States, cities of daylight in the darkness, the land of opportunity, and of only he could count the ways in which opportunities presented themselves as night-blooming flowers before him.

eventually, it became hollow, but Ambrose had learned just how much he suited this new world in this new time. thus — he decided to keep roaming.

it's been over a year since he awoke in Italy, the blinding-bright white lab splattered in mournful red at his hand, in that branch of the Speedwagon Foundation. luckily, while they reserved the right to study him, they didn't have the right to keep him from leaving when his rehabilitation was over. and now, after it all, m after filling up an admirable chunk of a passport...

Ambrose is in the most exotic land he can think of.

has something been slowly calling him here? something in his daytime dreams, something that aches in his chest like a childhood memory of a soothing voice and kisses on his cheek, something like him, pale hair and deep voice in the darkness—

perhaps. perhaps it's something in the liminal space where the sun submerges below the horizon but leaves the night in a dying glow, or perhaps it's the madness that comes with this much isolation — Ambrose travels alone, wandering for something he doesn't know how to look for, or what he is looking for.

to satisfy, he still performs where he briefly settles, as he has tonight. the keeper of the restaurant is single and middle aged, and has a fondness for men in passing women's fashion to assuage a deeply-ingrained guilt. Ambrose is polite not to consider it too directly, because he thinks, sadly, how some things still haven't changed in one-hundred and fifty years.

and it's that 'kindness,' a kindness that looks better if one squints their eyes against it and blurs its image, that Ambrose takes advantage of as much as it takes advantage of him; he is happy to perform here a few nights here and there, feeling oddly entrenched here in Egypt, unwilling to roam on just yet.

people have approached him before, and early in his performance art, he used to be far more guarded. tonight, Ambrose is relaxed — if anything, he's in a pleasant place since his little number, and that pleasure seemed to extend through the eatery, if the dreamy smiles on the faces of tonight's patrons are any indicator.

this man that approaches him now, tall and designed with the musculature of many of the warrior-like statues and painting models from his favorite historical artworks, a man he doesn't quite recognize from the dining room... until he recalls having seen only the back of his head while seated at his table, talking exuberantly to his cohorts (all except a red-haired young man in a deep green suit of some kind, whose attention seemed almost entirely Ambrose's at the time.)

what Ambrose learns about this man before himself is a context from his words — specifically, the accent in which he speaks through. Ambrose has navigated this kind of encounter enough times now to no longer have a count for it. what changes his typical route through this kind of exchange is his intrigue...and a budding sense of amusement the Frenchman is already rousing in him. }

Merci beaucoup, but it is not for financial hardship that I abstain.

Otherwise, I would graciously take such a generous offer. { giving any kind of verbal response while dressed in a sapphire satin evening gown and full face of makeup is an instant and sudden left-turn to every subtle and preconceived notion to the stranger approaching, and most recoil with confusion and embarrassedly apologize before evacuating the scene. some who have been observant in his singing approach with nervous and almost wild-eyed fervor.

or worse.

Ambrose isn't nervous here where he sits, but the impending disappointment that follows the always-inevitable subtraction is easy to bleed into his cool skin. still, Ambrose is patient and smiling, presenting no qualities that don't exist outside of this dress and its carefully-chosen adornments. }

[ This woman is gorgeous in a soft way, the way movie stars were a couple decades ago. And Polnareff is lonely in general but in a good mood tonight, and his cheer is genuine as he beams at the woman.

Who speaks to answer him, and Polnareff has several rapid fire revelations that all screech for his attention. French spoken back to him — that's nice. And the curve of her smile is entrancingly kind— you can tell that from a smile, can't you, when it's coming from a place of humanity and not just reflex? Polnareff would like to think so.

But Polnareff also hears a man respond to him, and that's what ends up crashing into the forefront of his response. He jerks back on his stool, eyes wide. ] Woah, you— but you're so pre— [ He only barely keeps the word 'pretty' off his lips. It's written all over his face, though, and the now embarrassed-but-frantic twice-over he gives the other.

Yes, that's a dress. A nice one, too. But now Polnareff can see that this man is slim, sure, but definitely man-shaped. Maybe smoother than he would have expected, but wide shoulders and narrow hips stare back at him from under satin fabric. Polnareff looks back at his face. ] Well what the hell are you dressed like this for? Did you lose a bet? [ His tone is edging back from angry to an attempt at salvaging a conversation.

Not two feet away, the bartender is watching them with furtive glances and aggressively pretending he isn't doing so. ]

Edited 2020-08-08 03:20 (UTC)

{ if nothing else, the albeit-failed compliment still rings in the air between them, and the earnesty below the reactive alarm is still present in it. Ambrose can...accept it for what it reflects, even if it's now being tripped over. he doesn't often have to navigate this kind of encounter in the same room he has performed in; it usually takes until stepping foot on the street, or crossing paths with a predatory man in the lobby of the hotel he returns to at the end of every night. }

What brings you to that conclusion? Do I seem embarrassed? I purchased the gown in Spain during my travels, the painting on my face was done by my hand. { and hardly done as though he lacks the skill for it. the words in their particular choice and arrangement could sound easily confrontational — if not for the low and sauntering tone Ambrose speaks upon, clearly bent into a reassuring key. he isn't ashamed of what he creates for himself, if it's visible to display, then it's what he intends for others to see.

even though he understands most onlookers cannot help but respond with affrontation to him in this image; at least he can defend wearing a dress more resolutely than to defend the living corpse that lies underneath the garment. }

I realize I must have alarmed you, and for that, I apologize. { and it's true, and hopefully immune to being misread, but given the man's current state — his pulse is quickened in an odd, almost sloppy way, and his blood pressure is increased, almost torturous to feel at the edges of Ambrose's ears. he's been drinking, and not so much as to make him incoherent, but enough to sense beyond the flush in his face and the looseness in his movements. }

Could I buy you a drink? The older gentleman at your table was generous with his gratuity. { and had some endearing anecdote, 'you wear it better than the time that I did, long before your time!' (what a charming, and natural, assumption.) and a fellow Englishman, to boot — traveling in Egypt with a Frenchman, an Egyptian, and two Japanese youths... Ambrose is only marginally more atypical than the group this man has spent the evening here with. }

[ What brings him to that conclusion? Polnareff's brow pinches in, confusion twisting his face into something half-surprised, half-accusatory. He'd think he was being mocked, if it wasn't for the guy's tone — hell, he still can't help but feel like he is being mocked. Polnareff's never had a long fuse — not for anger or tears or laughter — and he now has an awful lot of adrenaline hitting him at once, looking for an emotional direction to pick. ]

So you are a...woman...? [ He's not convinced, and it's clear by his hesitant stare and tone, but he equally can't see any other option. ] Or it's just a... Oh! It's for the show. Right, you must have been one of the singers, if Joestar tipped you...

[ Oh thank god! Polnareff's found a recognizable, heterosexual-shaped box to put this problem into. Issue solved!

Except now the guy offers him a drink, and Polnareff gapes at him. ] Listen, I came over to talk to a pretty woman, not some guy in a dress! Besides, I'm not—

[ Speaking of tonight's most generous tipper, his friend has overheard enough, it seems. Polnareff pauses when there's a hand on his shoulder. ] Avdol! What're you— [ A steady stare meets his own, and Polnareff has the abrupt realization that Avdol is a lot more sober than he is. ]

'I think this man's got better things to do than listen to you yelling all night, Polnareff.' [ Avdol's calm stare goes from chilly to warm as he looks from Polnareff to the man in the dress. ]

Am I the only one seeing this? [ Polnareff gestures one hand in the direction of the very pretty, very polite, very reality-bending man next to himself. Avdol gives Polnareff a look that reminds him very distinctly of being in grade school and spitting out the wrong answer because he was sleeping through math class.

Avdol turns his attention very firmly back to the stranger, although he seems reluctant to actually make eye contact. ]

'We're sorry for disturbing you.'

I sure as hell am, now I've wasted time on some sorta fa— [ Avdol yanks him up by the arm hard enough that if he weren't tipsy, it might have actually hurt. Polnareff laughs when it results in almost falling over, however, equilibrium disturbed until he can take a breath and get used to standing again. ] Fine, fine— now you owe me a drink, though.

{ an attempt doomed to the same fate as the Frenchman's half-jumbled 'compliment,' Ambrose's maneuver in the name of good will is poorly aimed and launched, effort wasted on someone who isn't present or willing to receive it.

there have been nights, rare ones, when a person approaches him in this image, perplexed but curious, a person with tentative questions hoping to comprehend. they aren't always advanced defensiveness, it doesn't always have to be a matter of standing their respective grounds — it's been a while since the last one, and Perhaps this young man gave him the hope that he would be as easy-going about this as he was to approach him.

foolishness is his downfall, a guilty awareness of his own loneliness that coaxed Ambrose into letting a sliver of hopeful light through; what it does is burn.

one of the man's fellow travelers approaches, landing a hand on his shoulder that speaks volumes — a gesture not made in camaraderie, but in authority. it seems he, Avdol apparently, has come to collect his nearly-drunken cohort, Polnareff, but makes longer strides for Ambrose himself; the change in his expression given to him, something apologetic in the way he chastises his friend, before formally apologizing completely. it's nearly embarrassing now, though Ambrose will be quick to forgive as he will be to wave his hand to cement being excused...

but Polnareff loosens words that carry small, spiny barbs launched in carelessness. the newest impressions, as they are, become carved as the intense stillness in Ambrose's painted face — disappointment as visible as David's fear sculpted by Michelangelo's hand.

to mince no words further, it hurts. }

Do you have alien words you would use against me in your native tongue? Spare me from them; I don't know that I could bear to hear them in a language I hold dear.

{ Ambrose moves to stand, following suit despite the impending departure of the two named strangers before him. his eyes, draped in hues and lashes darkened with a deep brown, are reserved almost exclusively to the floor, until he's taken one pace from where he had been perched — to give Avdol and Polnareff one last acknowledgement. the chilled ache can't be masked by makeup, but his posture is rigid, not the positioning of a man stretching for height and baring his chest, but neither is he wilting before them. }

Bonne nuit. Voyages en toute sécurité.

{ back to the hotel, his urge to run and seclude begs of him. the night is late, which means it is still early enough for him, but his heart has been lanced perfectly-so to leave him to ache over a hidden wound that he thinks he will have to guard better against in the future.

which is enough to have him mourn; Ambrose cannot think of what will be left of him if he should lock away any more of himself now, after all of himself that he has packed away since his re-emergence. }

'I hope you can have a pleasant evening after this.' [ Is spoken with complete sincerity from Avdol; and not even to Polnareff, who is now confused, annoyed, and left with the vague sense that he's done something that no one else approved of. No, Avdol's directing that well-wish to the gay (?) guy standing up away from them and—

And saying something poetic and chilling about Polnareff's 'native tongue', right before he shows his familiarity with it once more. ] Bah, ta gueule, ce n'est rien— Hey, let go! [ Directly at the stranger and then Avdol, who drops his arm with a sigh and a step away — between the two of them. For god's sake— ]

Well. I don't know about any of you— [ Polnareff actually looks over at the table full of his traveling companions and sees none of the amusement he expected from everyone who's less serious than Avdol. Even Kakyoin, who's taken to him pretty well in his own weird quiet-guy way, is staring at him with a blankly judgmental expression like he's watching a stranger act embarrassingly in a store. That's...not what he expected to see. ] ...But I'm headed up to my room.

Maybe there's better wine up there! [ He says with flair he doesn't quite feel, too dedicated to the façade to drop it (and unsure what it's covering), and then he does exactly that. No one stops him.

The next morning, he wakes up with a hangover and his current roommates, Mister Joestar and Jotaro, both frowning at him during the initial morning routines. Polnareff is quieter than usual only because he's not used to regretting anything, and he has the slight sense that he might have gone...a little overboard last night.

But— it's still weird that that guy was in a dress, right?

Maybe it's a good sign that he doesn't pull anyone aside that day to ask them for reassurance about it. Maybe that's growth...or maybe it's just sulking. Either way, no one says a word about the man in the dress, and by the time night is falling again and they've started off again, Polnareff isn't thinking about it at all.

And when a new Stand user appears and runs their car off the road barely a mile into the journey, he certainly isn't thinking about it. Nor does he have any idea just whose hotel their group is accidentally backed up into as they flee so that they can strategically regroup.

Everyone's expectations that the guy with a Stand electrical powers wouldn't storm a busy hotel go out like, well, like lights as soon as the user hits the lobby and the lighting all goes dim at once. Polnareff swears to himself and takes the stairs two at a time, now glad that the elevator had been already occupied. If they can get this guy stretched in too many directions at once, maybe—

And then a shower of sparks comes out of a wall plug. Polnareff has a brief moment when he spots someone next to him in the hall, and then instinct takes over. ] Watch out!

[ He hurls himself at the stranger and they both go down, the sparking current of wild energy going wide over their heads. ] Damn— sorry, hey, you should probably get out of here, okay? [ In the dark hallway, only emergency strip lighting along the floor left, Polnareff doesn't have any chance of recognizing the man he's just now sliding back from on top of...considering he last saw him with a face full of makeup. ]

Just trust me that this is going to be too weird for you.

{ Ambrose is not dressed so extravagantly on this night — not as extravagantly as a gown and a full face of makeup, at least. while he does wear a partially unbuttoned light satine blouse with sleeves that billow around his forearms and cinched by the buttons on his wrist cuffs, he is certainly and unremarkably at a default of masculinity.

he hadn't devoted his time this evening to any established plans — what fire fuels him took a heavy thrust of sand to obscure it, and the warmth in Ambrose hasn't fully returned since he tucked the heavy curtains of his hotel room's windows shut, feeling sunrise slowly prickling at his skin.

but even lacking plans for the night, the sudden power outage has proven to be just as troublingly disruptive to Ambrose as it has been to every patron and person present in the building.

Ambrose suspects danger before anything else, even if such danger could be more pedestrian than supernatural — but he senses something in the air, a buzzing, zapping gravity that doesn't fill the air overall, but moves and shifts like a fish in a pond. as soon as Ambrose notices it at a distance, through a number of walls and another floor entirely, he's out in the dim hallway to track it. he may not understand it, but he knows it's out there. not understanding it is the drive that sends him to find it, because if he really knew what it was, perhaps he would be going out to run away.

or, perhaps not.

it isn't that he doesn't see the man coming for him — he does, and as clearly now as he did last night, and the shock (ha) from the recognition stuns Ambrose for a fleeting moment. Polnareff, from the bar, from just the night prior; Ambrose is nearly certain that he doesn't have a room rented in this hotel, or hasn't in the past few weeks. what sort of cruel serendipity is this?

he thinks his stomach sinks, and seeing the man has him turning to walk back up whence he came, to take a different corridor now. he doesn't know if the other man will recognize him, and thinks, with relief, he may just not.

he hears it all — the surge of energy (more than hears it, Ambrose feels it against his back,) Polnareff quickening his steps and lunging forth, to evade, one assumes.

one is wrong, and Ambrose discovers this as he is sent with a tackle down onto the floor, just as the surge crescendos suddenly with an intense discharge out into he open hallway. the entire escalation is surprising, but Ambrose is caught by that surprise, and pressed suffocatingly against a sense of dread.

Polnareff...seems to have some knowledge behind the electrical attack — coming from a concept that Ambrose has become more comprehensive of than he understands Beatles references, even despite his hunger to absorb contemporary media. Ambrose could be easily taken down a rung or two from his assumptions that it's more than a mishandling of utility lines or grid generators, but Polnareff, who doesn't seem to know who it is he's just thrust out of the line of harm and protected with the entire breadth of his backside, says something striking — what just occurred is clearly atypical.

more than the already-rare faulting of electrical sockets in general.

Polnareff is brisk to pull away, which is really a good thing to do before breaking the news that he's just crawled off of a man who he seemed to want to crawl on top of last night, until realization struck.

Ambrose moves to sit up. he could get up and go without a word, put a comfortable amount of distance between them before Polnareff ever learns who he is...but the thought doesn't sit right. something is happening here, something dangerous, and they're all at risk to be here.

and it's possible that Polnareff, if not his entire group from the night before, are involved. } La source est proche.

Je peux le sentir. { however weird it is...it's probably just weird enough for Ambrose to roll with. the real concern is, will Polnareff roll with this, as well? }

[ Polnareff's not one to shy from necessary touching; he only feels bad for shoving a stranger to the ground because it's aggressive, not out of any shyness. Perhaps ironically, he doesn't even sense anything remiss about being briefly on top of another guy.

That easy sensibility towards survival fizzles, just a little, when the man he just tackled speaks. Polnareff's eyes widen and he leans back for a moment of surprise — he recognizes the voice, and the switch of language is a swift following shock. Together, the two of them fight the otherwise-lacking similarities to the last time he'd heard this particular voice and tone, this baritone that's strikingly deep but soft, firm without seeming demanding. Polnareff would think it's a nice voice, does even despite himself, except for everything else associated with it. ]

You're— C'est toi, le mec dans la robe qui j'ai vu hier! Tu aimes cette langue, eh? [ The language switch is instinctive and instantaneous, even as it upsets Polnareff's own equilibrium further. ] Et— Look, this is really weird, but you—

You can sense the Stand user down there? [ There's only one possible explanation for this to Polnareff, who now stops leaning away and instead prioritizing finding his footing again, standing in the dim hallway. He feels Chariot under his skin, concerned for his well-being and steady as metal always is, readying himself to materialize. In a moment, he has — silver helmet catching the dim emergency lighting in an eerie way, sword brandished but not used yet as Chariot hovers near Polnareff's shoulder. ] Do you have a Stand?

{ Ambrose admitted his awareness as a peace offering, to prove that he can aid in some way — but what it becomes is an inquisition, and he doesn't know how to answer Polnareff's questions.

if the man can see his expression against the floor lights, then perhaps it might be obvious. }

A— 'stand'? I don't... { this is out of Ambrose's league, and he briefly wonders if this is one of the many lovely things his sire never told him about after turning him. he's never heard of something called a stand user, and when Polnareff asks if he has a stand, he gets the feeling that this isn't an abstract concept...especially not after sensing this presence earlier, and after the strange and dangerous phenomenon that could have been overlooked, if Polnareff hadn't responded to it like it were a predator landing an attack.

the presence shifts — and builds behind Polnareff's shoulder like a bubble of gravity, and suddenly, Ambrose sees it. like some costumed thing off of the stages Ambrose used to stand upon, the presence is shaped like a phantom and an armored guard simultaneously. Ambrose's eyes are keen in the dark, and watched it materialize from nothing...and the energy humming from the soldier-like entity is so similar to the feeling from before.

he can't help but assume— }

Behind you—! { Ambrose lunges forward, hands out and open to grasp at the front of Polnareff's shirt, and with the incredible strength he has in his body so often ignored, he pulls the man in and around him, swiftly positioning himself between Polnareff and the armored-looking thing. he twists to face his back to Polnareff, turning to stare down the humanoid entity...

but while that energy is identical, Ambrose pauses with tense contemplation — this thing doesn't feel quite as fiercefully menacing as the surge from before, and now that he stands between them, Ambrose feels the...strangest sense of a pull between them, like standing against a draft down a corridor. }

What...is this? { seeing is believing, but not necessarily comprehending; is this what Polnareff called a 'Stand'? }

[ Well, he's not the chuckle-and-threaten type, if nothing else — the man says he doesn't know what a Stand is, staring at him blankly. Is he playing dumb? How else would he be able to sense other Stands?

Or see the one that's now in front of him? The man clearly stares at Chariot and Polnareff is already moving to cross his arms over his chest, certain he's correct and being lied to as the man looks alarmed—

But then the man reaches forward through that alarm and...grabs him. ] Hey, what— [ But the grip, while stronger than Polnareff would have anticipated from such a lithe frame, isn't aggressive. The man lets go before Polnareff even has to threaten him to do so. They've simply swapped places now, with Polnareff behind the man and the man between himself and Chariot—

Between himself and Chariot...

Polnareff's expression cracks wide open from its narrowed suspicion, his surprise clear on his face. This man moved him out of the way to stand between what he thinks is a threat and the stranger he met last night, who tried to hit on him and then snapped at him. ] ...Yeah.

You can see him, but you don't know what he is? [ The doubtful anger that was in his voice before is absent, tone no less forceful for its lack. His eyebrows meet questioningly in the middle; Polnareff is still young, and he looks it more while he's momentarily unbalanced. ]

But you still tried to get me out of danger. [ He's in no small amount of genuine awe. Not that he thought all gay people were amoral monsters — he doesn't really care, hasn't had to think about it much — but the simple fact of being 'saved' by anyone again is a sensitive spot being prodded without warning.

Polnareff reaches a hand out — past the stranger, gesturing towards his familiar Stand. The little bit of his soul mixed with an outside force, the one that's been his since he can remember. ] This is Silver Chariot. [ And, following his cue and his master's flair for the dramatic, Chariot swerves right around the stranger to again flank Polnareff's side, rapier raised but still not attacking. ] And we're not the ones making the electricity here attack people.

{ Ambrose can't possibly understand on his own, not with what knowledge he is still sorely lacking, but he can still bear witness. the gleaming figure here in the semi-dark, tangible and connected to the other man with him, is unknown but absolutely present with them.

he doesn't realize his embarrassing misunderstanding until Polnareff's hand hovers beside his head, and he gives the creature a name, Silver Chariot. it vanishes, but the sensation around it does not dissipate — simply realigns, moves. behind him again.

Ambrose twists around, following Chariot and settling his eyes on the other man, awe-struck and curious. whatever this phenomenon is, this Stand, he cannot say, but he is interested to try.

now might be simultaneously the best and worst time to begin. }

It's...an extension of you, isn't it? { he gazes from Polnareff to his magical cohort, aligned to him like a familiar; is it some sort of sorcery, or an innate gift? Silver Chariot...clad in armor and holding a rapier at the ready, staring back with beady, glowing eyes. } Un chevalier.

{ is that what Polnareff is? a knight of some deeper realm, one who rises up when danger rears its horns for a victim to gouge? } I don't think I possess anything so outstanding as this gift of yours.

{ although he can see them and, moreover, sense them, which Ambrose doesn't realize is unique in any way. } The electrical discharge — was another one of these Stands? Whose?

Yes and no. I'm not an expert, but— he's linked to me. [ 'He', not 'it', the way Polnareff had always thought of Chariot since childhood. He's past the point of thinking he was the only one, past believing he was alone in his powers, but the fact that his Stand is a thinking being with its own intertwined will is something Polnareff has never doubted.

What he is doubting is right in front of him. Polnareff crosses his arms, Chariot waiting next to him. ] I've never heard of someone who can see then but doesn't have one...maybe you just haven't met yours yet. [ Is that possible? Hadn't Jotaro discovered his own just weeks before starting to search for DIO?

And then Polnareff sighs, arms going to his hips as he walks up closer to the stranger — is he still a stranger, now? — to look at the outlet with suspicion. ] We don't know whose Stand is doing this. We just know we need to stop him before he gets anyone killed.

[ Polnareff's expression settles into something a little more serious, a bit more grim. Chariot floats right after him, vigilante towards the hallway until he turns with his master to consider the stranger as well. ] If you can't defend yourself with a Stand, you should leave.

We'll take care of him. You'll be safer outside. [ His tone isn't condescending, just confident — Polnareff assumes he's looking at a civilian without any supernatural powers. ]

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