Aquila had heard different tales about death.
His grandmother used to speak of a light at the end of a tunnel, warm and welcoming. A priest once told him it was like falling asleep after a long day. A drunk in a bar swore it was like diving into cold water, everything going numb and peaceful.
None of them mentioned this.
The pain in his head felt like someone had driven a railroad spike through his temple and was now slowly twisting it. Everything was shaky; not just his vision, but reality itself seemed to vibrate at the wrong frequency. His stomach rolled and heaved, threatening to empty itself of contents he couldn't remember eating.
Is this hell?
He probably deserved it. Aquila Totti had never pretended to be a good man. He'd never worn a white hat, never saved the day, never been anyone's hero.
He wasn't evil; he liked to think he drew a line somewhere but there were nights when that line got awfully blurry. Nights when the difference between him and the monsters he distinguished himself from became too thin to measure.
A voice cut through the fog of pain and nausea, distant at first, then closer. Louder. Insistent.
"What is a pain in the ass," Aquila muttered, the words feeling strange in his mouth. His voice sounded wrong. Thinner. Higher.
His eyelids felt like they weighed a thousand pounds each, but he forced them open.
A face swam into focus above him; young, maybe twenty-three or twenty-four, with brown skin and worried dark eyes. The man was hunched over him, close enough that Aquila could smell sweat and salt and something like iron..
"You alright?" the man asked, his accent unfamiliar. It was rough and layered.
Before Aquila could answer, the man muttered to himself, "Definitely not okay. Tch, you're bleeding everywhere."
A voice called from somewhere in the distance. "Andre! The lieutenant's asking for you!"
The man above him; Andre,grimaced. "We're already in enough of a mess," he called back, then looked down at Aquila again. "Alright, Damon. Let's get you to Old Samir first. Can you stand?"
"Who's Damon?" The words came out weak, barely more than a whisper.
Andre laughed, but it sounded strained. "You must've taken quite a hit to the head, mate."
Aquila tried to focus on his surroundings, fighting against the nausea and the ringing in his ears.
He was lying on a narrow bunk; no, a rack, the exact word came to him unbidden…..in a cramped space that smelled of unwashed bodies, oil, and salt water.
The walls were metal, painted a dull gray-green that had probably been white once. Six other racks lined the walls, three on each side, with narrow spaces between them. A single lantern swung from a hook in the ceiling, casting moving shadows that made his head pound worse.
This wasn't a hospital. It sure as hell wasn't a cemetery.
What the hell was going on?
"Come on then," Andre said, slipping an arm under Aquila's shoulders. "Up we go."
Aquila's legs felt like they belonged to someone else; weak and unsteady, his muscles trembling with the effort of standing.
Something warm and wet ran down his face. Blood, he realized distantly.
His blood.
"*Jeez, you're bleeding a lot," Andre cursed, his accent mangling the phrase in a way that would've been funny under different circumstances. "Stay with me, Damon. Eyes open, yeah?"
The constant use of that name grated, but Aquila didn't have the energy to correct him. He draped his arm over Andre's shoulder, letting the other man take most of his weight.
They stumbled out into a corridor; narrow, barely wide enough for two men to pass side by side.
Lanterns hung at intervals along the walls, their light flickering as the entire space vibrated.
The floor beneath Aquila's feet shifted constantly, a rolling motion that did nothing good for his stomach.
"Where are we?" Aquila managed.
Andre sighed. Above them, something crashed; loud enough that Aquila felt it in his bones. Thunder, maybe.
"Glad you're actually talking to me," Andre said, navigating them around a corner. "You usually keep to yourself, you know. Don't say more than two words most days."
Another crash from above, and Andre's grip tightened. "We're accompanying a merchant ship to Fort Sennes. Should've been there two days ago, but this bloody storm.. and then there's the unpleasant circumstances."
"Why are we accompanying merchants?" Aquila asked. His vision was going blurry again, and he blinked hard, trying to clear it.
Andre shot him a surprised look. "Why? Because we're navy marines, mate. It's our job. Escort duty. The 'Pembroke'; that's the merchant ship we're protecting. She's carrying medical supplies,food and ammunition. Too valuable to let pirates get their hands on." He paused, concern crossing his face. "How much have you forgotten?"
More than you could possibly imagine, Aquila thought. He didn't answer.
They passed through what looked like crew quarters; hammocks swaying with the ship's motion, the smell of unwashed bodies stronger here. Then past a galley where someone cursed over a pot of something that smelled burnt.
The corridor lurched suddenly, and Andre cursed, struggling to keep them both upright.
Finally, they reached a door in the middle of the corridor. Andre pushed it open with his shoulder.
The room beyond was small, barely larger than a closet. Three narrow cots lined the walls, two of them occupied.
One man lay with his eyes closed, his left leg ending in a bandaged stump just below the knee. The other was fast asleep despite the storm, wearing what looked like a blue uniform similar to Andre's red. A large cabinet dominated one wall, its drawers labeled in neat handwriting.
Medicine. Bandages. Surgical tools.
A sickbay. This was the ship's sickbay.
Andre helped Aquila onto the last empty cot, then turned toward an inner door. "Old Samir! Got a man down from the quarters!"
A man emerged from the inner room; older, maybe sixty, with graying hair and the kind of weathered face that spoke of decades at sea. His eyes were sharp despite his age, taking in Aquila's condition with a single sweep.
"Clumsy boy," Samir muttered, moving to a drawer and pulling out a wooden medicine box.
Andre shifted his weight, glancing between Aquila and the door. "I need to see the lieutenant. But I'll be back soon." He paused at the entrance, looking back. "Be careful, Damon."
Samir chuckled as he approached with the medicine box, setting it on a small table beside the cot. "Good lad, that one." He began pulling out bandages and bottles. "Quiet lad, you."
"Do you know me?" Aquila asked, wincing as Samir started cleaning the wound on his head.
"Not much. We met seventeen days ago when you and your squad came aboard." Samir's hands were steady, practiced. "You don't talk much. Keep to yourself mostly."
Seventeen days ago.
The words hit Aquila like a physical blow. He tried to sit up abruptly, but pain exploded through his skull like a bomb going off. The room spun. Samir's hand pressed him firmly back down.
"You want to kill yourself? Lie still."
Sweat broke out across Aquila's body, cold and clammy. Seventeen days. He'd been fighting Giorno…..when? Hours ago? Minutes? There'd been the crash, the room with the ritual, the golden light....
"Where are we?" he asked again, his voice tight.
Samir's eyebrows quirked upward. "In the middle of the Mediterranean Sea." He peered closer at Aquila's eyes, checking his pupils. "Did you suffer brain trauma? You're asking strange questions."
Ship. Mediterranean. That part matched, at least. But something was wrong. Everything was wrong.
"What year is it?" The question came out before Aquila could stop it.
Samir paused in his bandaging. "2417." He frowned. "You definitely hit your head harder than I thought. Possible concussion, maybe worse."
2417.
The number echoed in Aquila's mind. Four hundred years. About four centuries.
Just as his hand began to run tawdry,his hand came up without conscious thought, and he stared at it.
The hand was thinner than his own, the fingers longer. On one finger sat a golden signet ring with a crest he didn't recognize; some kind of bird, wings spread, surrounded by stars.
Panic clawed its way up his throat.
This was hell. Had to be. Some kind of psychological torture, punishment for all his sins. Or…..the thought was almost worse; he'd somehow time traveled. The ritual, the golden light, it had sent him centuries into the future and....
"Calm down," Samir said, reaching for him, but Aquila pushed the old man aside. Not hard, but firmly enough to create space.
"Need to….." Aquila staggered to his feet. The room tilted violently. Blood began to seep through the fresh bandage Samir had just applied, warm and wet against his temple.
"Sit down before you….."
Aquila wasn't listening. He'd spotted a mirror on the wall near the door; small and cloudy with age.
He stumbled toward it, his legs threatening to give out with each step. Blood dripped down his face, pattering on the metal floor.
His reflection stopped him cold.
Crimson eyes stared back at him. Not brown, not the dark Italian eyes he'd been born with, but bright, impossible crimson. The color of fresh blood. The color of rubies. And the hair; Christ, the hair was white. Not gray, not silver, but milk-white, hanging to his shoulders in a ponytail that had come half-loose. His dark hair was gone.
The face was younger than his own, maybe twenty-one or twenty-two. Leaner. The bone structure was different; sharper cheekbones, a more pointed chin. This wasn't just a different body.
This was a different person.
His eyes; these strange crimson eyes traveled down. He wore a red overcoat over a white shirt.
On the chest was a badge, brass and polished, with words etched into it: 'Imperial Marines'.
Blue trousers tucked into black boots. The uniform of a soldier.
And there, embroidered on the right chest pocket of the white shirt in neat black thread, was a name.
Private Damon Miles Fallenstar.
Aquila's legs gave out. He caught himself on the edge of the cabinet, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The bandage on his head was completely soaked through now, blood running freely down the side of his face.
Behind him, Samir was saying something, his voice urgent and worried, but the words were just noise. All Aquila could see was that name, stitched in black thread, declaring a truth he couldn't begin to process.
He wasn't Aquila Totti anymore.
He was someone else entirely.