A second passes, and the owner of the voice steps into the light. From the other side, Moya watches her. Dressed in a heavy, studded dark coat, she brushes her wavy black hair out of the way from her face. In doing so, she reveals the curved scar just below her right eye; a scar shaped uncannily like a fish-hook. “It’s balance, right? Brother?” A hint of venom hisses from that last word, as she eyes the black preacher.

Brother Dust smiles. “Exactly right, Sister T'onga. It was balance, or rather the lack of it, that brought an end to these great empires. Thank you very much.”

T’onga scowls minutely and returns to her seat. Moya watches her recede into the shadows, knowing what all the others don’t: this is the very woman Shizuka is searching for.

Dust continues his lecture. “The Romans over-extended themselves, taking more than what they needed and losing what they did control. That is how the unwashed, disorganized barbarian tribes managed to learn from their mistakes and depose the once-mighty Roman forces.

“Genghis Khan had a different problem. He shouldered the success of his empire solely on his achievements and charisma, so that when he was gone, there was none that could ever take his place. And so, his empire was a posthumous failure.”

The old man sits back in his chair and spreads his arms wide. ”Balance is the key. We Three do what no other gang in this city has truly done before.

“We share our power. Freely, amongst ourselves. In this way, we achieve balance, in a city that has teetered upon the edge of the Black Pit since the earliest days of its existence. For in what other city could those like us ever achieve power?”

Saying this, Dust takes a deep breath, solemn in nature, almost as if he’s holding back some great anger. “Therefore… it is most distressing, when events conspire to disrupt this delicate balance.”

The masked woman pulls a cigar from her jacket and speaks. Her voice is strong, her accent understated. “Perhaps I am the wrong person to say this, but theatricality has its limits, Dust. Can you please get to your point already?”

Dust smiles, good-naturedly. “I wish only to bring enlightenment to our people, Sister, as much as you do. But how can I achieve this when our endeavors are thwarted, our property stolen, our people caught by enforcers of the law?” The preacher’s smile slowly hides away, as a far more serious expression plasters across his face. “But worse even than that, when utter strangers come into our midst and take one of our own?”

“If you are referring to the scumbag who got lucky,” Phantasma retorts, with a new edge in her tone, “then I can assure you, the situation is being dealt with.”

“Lucky, you say?” Dust questions. “Forgive me, Sister, but I loath to imagine that one of your top lieutenants could not only be dispatched by a common creep through mere luck, but also for his gift to be stolen by the very same despicable creature. The power that grants us all the way to Paradise!!”

At this, Dust reaches into his cloak and pulls out a pair of compact discs, which draw the eyes of everyone present. They are no ordinary discs, for in their metallic sheen, bizarre silhouettes can be seen, appearing human, but not exactly. These discs are not the creations of Brother Dust, but of another. A man who, years prior, came close to destroying the world with the help with those very discs: Enrico Pucci and his Stand, Whitesnake.

“Do not mistake me,” continues Brother Dust, “we all grieve for the loss of Brother Tito, but no further blunders can be made: the re-acquisition of Tito’s disc takes precedence over all mourning. This, I am sure you can understand, my dear Sister.”

“Por supuesto. As I said, it is being dealt with.”

“How?” All Kill says, involving himself for the first time.

After a pause, Phantasma gestures again. “Moya.”

Dutifully, the undercover Officer Moya Pezzente steps back into the light, flipping open a notebook. “The guy’s name is Ricardo Cone,” she begins, impassive, as if reading data on a computer screen. “A drifter by all accounts, originally from San Diego. He’s been wandering California for the past few years, before finally settling down in our town, for now. He’s an extreme anti-social, has been involved in several violent incidents since pre-school. Assaults, attempted murder, attempted rape.”

“How does a guy like that get the drop on one of us?” All Kill asks.

“Actually, it started 3 months ago. Our eyes in the area say this Cone pendejo happened to start some shit with Tito in a bar over in East LA. Obviously, Hermano Tito bashed his brains in, but left him alive.”

“Big mistake,” says the figure on the other side of Phantasma, in a harsh whisper. Even in the low light, Moya sees his teeth gleaming at her.

Unphased by the comment, Moya continues, “Cone started watching him. For three months, he watched everything he did, learning his routine. From what he had for breakfast, to who he met during the day, how often he used the bathroom. Nothing was sacred to this guy.

“Once he learned his routine inside and out, he attacked Tito outside his home, drugged him, brought him out to the train tracks and tied him up with his head on the tracks.”

The gruesome news sinks in, and there is silence for a moment. Then, All Kill speaks up again. “So after killing him, this Cone guy managed to take Tito’s Stand disc from his body?”

“That’s correct,” Moya replies.

“So there’s a possibility that this guy has a Stand now?”

“It’s possible. Judging from what we know of him, Tito’s Stand probably suits Cone better than Tito himself.”

“His body was discovered by a group of kids,” Phantasma states, her voice resonating, “The morgue had to identify him on his fingerprints. His face was completely gone. This man, Cone, did this to one of my people.” Across the room, everyone feels Phantasma’s resolve solidify within the air.

“Dust; I appreciate your concerned over the discs. But I ask, respectfully, that you and your crew stay out of this. This man has murdered one of my people. Not only did he kill Tito, but he has also desecrated his memory by sullying his corpse. This disrespect to me and mine cannot stand. It will not stand.”

The old man nods. “Of course, Sister. This was my intention all along. I entrust you with settling this matter.”

“Then we are done for the day, I suppose,” she says, rising from her chair. Moya drapes a large coat over her boss’s shoulders and lights the cigar she still holds between her fingers. She puffs on it as she leaves with her subordinates. As Moya follows her boss, she passes next to where T’onga sits.

“Hey, Moya…” calls out the dark haired woman, reclining sideways across her chair. She is smirking at her, rather cockily.

“What do you want, T’onga?” she replies, betraying no emotion.

“Oh, nothing. I just noticed you seem to have fucked up that pretty face of yours, and I got curious. What happened, did your last guy get a little too passionate? Or maybe it was a girl? Not that it matters…”

Moya sighs, speaking through gritted teeth. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m-”

“You know it’s not especially ladylike to go around with blemishes like that, right?”

“Well, you’d know, wouldn’t you?” Moya quips, then turns to leave.

“Hold up!” T’onga says, her voice raised. Moya stops, hearing her get up from the chair. “Hold up, you were mumbling. I don’t like it when people mumble around me. We should all be more honest with each other, don’t you think? So come on.” She marches towards her Hispanic counterpart. “I didn’t hear what you said, so please run that by me again?”

Scowling, Moya turns back to face her. She is at least a foot taller than T’onga, but the Asian woman is not the least bit intimidated. “I said, ‘You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?’ Facial blemishes, I mean. Considering, you and that hook there. Mine are temporary, of course, but…”

“Why are you acting like such a cunt?” T’onga asks bluntly. “I didn’t say it was bad, I just said un-ladylike! Though, now that I think about it, I’m sure you don’t mind coming across like that, do you? It’s probably a good look for you, at certain bars…” She starts stepping closer. Moya balls her hands into fists, “You know, I could give you something more permanent, if you wanted… Broaden your appeal-”

“T’onga,” the women freeze in place at the sound of All Kill’s voice. “Play nice.”

T’onga pulls a scowl across her face, then looks back. “ Don’t be so stiff, boss! We’re just trading beauty tips. You know… girl talk?” she sulks away from Moya, over to her boss’s side. “Later.”

The three of them, All Kill and his two attendants, leave through a different door. Moya’s gaze holds on T’onga for a while longer, before Phantasma’s voice beckons her away. She spares one last look, and thinks of Shizuka.