For anyone that still cares after three years without a word or worse, assurances that there would be content that never materialized, you're probably thinking: "What the fuck?"

There were definite impediments, like losing my outline. To be frank, real life got in the way. It's an excuse as much as it is an explanation.

Why come back? It's simple. Even if I had stopped writing How Far to Paradise, I did not stop thinking about it. I can still remember where I wanted this story to go. I'm also fond of these characters, and I want to give them the resolution that they (and you) deserve. It's rather ironic that I intended this to be a tightly paced ride that didn't overstay its welcome, but here I am three years later. At least I kept my promise to flaunt the stages of canon.

This won't be the final version of this chapter. I don't think I'm quite back into the swing of writing my Issei's voice. For what it's worth, here's something.

"Kept you waiting, didn't I?"

The man's voice is like a boulder rumbling down a hill as he places a mug of coffee in front of me on the gleaming chessboard of ebony and white oak of the small round table in the Roman apartment. Centuries of art and furniture adorned the walls and shelves; this table was probably made during the Renaissance.

"It's a cappuccino, and hopefully to your liking."

A bead of sweat drips from his bald dome as he takes a sip of his own cappuccino. His outfit is plain, but obviously expensive. Navy Saville Row trousers. Brown Hugo Boss derbies. A blue silk shirt with a white collar, unbuttoned. A grey tweed jacket, no vents. This whole ensemble serves only to highlight just how large and physical this man is in spite of his obvious age.

"Thank you, Your Holiness," I reply, having received a crash course on how to address this man.

He waves the honorific away like a fly.

"I will cut straight to the chase, Monsieur Issei. We are both blessed with miracles beyond scientific explanation. We are thus far closer than my position and yours would otherwise indicate."

"Is this the power of the Stand?" I ask.

"Yes."

I sip my cappuccino and look at the oil painting of Cardinal Richelieu at La Rochelle behind the Pope.

"Why do you say that 'we are far closer in status'," I ask, "than to say that we are equals."

The Pope smiles.

"Because my Stand is by far the strongest in the world. I am often busy, so please send a letter if you want to test it."

He speaks these words with a no betrayals of bravado.

"What do you want?" I ask.

"To allow everyone in the world to flourish with both knowledge and tools to defeat their inhuman nature of original sin," he says and then pauses, "That is my primary goal."

"What do you mean by inhuman nature?"

"People often say that bad things happen because of 'human nature.'"

"Is that so? As you say, I've always heard it the other way."

"This will not be a logical argument," the Pope says, "But rather a story that moved me and illustrates my point. In the Church, we have saints and this man was one of them. St. Maxmiliam Kolbe was a Fransiscan monk in Warsaw during the 1930s. During the Second World War, he was imprisoned at the Auschwitz concentration camp which was to become his grave. In retaliation for some misbehavior by the prisoners, the camp's commandant ordered ten men to be starved to death. When one cried out that he had a wife and children, Father Kolbe volunteered to take the place of this man who was a stranger to him."

At this point, the burly man in front of me bursts into tears

"He led the other condemned men in prayer for two weeks until he was the last one alive. He was then killed by lethal injection," he continues, "If the fundamental human instinct is toward evil, I do not believe such acts of charity would be possible."

He takes a hankerchief with the Vatican coat of arms from his back pocket to dry his eyes and wipe his nose.

"So what you are saying is that if human nature were selfish, we would not be able to choose altruism in times of duress."

"Yes."

We are silent for some time, drinking coffee and watching the streets of Rome below the porticoes over which the apartment extended.

Lights flash myriad neon like a kaleidoscope. Bass pounds. Synths wail. Matej is at the bar getting drinks and chatting up someone that looks like one of many models which are said to roam the streets of Naples.

"I don't see why he wanted to bring an old man like me here," says Kazemi.

"Maybe he's just a generous guy," I say, "The first thing he wanted to do when I met him was to share a drink."

"I can't decide whether he's naive or drunk on life."

My lips quirk into a smile.

"I dunno. I guess I'd describe him as a simple person. He does what he wants, and he's straightforward about that."

The Croat returns with the model on his arm, whom he introduces to us. A waitress stops by with a tray of drinks. Something cerulean in a martini glass.

"It's an Aviation. Gin, crème de violet, lemon juice, and -my favorite – maraschino."

I take a hesitant sip. Having had enough experiences with shitty blue drinks, like fucking Gatorade and vodka. This is nice. Juniper, sour, and a hint of almond sweetness balance each other. I still don't see the bright red cherry he was talking about though.

Matej puts a hand around my shoulder.

"Pretty good, isn't it. I will say this, some of the best cocktails in the world use maraschino. It's distilled from Marasca cherries, from Dalmacija in Croatia."

"You seem excited," says Reynalle, "And thanks, of course, for the drink."

"I can't help it. I'm too close to home," he says, "If there is anything I learned on my sojourn, it's that you have to have some paradise you can come back to. As I also learned, that place is my beloved Croatia."

The night is comfortable at our table in this club. Reynalle puts my arm around her shoulder and leans into me. Backless dress, detached lace sleeves, cork wedges with dark straps. She really does look the part of a fallen angel. A beauty otherworldly.

"Hey Issei," she says, "Let's dance."

"I'm pretty happy here," I say.

"You're going to have fun."

"Alright, fine."

She takes my hand and pulls me out to the dance floor. It's packed, but it's not a press of people with no room to breath. I can't dance, but this cocktail is giving me more bravado.

"I hate to admit this at this point," I say, "But I can't do much more than the middle-school sway."

"That's alright," she says, shouting over the pounding music, "I have a few centuries; you're a quick learner, right?"

Reynalle clings to my arm as we walk through the night streets of Rome. Old mingles with new. Bright neon lights on the Roman rocks. Our destination looms. Solid. Silent. Standing strong. Incandescent lights cast a yellow haze on the ancient columns of the Colosseum. And when you're the guests of the Pope, you get to tour it after hours.

"It really was something, you know," says Reynalle.

"The Colosseum?"

"Yes. The sensation in your heart as a gladiator arises from the warm sands on a hot, clear day can't be matched. Coming up crouched, drawing his sword, and rising to the roar of the crowd. That was Rome, a debauched spectacle – but a spectacle all the same."

We stand in the quiet arena, the Pope and I. He still wears his formal robes and miter resting on a troubled brow.

"Are you sure that you're up to this, old man?" I ask.

The Pope smiles, "I assure you that I am, Monsieur Issei."

He places his miter on a table. The flickering floodlights shine off his bald head. He takes one step forward. A hand on his robes. Another stride ahead. The robe flutters in the air. No man that old should have a body like that. Every inch of his exposed chest is ripped, bulging with powerful muscles. And the scars. He must have been stabbed, cut, and even shot a few times.

I shudder at this history of violence carved onto his skin like stone tablets. I don't want to think about what happened to the other guy. Pop! I almost jump, but then I realize it's only the sound of the Pope stretching his neck with a satisfying (to him) crack.

With a thought, Slim Shady stands by my side, hands tucked in its pockets.

"So that is your Stand," he says, "Allow me to introduce mine. Lone Digger."

If the Pope is merely imposing, his Stand is towering. A colossus of iron with the vigor of Michaelangelo's David. It's eyes glow gold from a visage hidden in a mysterious fog. My chest tightens. This thing is powerful.

"Since this is for fun," he says, "I'll consider you the winner if you can lay a hand on me."

"Are you really so confident?" I ask, not expecting an answer

"I am not a liar."

I can feel some sort of pressure weighing down on my shoulders. It's almost like taking a car through a tight turn. I grab a coin from my pocket, which my Stand grabs and tosses. Heads or tails? Tails. Too bad, the result didn't matter either way. Slim Shady winds up and hurls the coin. The air cracks as the coin breaks the sound barrier.

It moves faster. Then slower. And slower again. It one moment, it covers half the space it did in the last, curving toward the Pope's Stand. And then it's gone.

I send out Slim Shady. Unbound by physical laws, it should be able to close the gap. We throw feints to gauge how quickly Lone Digger can respond. It stays stationary. Calm, cool, and collected. So, let's throw one for real and try not to shatter every bone in my hand. Slim Shady's left arm snaps out at the solar plexus. Crunch! The enemy Stand intercepted my fist with a punch of it's own

Motherfucker, that hurt!

I do a little dance, shaking my incredibly sore hand. I'm pretty sure something is broken there. At least it was my left. My right is my fa-

I double over in agony as Lone Digger slams a hook into Shady's midsection. My liver. And holy shit does it fucking hurt. Sweat drips down my face, and not just from the agony. There's no way that was full power. Between those two thoughts, my face more resembles a sweating glass.

And then Lone Digger begins a barrage of punches. In a heartbeat, I can block or attack in kind. At the speed of thought, I strike back. We go blow for blow. His fists strike like sacks of hardened concrete as fast a machine gun or snare drum.

It's a struggle that I lose. My hands are alternately numb, and surging with fire where my veins used to be. Every so often, a punch slips through, and a small chunk of my body goes white hot with pain. At the end of it, I'm on my knees. My visions blurs, between the agony of the blows and the stinging sweat in my eyes. I close my eyes, and every time I open them, the Pope is a few paces closer. He picks me up and slings my arm over his shoulder.

"A valiant effort, Monsieur Issei. Most would rather flee than stand against me, and I'm not talking in the bureaucratic sense of managing the one holy catholic apostolic Church."

All I can do is give him a thumbs-up from the arm that is slung around him. I can feel a light sheen of sweat, as though he'd been out for a pleasant jog. What a guy. Unconquerable. I close my eyes.

I wake up to the warmth of Reynalle's body wrapped around me. Everything aches, and I can see that my left ring and pinky are in a splint. My aching ribs have been taped. It takes me back to that hotel room where we screwed for the first time. But it's not the pleasant sensations of our bodies slapping together that I recall. It's the sensation of not being alone.

I roll over, with some difficulty to watch her sleeping form. I can see tearful streaks of makeup on her eyes. My heart drops, somewhere between my stomach and intestines. I don't know how to express this feeling. It might be love. Or at the very least, I'd give anything to toss this supernatural bullshit out the window. Then it would be the story of a boy meeting a girl. Fuck it, I might be some sort of anime hero, who inexplicably has some busty, magic broad fall for him.

Is that it? Am I so twisted that I can only look at love and life through a lens of pop culture targeted to the fantasies of guys that don't fuck?

"Don't frown like that, Issei. I like you better when you're happy."

Her arms wrap around me. I feel a warm, wet sensation as she licks and kisses up my neck, fingers feathering lower and lower.

"I can't wait for you to get all healed up. Then we can have some real fun."

"In the middle of the Vatican?" I ask.

"So?" she says, "You don't get to be a Grigori by following the rules."