A Few Days Earlier…
The scent of sweat and ozone filled the Joestar penthouse training hall — an expansive room of polished hardwood, reinforced glass walls, and embedded quartz that shimmered subtly under morning light. Outside, the skyline of Manhattan glistened as the world continued on unaware of the cosmic battles building in the shadows.
Inside, John Joestar was already an hour into his routine. Spin. Ripple. Stand. Again.
A steel ball carved a perfect spiral through the air, slamming into a target with a resounding crack. Tusk shimmered behind him like a phantom, its mechanical head nodding in approval. Then came the breathing — that rhythm, that sacred pulse of life Joseph drilled into him — and the room filled with golden light for an instant as Ripple surged through John's body.
"You're overextending your shoulder on the throw," came the familiar voice of his father, seated on the edge of a mat with his legs crossed.
John looked back, panting slightly. "I'm trying to push the range."
Joseph tossed a towel at him. "Range comes after control. You'll break your own arm before you hit the Hulk in the face like that."
John caught the towel and grinned. "Noted."
Joseph stood, cracking his back with a groan that betrayed his age. "You've come far, Johnny. Your Ripple's decent, your Stand's getting stronger, and I haven't had to save your ass in a week. That's progress."
John rolled his eyes. "I get it, Dad. I'm not hopeless anymore."
Joseph smirked. "I'm saying you're ready."
John's brow lifted.
Joseph walked past him, looking out the glass at the skyline. "Speedwagon just confirmed it — SHIELD found something strange in New Mexico. Some kind of outer space junk. As you requested, they've pulled a few strings to get you in there."
John's spine straightened. "So it's finally showtime?"
Joseph turned, serious now. "Kid, You're representing the Foundation this time. Field work. High risk. You're gonna be on-site with SHIELD, and from what I've heard, it's not just some space rock. It might be something that changes the game."
John exhaled slowly. The first real mission. "So when do I leave?"
"In a few days," Joseph said. "But before you go..."
He looked John up and down, expression shifting from stern to vaguely amused.
"You need a new look."
John blinked. "What?"
Joseph crossed his arms. "All black, tactical gear, scarf, sunglasses? You look like the world's most depressed ninja. You trying to fight monsters or audition for The Matrix?"
John glanced down at himself. "It's practical."
"It's boring," Joseph countered. "You're a Joestar. We don't do 'blending in.' We make entrances. You need something with flair. Maybe a bit of color. Some drama. Toss in a cape or two."
"A cape?" John said flatly.
Joseph shrugged. "Just saying — if you're gonna punch gods and aliens, at least look like someone who could."
John chuckled. "So what, you want me to dress like MJ but with muscles?"
"No, I want you to look like a damn hero. With style. Charisma. Panache!
John froze.
Then a slow grin spread across his face.
John tapped his chin, thoughtful.
"You know what, old man? You've inspired me."
"Oh?"
John stepped forward dramatically, one hand raised like he was striking a pose. "That's it. I've made my decision. From this moment on, I shall be known… as Tequila John."
Joseph's mouth dropped open in abject horror. "WHAT?!"
John clapped a hand on his shoulder, eyes gleaming. "Tequila John. Has a ring to it, doesn't it?"
Joseph paled. "H-How do you know about that name?! That mission was top secret! The footage was destroyed! Only Speedwag—"
John leaned in, smirking. "Exactly. Speedwagon."
Joseph staggered backward like he'd been punched. "That traitorous bastard! He promised he convinced the Nazis to erase the recordings!"
"He didn't," John said, smug. "In fact, he said — and I quote — 'One day, I'll pass these down to the next Joestar, so he never forgets how stupid his father looked in heels.'"
Joseph groaned and slapped a hand over his face. "I knew I should've erased those security logs…"
John laughed, long and loud, the kind of laugh he hadn't let out since before Harlem.
It was real. Unburdened.
Joseph sighed, but a smile tugged at his lips despite himself.
"Alright, smartass," he said. "You win. But don't come crying to me when your enemies call you Tequila Joestar in a fight."
John nodded with mock solemnity. "I'll wear the name with pride."
They stood there for a moment, father and son. The joking faded, and silence stretched between them — the kind that only came when something was ending, or beginning.
"Seriously, John," Joseph said at last. "You're ready. You've got the Ripple. The Spin. Three Stands now too. But more than that… you've got the heart. Don't lose that. Ever."
John met his gaze and nodded. "I won't."
Joseph's voice softened, quiet now. "When you see whatever it is out there... trust your instincts. And remember, if it looks like a god, punches like a god, and smells like a god — it can still bleed."
"Thanks," John said. "And I'll make sure they remember the name."
Joseph gave a proud, crooked smile. "You mean Tequila John?"
John groaned. "Don't push it."
Joseph burst out laughing, walking off toward the kitchen. "You want eggs? I'm making eggs!"
John shook his head, muttering with a grin. "What kind of lunatic fights ancient vampires and still makes breakfast like it's nothing…"
He turned back toward the center of the room, steel ball in one hand, scarf now discarded.
A new suit would come soon.
A new name. A new mission. A new battlefield.
But at his core?
He was still a Joestar.
.
.
.
Present Day.
The desert wind whipped around the SHIELD base with a dry hiss, kicking dust into the air as Agent Phil Coulson made his way toward the landing pad. The sleek black helicopter gleamed in the sun like a shark in the sand — all curves and menace, its doors hissing open with quiet finality.
Coulson straightened his tie, composed his face, and waited.
The first thing he saw were the boots.
White leather, too polished for desert terrain, with accents shaped like miniature lightning bolts. They crunched softly against the gravel as the passenger stepped out — and then Coulson saw the rest.
John Joestar had arrived.
Agent Phil Coulson almost suffered from epilepsy from seeing John's bizarre outfit.
Coulson blinked. Was that a golden chain looping around his waist? And was his scarf... glowing? John wore a magnificently royal purple fur-lined suit with a golden heart flaring in the middle of his chest,
John's eyes were hidden behind narrow blue-tinted shades, and a single lock of his silver-streaked black hair curled dramatically over his forehead like a question mark.
[IMAGE]
He strode forward like a man who expected the world to look at him — and obey.
Coulson hesitated, then offered his hand. "Agent Phil Coulson. Welcome to the site."
John clasped it firmly. "John Joestar. Speedwagon Foundation, Outer Space Division."
"You're… certainly not what I expected."
John gave a small, lopsided smirk. "I get that a lot."
Coulson opened his mouth to ask something else, but John interrupted, his voice cutting with precision.
"Take me to the hammer."
The agent stiffened slightly. "That… information is classified. It's not publicly known what the object is, let alone its shape."
John merely started walking past him, coat fluttering behind him like a battle flag.
Coulson fell in step beside him. "You do realize I'm going to ask how you knew what it was."
John adjusted his scarf, still walking. "I know things."
"That's not much of an answer."
"I'm not here to give answers, Agent Coulson," John replied, tone cool. "I'm here to look at your problem."
They passed rows of reinforced fencing and observation towers. Technicians and agents paused in their work to glance at the bizarrely dressed figure marching through their base like he owned it. John ignored the stares. His eyes flicked subtly across the camp — heat signatures, watchtowers, drone launch platforms, portable field jammers. Every inch was bristling with surveillance tech.
He filed it away.
Eventually, they approached the central tented area — a large barrier of white tubes built around the crater. It buzzed with tension. Uniformed SHIELD personnel hovered around holographic displays and scanning terminals, their eyes flicking up as the duo approached.
And there, in the center of it all, surrounded by portable floodlights and sensor arrays… was the hammer.
Resting in the dirt, half-sunken into a small patch of rock. Unmoving. Unyielding. Silent.
John stepped closer, expression unreadable behind his shades.
"Clear the area," he said without turning.
A technician looked up from his screen, incredulous. "Excuse me?"
"I said," John repeated, "clear the area. I need privacy."
"Who the hell do you think you are?" the man snapped. "You can't just walk in here and—"
"He can," Coulson cut in.
The entire tent froze.
The tech turned. "What?"
"You heard me," Coulson said calmly. "Everyone out. That's an order."
There was a ripple of disbelief, followed by rustling papers and shifting feet. One by one, the personnel filed out, casting glances back at the Joestar representative like they were leaving a tiger in the lion's cage.
Soon, it was silent. Just John. The hammer. And the desert wind beyond the dome.
John exhaled.
A ripple of golden lightning-like energy surged around him.
Purple vines unfurled from thin air — ghostly, shimmering, made of spirit and will. They writhed briefly, then extended in all directions, slithering across the floor, curling up the walls, brushing against the corners of the room like the sensory tendrils of a sea creature.
Hermit Purple.
John placed a hand against the dirt.
Instantly, his Stand fed him information. Surveillance nodes. Radio transmissions. Optical sensors. Thermal imaging equipment. Everything within range of Hermit Purple's spiritual feel — every device transmitting information — lit up in his mind like candles in a tunnel.
He'd used it before, back in New York, to read through the dirty digital laundry of criminal organizations.
Now it told him: he was being watched.
Still watched.
A camera in the floodlight. A drone overhead on standby. A residual trace of thermal mapping software embedded in the hammer's crater.
He clicked his tongue. "Sloppy."
He raised one hand. A vine snapped forward and crushed the main surveillance camera, sparks showering from the broken lens. Another vine lashed upward and yanked a hidden mic from the ceiling.
Static.
Only now did John kneel beside the hammer.
"Hermit Purple. A psychic Stand. Not meant for battle — not in the way Tusk or Weather Report are. But for gathering information? For unraveling secrets, even across continents? It's unmatched.It can interface with machines, detect energy signatures, track minds and bloodlines. Dio could sense it when Joseph tried to spy on him. That's how powerful the signal is. It's not just psychic. It's personal."
John ran his fingers over the aged leather of the hammer's handle.
Energy buzzed beneath it. Dormant. Waiting. Calling out to him yet not letting him approach without warning.
This isn't just a weapon, John thought. It's a work of art.
He closed his eyes and let Hermit Purple wrap around it.
The air grew thick. The wind stopped. For a moment, John saw flashes — a tree branching through realms, lightning forging a path through stars, a storm-cloaked man screaming defiance into the void.
And buried beneath it all…
Someone watching.
John instantly pulled his hand back, breathing harder than before.
He stood slowly, eyes narrowing.
Outside, Coulson waited just beyond the flap of the dome, arms crossed, pretending he wasn't curious.
The flap rustled.
John stepped out, coat fluttering behind him like a cape.
Coulson opened his mouth, but John spoke first.
"I'll need full access to your records on atmospheric anomalies. All security logs for the past week. And local surveillance records of any newcomers to the nearby town."
Coulson blinked. "… the town's records? What for?"
"Don't tell me you think someone who's involved in this is still hanging around?"
John turned slightly, just enough to glance back toward the dome.
"I know that hammer didn't fall," he said. "It was thrown."
And he walked past, leaving Coulson standing alone in the dust.