The desert sun beat down on the SHIELD encampment, a cluster of prefab bunkers and black vehicles surrounding the deep crater where the mysterious object had fallen. Agents bustled between stations, relaying data, arguing over energy signatures, and preparing for the next round of analysis. Then a ripple of unrest began to stir across the outer perimeter.
A new convoy had arrived.
Sleek matte-black vehicles bearing the silver sigil of the Speedwagon Foundation rolled up beside the SHIELD base like ghosts of authority. From inside them emerged figures in sharp uniforms—men and women in suits that looked more appropriate for a cyberpunk city than a battlefield, each of them moving with quiet confidence and precision.
John Joestar exited the SHIELD tent with a faint sigh of irritation and strolled toward the crater, his extravagant outfit catching the sunlight like a walking fashion disaster turned icon. Purple, gold, and teal clashed boldly across high-quality fabrics, with his billowing coat trailing behind him like a royal banner. The SHIELD agents turned to stare—again.
"You can't just walk in and set up next to a classified operation!" barked one of the SHIELD lieutenants, stepping in front of the nearest Speedwagon agent. "Where's your authorization?"
The agent wordlessly produced a thin holo-slab and held it up.
A rotating hologram of the UN seal shimmered into view, followed by the signature of one Senator Robert Speedwagon. Below it: Cooperative Observation Agreement between SHIELD and the Speedwagon Foundation, sanctioned by the World Security Council.
Coulson stepped up, arms crossed. "It's legit," he confirmed. "Let them work."
The lieutenant blinked, then stepped aside as the Speedwagon agents began deploying their tech—drones zipped upward, scanning towers unfolded, and a makeshift base began to rise on the edge of the crater.
John didn't wait for ceremony.
He turned, looking out over the desert horizon, then snapped his fingers.
A sudden breeze picked up. The agents around him paused.
From behind him, shimmering into view like a living mirage, Weather Report appeared.
The Stand's presence sent a jolt of unease through nearby SHIELD agents.
"W-What is that thing?" one whispered.
John ignored them. His expression was calm, focused.
He walked forward, into the wind—and then jumped.
Mid-air, he clapped his hands together with a pulse of Hamon.
The moment the energy surged through his coat, it responded—metallic threads stiffening, fabric snapping into rigid wings, their shape held by Hamon's precise control of molecular tension. With an elegant twist of his body, John soared higher.
Then Weather Report acted.
A cyclone formed beneath him, gusts of wind cradling his body and rocketing him upward like a missile, a contrail of vapor streaming behind him. The agents below scattered from the gust, shielding their eyes as sand kicked up in bursts.
One SHIELD agent ducked. "Did he just—did that guy just fly?!"
Coulson didn't answer. He simply watched John become a silhouette in the sky.
.
.
Far above, at a hidden perch atop a nearby communications tower.
Clint Barton adjusted the scope on his custom compound bow. The sun was dipping low, casting long shadows over the desert. He had just gotten comfortable when he spotted something unusual.
A figure. Flying. Cloaked in what looked like a purple and gold outift, trailing mist.
He narrowed his eyes.
The man was gliding, not falling—on purpose. Controlled. Tactical.
Clint reached for an arrow, notched it, and exhaled slowly as he tracked the target.
Then his comm earpiece crackled. "Barton. Stand down. He's one of ours… for now."
Clint paused. Kept the arrow drawn.
He watched John cut a sharp arc through the sky, wind curling around him like ribbons, his cape flashing in the sunset. Weather Report flying beside him like a specter.
Clint slowly lowered the bow.
"Another day," he muttered.
.
.
.
The desert air had shifted.
Dark clouds churned overhead, slowly consuming the sky. A storm was building—unnatural and heavy, as if the heavens themselves were holding their breath.
Miles from the SHIELD encampment, a beat-up RV cruised along a winding dirt path. Inside, Jane Foster hunched over her laptop, eyebrows furrowed at the energy readings that danced across her screen. Darcy Lewis sat across from her, chewing on a red Twizzler while scrolling through her phone. At the front, Dr. Erik Selvig gripped the steering wheel with silent unease.
"Jane, this storm is way weirder than last night," Darcy commented, side-eyeing the swirling sky. "I'm just saying… this looks less 'meteorological' and more 'Wrath of God.'"
Jane didn't respond. She was focused. "The readings are spiking again. Same pattern as the object crash, only—this one's vertical. Like a column."
Erik squinted through the windshield. "There's nothing in astrophysics about atmospheric wormholes. But... if we're right—"
WHAM.
They all jolted as the RV slammed into something. The vehicle screeched to a halt, kicking up a trail of dirt and gravel.
"Did we just hit a person?" Jane gasped, throwing open the door.
Lying flat on the road was a shirtless, muscular man with golden hair, covered in dust and confusion. Jane and Darcy rushed over. The man groaned and tried to rise.
His eyes scanned the sky—wild, panicked.
"No..." he whispered. "This realm… Midgard…? Father!"
He stumbled to his feet and shouted upward, arms stretched toward the storming heavens.
"Mjölnir! Come to me!"
Nothing happened.
"Mjölnir!" he roared again, louder this time. "Do not deny your master! I am Thor Odinson, prince of Asgard, heir to the throne!"
His voice boomed with divine authority—but no lightning answered.
Instead, the wind howled emptily.
Darcy tilted her head. "Oookay. I vote we tase him."
Jane hesitated. "Wait, he might be hurt or—"
ZAP.
Thor convulsed and dropped like a sack of potatoes.
Darcy nodded, satisfied. "Yeah, I feel good about that choice."
Erik finally stepped out of the RV, gaze fixed not on Thor, but on the earth beneath him.
"God in heaven..." he whispered, kneeling.
Burned into the dry ground in a perfect, scorched circle were the ancient symbols of the Bifrost—Norse runes etched by rainbow fire. Swirls and sigils that had not been seen outside of old sagas and mythology textbooks.
"I've seen these before," he murmured. "As a boy, growing up in Sweden. In the old stories, these marks were left by the gods when they came to Earth…"
He looked up, brow creased in awe and fear. "This man, just who is he?"
High above the clouds, well beyond view, a single figure hovered.
John Joestar.
His winged coat flared out gently in the breeze, the clouds swirling beneath him like an ocean of churning mist. Weather Report stood silently beside him, its eyes glowing faintly with static pulses.
John gazed down toward the desert road, where the storm raged and thunder rolled.
"So," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone, "the God Of Thunder has landed."
He watched as Thor writhed on the ground, stripped of his strength and dignity, reduced to a man who still thought himself a god.
"He's not ready yet," John continued, arms folded. "It's not time to approach. Let him stumble, rage, and grow. He has to find his worthiness on his own."
Weather Report gave a quiet hum of approval.
John narrowed his eyes toward the horizon.
"Only when he remembers what it means to protect—will the hammer remember him."
The storm cracked once more, distant and thunderous.