Both of them sat silently for a long time afterwards.
The old man seemed heavier now, weighed down by years of battles, regrets, and the looming shadow of a familiar enemy.
Finally, Joseph spoke, his voice rough with emotion."I never thought I'd have to fight Dio of all people." he muttered. "Not after everything."
John remained quiet, letting his father process it.
Joseph looked up at him, the fire that once led him through war and death rekindling in his old eyes."You have to get stronger, John. Stronger than I ever was. Stronger than Jonathan. Stronger than anyone."
John nodded solemnly, the words hammering themselves into his heart.
Joseph set his coffee down with a decisive clink.
"But I'm not gonna just sit around and bark orders either," he said, smirking faintly. "Old bones or not, I'm still a Joestar. And a Joestar doesn't go down without a fight."
John's eyes widened slightly."You're going to start training too?"
Joseph chuckled lowly. "Hell yeah. I may not be what I once was, but I'll push this body until it gives out, if it means giving you a fighting chance."
The room grew heavier with the weight of what was to come.Joseph stepped closer, placing a firm hand on John's shoulder.
"You carry the hopes of the Joestar bloodline now. Not just ours, but every innocent person Dio would trample underfoot. The world doesn't know it yet... but its fate is riding on you."
John swallowed hard, the gravity of those words settling deep into his chest.
"I won't let you down," he said firmly.
Joseph squeezed his shoulder tightly, pride and sorrow flickering across his face in equal measure.
"I know you won't."
.
.
.
"By the way, the foundation called... you might want to check out New Mexico, a mysterious hammer fell from the sky, and no one can seem to move it."
"....."
"And, how did you know a 'hammer' would fall from the sky? Surely, your Hamon isn't that advanced already?"
"...."
-<<>o<>>-
Far from the Speedwagon Foundation, hidden deep within the crumbling mansion, Dio sat alone once again, although surrounded by the corpses of a few unlucky SHIELD agents. The first rays of morning light barely grazed the ruins, but he was untouched — hidden in the deepest bowels of the structure.
He would have to change the location of his 'palace' soon, the human authorities wouldn't take much longer to converge upon him.
His golden-amber eyes narrowed, sensing something that made his blood boil.
That boy. That cursed Joestar brat. Even amidst the chaos, Dio had felt it — the unmistakable pulse of a Stand User and the bright, searing sting of Hamon energy. An irritating combination, burning his ancient, stolen flesh even now as a memory.
He flexed his fingers idly, the cold power of The World humming in his veins.
"A Joestar still dares to challenge me...?" he mused aloud, his voice a low growl.
A cruel, fanged smile split his face, full of menace and anticipation.
"So be it."
The False Joestar leaned back on his ruined throne, plotting. For the first time in nearly a century...He was looking forward to a fight.
.
.
.
Vanilla Ice knelt silently before Dio.
"..."
"What? Don't tell you're disappointed you couldn't fight the little Joestar? He would have annihilated you as you are now."
"...."
"*Ahem*, Master, I have located an old woman who claims to possess an ability not unlike 'The World', I believe she called it a Stand."
"Get her. Now."
-<<>o<>>-
A few days earlier...
The New Mexico desert was quiet, save for the dry wind that kicked up loose sand across the highway. An old pickup truck rumbled down a dirt road, creaking with age and purpose. The driver, a scruffy older man in denim overalls and a ball cap that had seen better days, squinted as he approached the object that had turned this sleepy stretch of desert into local legend overnight.
In the middle of a shallow crater, lodged in the earth like a monument left by the gods themselves, was a hammer.
Not just any hammer — it shimmered with a strange, ethereal glow even under the blazing sun. Its handle was wrapped in worn leather, the head engraved with ancient Norse runes that pulsed faintly with energy.
The old man stopped his truck just a few feet from the crater. He climbed out slowly, boots crunching against sand and rock.
"Well, if that ain't somethin'..." he muttered, eyes wide.
With a determined grunt, he looped a tow chain from the back of his truck around the hammer's handle. He spat into the dirt, got back into the cab, and started the engine.
The wheels spun. The truck groaned. The chain tightened…
…and then the back half of the truck just ripped off, metal shrieking as it separated from the front. The old man stared blankly through the shattered rear window.
"Did it work?" someone shouted from the sidelines, a few locals who'd gathered to watch.
"Nope," the old man replied, deadpan.
Within the hour, black SUVs and tactical trucks began rolling in from every direction, kicking up dust in their wake. Helicopters chopped overhead. Armed SHIELD agents jumped out and began setting up a perimeter.
A makeshift base was quickly erected around the crater: floodlights, radar arrays, temporary command posts. What had been a dusty stretch of nowhere was now a buzzing hive of activity.
Agent Phil Coulson stepped out of one of the command trucks, clipboard in hand, sunglasses shielding his gaze from the desert glare.
"Secure the area. I don't want a single civilian within five miles of this thing," he ordered.
"Yes, sir," an agent responded, already setting up barricades.
Coulson walked up to the crater and stood at the edge, looking down at the hammer resting silently at its center.
"Now what are you?" he murmured.