Chapter Text
Your earliest memory was one upon your grandfather's lap.
He was a wrinkly old man, your grandfather, and he always looked about with a furrow in his brow. Age did not treat him well and when you asked him why with the words of a wondrous child, he frowned. He wasn't mad at you, oh no. He could never be offended by his three-year-old innocent grandchild.
"It's because of the Joestars," he told you quite seriously, the wrinkles in his forehead becoming wrinklier as he imparted unto you the most important words you would ever hear, "Never get close to a Joestar, child."
You, being a curious little kid, of course asked, "Why?"
The question spurred on something you would remember for the rest of your life: your family lineage, and the curse that came with it.
Your great, great grandfather, god bless his soul, was a poor yet honest worker who knew when to keep his nose down. He knew everything that came with tending a farm, raising a family, and living day to day to the fullest. He helped those who needed it, fed the hungry stray animals, and overall was the kindest man you would meet, save for the Joestar family down the way. You and the rest of your family all agree that he did not deserve what was coming.
But, unfortunately, Dio happened and everything kind of... went up in flames. Literally.
The Joestar mansion burned down, caught everything beside it on fire, and it managed to spread in one direction until it got to your poor great, great grandfather's fields and ruined his life. It was a freak accident. It could have happened to anyone had the winds been blowing a bit differently.
They hadn't though and unfortunately it was only the beginning.
Your double great grandfather's brother? His town was razed to the ground. Only he and his wife were able to escape, and his son was blown up on a boat not long after. Tragic accidents it would have been had it not been for two things: Joestar and Brando. Both were present in the face of these two tragedies.
It was a stroke of brilliance on your great, great grandfather's part. After all, once was just a stroke of bad luck, twice was mere coincidence, and three times was the work of something that really, really didn't like you.
The Joestar Family curse, as your great, great grandfather dubbed it, would be a pattern that would haunt your family for generations.
Cousin Mayla in New York? Assaulted by a man who just happened to be an enemy-slash-aquaintance of a Joestar. Great uncle Dennis? Killed by the same guy on an exhibition. For a Joestar family friend. Your great grandfather's life was taken in Egypt where, what in the actual hell, Dio's minion had killed him.
It had taken a lot of research to pinpoint the bullshit on that one, your grandfather had told you with a deep, deep frown on his face. There had been a lot of cover up involved and once the truth was unburied, everyone was a wary kind of thankful when they found out that Dio Brando had been rid of for good courtesy of Jotaro Kujo. Who even knew that vampires could actually be a thing?
But that wasn't the last of the curse, oh no. Your aunt Agetha? She had a near-death experience with a serial killer while visiting a friend in a neighborhood. That same serial killer had gotten to her sister. It didn't come as a surprise when it was discovered that, not one, but two Joestars had taken temporary shelter there. She didn't quite come out of her shock, sadly.
You lost a distant cousin to gangsters in Italy. His mother had sent him there to get away from the Joestar Family curse, but it followed him like a plague and struck when his guard was down.
“To be fair,” your grandfather had added in a faraway tone, “that Joestar didn't look like any Joestar before him. It was no wonder your cousin got negligent.”
That one had also taken a buttload of research to pinpoint because, really, who would have thunk it? A Joestar not only in the Italian mafia, but seizing control of it? That sort of bullshit had been buried ten feet under, but if there was one thing your family got good at, it was digging up information.
So many things linked back to the Joestars, so many tragedies and accidents and fatalities...
And then there was you.
Born and raised like any child haunted by the Joestar Family curse, you could name off every leaf, branch and root on the Joestar family tree and those that were important to them. You knew how to use most sorts of transportation (because anything could happen when the curse was involved) and how to perform first aid in case of the inevitable.
You had the training of a Joestar survivor, and yet that still wasn't enough.
When you had lost your cousin in Italy, your father had decided to hoist up you and your mother and take you to Japan to live with the rest of your family. That was his first mistake, but how could you have guessed that the Joestar Family curse would swing back to Japan so soon?
At twenty, you were framed by a local gang member for stealing. You weren't sure of what exactly, it had just been shoved into your arms as the actual perpetrator ran, but it didn't matter. You were carted off behind bars as if you had stolen it yourself.
Your father was the one who found the connection: one of the members of that gang was Jolyne Kujo, a Joestar in everything but name. The curse had come for you in the form of this teenager and had struck when you hadn't expected it. With both you and your father agreeing that it was safer for you to serve out your sentence instead of paying the bail, you were sure that the curse had done its part.
It was never to be that simple.
A few weeks later, your inmate mysteriously died and with no one else to blame, it fell onto your shoulders. Deeming you too dangerous for normal means, the police shipped you off to a place called Green Dolphin Street Prison. Absurd name aside, it was a maximum security prison facility, something you were sure that a Joestar would never step foot into. They were too good for that. Too noble. Too kind. Here, you were sure, here you were safe at last.
...up until Jolyne Kujo was dumped unceremoniously into your hands a month and a half later and you gained the ability (through a painful prick to the finger) that had made such Joestar chaos possible.
A Stand, you had come to learn it was called.
It certainly explained why things went boom, crack, and wham without the Joestars moving a muscle. Still.
With the Joestar Family curse lurking ever so heavily over your shoulder, you took every opportunity that you could to keep as far away from her as possible. It was a good plan, a safe plan, but when a priest of all things turned out to be Dio's yearning follower? Everything, and you meant everything, turned to shit. You were pulled into that mess faster than Joseph Joestar had run from his enemies.
Dio couldn't just die in peace and leave everyone be, could he? Of course not.
Goddamn Dio.
You don't know how you were convinced in tagging along considering every fiber of your being was screaming alarm bells in various octaves. You had to admit, you might not like the Joestar bloodline, but they could give a hell of a speech when they wanted to.
Reluctant ally though you were, you figured that the curse would not only affect you at this point, but everyone in your family. And if there was anything that would motivate you to action, it was your family's safety. So, you accompanied Jolyne and her company as they broke out of prison and filled you in on the details.
Apparently Pucci (the priest) had means to get the power to end the world and create a new one entirely because of some magical hooha words and a tiny green baby.
What?
Perhaps it was just because you were too done at this point to care, or maybe it was because your family had learned the art of rolling with the punches whenever the Joestars were involved, but you found yourself entirely unsurprised by this and more exasperated that it was a thing. To be honest, you think you stopped being surprised when the whole world went on an acid trip courtesy of an enemy stand.
Your plan to stop him had all gone to hell, naturally, and Pucci succeeded in getting what he wanted in the end. The world was breaking down, speeding forward, twisting into time and disintegrating to ash around you while your comrades were falling like flies. That's probably why you found yourself staying behind to face Pucci's overwhelming power while the rest of the living escaped.
The Joestar Family curse, you've decided, smokes so much grass.
You call your stand and it surrounds you like a blanket. The space around you distorts and shimmers like light through water, but Pucci shows no sign of slowing down his pursuit. He flies like a missile and makes no move to defend.
He barrels into your stand and it tries, it tries so hard to resist, but when the one it is resisting can reshape the world? It breaks, twists, stretches and you stretch along with it. You gasp and Pucci's eyes go only a fraction wider--
White and blinding. Stars behind your eyelids. Black and heavy and suffocating as the air whips passed you in waves.
Then the weight is gone and it is replaced by the feeling of falling.
Falling hard, falling fast, and you can't open your eyes--
An impact.
You gasp, taking in air like a newborn. The collision of you... landing on whatever it is that you landed on is enough for your consciousness to be jerked back front and center. It takes you a moment, but when your heart stops pounding inside of your ears, everything comes back to you like a road-roller hitting you dead on in the face.
Except, instead of dying like a normal person, you've lived through it long enough to regret every action leading up to that point.
Goddamn, Pucci is an asshole. Or... was an asshole. Shit, it hurt to breathe, let alone think.
You crack open an eye to a bright blue sky and fluffy white clouds. You want to curse at it for being so stupidly bright, but when even thinking about opening your mouth hurts, you settle for a mental flip of the bird. You pry open the other eye when some more thoughts invade your mind.
One is: if you're seeing the sky right now, does that mean that Pucci has failed?
And the other is: what the hell did you land on? It's uncomfortable as hell.
Before you can check, however, something grabs at your arm and your thigh and pushes. You tumble to the dirt ground with a grunt, the amount of offense you take reaching phenomenal levels. You grunt and roll yourself over with every intention of laying some serious smack into whoever did that because shit. That hurt so freaking much it's not even funny.
With a huff, you lift yourself onto all fours with shaky limbs and slowly bring your head up to glare at the offender at fault...
...only to be met with the same ferocious glare.
Ah. You landed on a guy, then. Your eyes wander downward despite yourself and you fight to keep the grimace off of your face.
It was a guy in a wheelchair, to be more precise.
You narrow your eyes as you bring your them upward once more. It was a man in a wheelchair with a ridiculous looking beanie that had a horseshoe on it. And a horse. And some tacky stars.
Ha! And to think you thought that the Joestars had weird taste in fashion.
Still. Shit. Wheelchair. Crap.
It is that line of thought that brings you to your feet despite your shaking knees. The anger starts to melt away and you have every intention of apologizing for landing in what you assume was the guy's lap, as you move. Your legs, however, have other plans and you tumble forward just as you start speaking. The man isn't quick enough to roll out of your way, so when you grab out to hold onto his wheelchair, you do so successfully.
Fortunately, you had managed to position yourself exactly right so that you didn't collide with him. Unfortunately, this gives you the unwanted opportunity of seeing down this guy's shirt.
It's ruffled at just the right angle and god, god you wished it wasn't. He's saying something, shouting something, and you would tear yourself away if you could, but you find yourself unable to move. You can't even pry your eyes away.
For right there resting on the crook between his shirt, neck, and shoulder, is a pale, wine colored star-shaped birthmark.
You don't know whether to laugh, scream, or cry.
You settle for all three.
Goddammit. Of course the first person you land on after the whole incident would be a Joestar. Of course.
It's almost too much for you to handle. As it is, you are sobbing through your hysterical, screeching laughter as you try to keep yourself upright.
The Joestar (because what else could he be?) below you is stiffening uncomfortably. You can see the gears cranking frantically behind his eyes and your guess is that he's debating on whether calling the cops on you or shoving you again and making a break for it. It would have been funny had you not been so frustrated.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he finally asks, demands, before breaking your grip on his wheelchair and expanding the distance between the two of you. There is a knot in his brow as he watches you lean back and squat. "Damn crazy-- falling into-- where did you come from, anyway? Did you fall out of the sky?!"
English, you note. He was speaking English. You run your hand over your face and take nice, easy, and calming breaths.
In the presence of a Joestar or those related, you recite inside of your head, one must keep calm and refrain from panicking. Those who panic are the first to be affected by the curse.
It is hard to do, but you wipe away your tears and slow your breathing. It is not long after when you can feel yourself becoming at peace.
“Hey, I'm talking to you!” he snaps, his hands on his wheels as if to run you over. Your eyebrow twitches, but if he notices he doesn't seem to care. “Don't ignore me when I'm talking to you!”
You take in a deeper breath in order to tune out his words. What was the next step? Oh, yes, right:
Once you have determined a safe escape route, identify your Joestar or those related and use the necessary tactics to distract and retreat. After you have successfully done so, be sure to--
You pause in your thoughts, having just realized something in that moment.
You didn't recognize him, this Joestar. You had memorized every image and every name of everyone in the Joestar family tree. It had been required for you to do so in case you ever ran into one unexpectedly. You knew them all like the back of your hand and could spot them a mile away just by hairstyle and dress alone.
But this one? He didn't match anything in your head.
There was no Joestar with that shade of hair and you weren't informed if any had taken any injury serious enough to require a wheelchair.
You would have to let your family know as soon as possible. You pat at your pants pockets, miraculously locate the cellphone you had nabbed while being dragged along on the Pucci manhunt, and pull it out. No signal, you find, but the camera seems to work alright.
Snap.
His face is frowning and his brows are drawn together so much, they almost make one long line across his forehead. It's not the most flattering picture, but it would work. All you needed it for was identification, anyhow.
You give a hum, look up from the device, open your mouth for a question... and that's right about when your belated observations skills start to kick in. You must be more disoriented than you realize if they hadn't activated before now.
Then again... Joestar. Priorities. Your brain will forgive you.
Your surroundings seem to be right at the edge of a town overrun with people, but that's not what stands out the most. The buildings, the crowd, all seem to have been pulled out from a cliched western film, and though you do spy technology, it's seriously, seriously outdated.
It could just be for aesthetic, you tell yourself. A tourist attraction. That or a town with a really, really big grudge against the 21 st century.
The clawing in your stomach doesn't settle though, and instead it turns into a dreadful gnawing sensation. Your Joestar survivor instincts, one of the many things that had been bred and honed in your family, are ringing like the bells of Notre Dame. Something is wrong, they shout at you in a mob of voices, something is terribly, terribly wrong and you know that they're right. They're always right when it comes to the Joestars.
Perhaps it is the fact that you had spent an absurd amount of time in the same vicinity as a Joestar (Jolyne Kujo) that helps keep yourself together and grounded in your place. Heaven knows that you would be a dust cloud in the distance by now if you weren't.
“Do you not understand me?” he asks, interrupting your thoughts and looking very, very angry. “Is that it?”
You breath in deeply through your nose, doing your best to keep true to step one. There was no point in putting off speaking with him anymore; ignoring a Joestar only made them more persistent. So, with that thought pounding through your head, you straighten your shoulders and level him with a stare.
“Look,” you begin, trying your best to sound both polite and not ten seconds from knocking someone's clock, “I know I landed on you and I'm sorry about that, but I really don't want to speak with a Joestar right now. All I really need to do is find out how far away I am from Japan.”
Associating with Joestars is how you got in this mess in the first place, after all, and who knows how much worse it could get?
The statement catches him off guard before his face retracts into something dark and wary, “You know who I am?”
You snort, as if he's just asked you the most idiotic thing he could possibly ask you. Considering that you're a Joestar Survivor and you spent a good chunk of your childhood studying the ways to identify them, he has. That said, of course he'd skip everything else that you said and stick right onto the Joestar business.
Typical.
“You've got the star slapped right onto your neck,” you tell him as he smacks a hand right onto the offending star. You roll your eyes before giving him a look complete with a delicately arched eyebrow. “Not much else you could be with that thing. Really, the only trouble I'm having is finding out which one you are because you are certainly no Jonathan Joestar.”
And you are so very confident in that assessment. He wasn't a Jonathan; he was far too irritable and rude for that. The Jonathan you had grown up to know was a gentleman to the core, albeit a very ass-kicking one. Plus, there was the wheelchair, something that he had never had. It was impossible, impossible for this Joestar to be a Jonathan.
It was just your luck that everything you knew became flipped over on its head.
“What the hell are you talking about?” he demands before jabbing his thumb into his chest, “I am Jonathan Joestar.”
You can't help the laugh that bubbles out of your throat. It's the same one that had emerged after Jolyne had thought you would “help them save the world”: a little loud, a little unhinged, but over all disbelieving smugness.
You confidently point your finger at the Joestar and end your laugh with a strong voice, “I've spent most of my life studying you Joestars and I've studied his portraits. You don't have the right hair color, personality, or dress to be him! Most obvious of all, he died on February 7 th in 1889!”
You withdraw your finger, cross your arms, and finish with, “So, no, you can't be Jonathan Joestar.”
He's gone quiet, suddenly so, and you believe that that is the end of it. This guy is faltering in the face of your facts and knows that you have caught him red handed in a lie. Now that he knows that you know about Jonathan, he's struggling to come up with some other sort of lie. You open your mouth, the corners of it in a smirk, with the intention of demanding his real name...
But then his expression is irritation, his mouth a frown and it is so different than what you had expected you've been thrown for a loop. “Now I know you have something loose up in your head. 1889 was last year. How could I have died last year if I'm still alive right now?”
For the first time since you started speaking with him, you falter, “What?”
“Last year,” he repeats, dragging out the words as if you were stupid, “1889 was last year. Can't you even keep your years straight?”
1889... was last year?
You can feel another laugh crawling up your throat as you shake your head. “No, 2011 was last year. This is 2012--”
He scoffs. “Right, and the sky is orange.”
And he looks so sure of himself, so confident in his answer, that you become just a teensy bit uncertain. Just a teensy bit. Your heart's pounding is loud in your ears and you have to swallow down the sudden knot in your voice. You glance towards the people and the buildings just behind him before an idea hits you like a train.
“Proof!” you exclaim in a louder voice than you had meant to use, “Show me proof that it is indeed not the year 2012!”
And you are so sure of yourself, so confident that he wouldn't be able to show you anything that you can only stare as he wheels over to you and pulls something out from behind his back. A newspaper, you realize, probably from a back pocket. You don't make a move to get it, but you don't have to. Once he notices that you aren't taking it from him, he grabs onto one of your hands and shoves the paper into it.
The item in question looks so legit that you almost feel as if it were a set up. It couldn't be though. You had fallen out of the sky and onto a Joestar and how was that priest to predict you would ask for proof? You doubted that Pucci had known about your family either, and all the training that had come with it. He wouldn't have known you'd know the Joestars like the back of your hand.
It is slow, painfully so, but eventually you unfold it and stare at the words in big, bold letters: “STEEL BALL RUN”. Right above them is the date and what you see is like a punch to the gut.
September, 10th 1890.
Your eyes wander lower and you find out exactly where you are: San Diego, California.
How in the hell. How in the hell.
You were sucked up by Pucci's stand and spat out in late 19 th century America.
“Oh,” you whisper, feeling yourself get lightheaded, “oh, shit.”