Chapter Text
The Rookeries of London's East End were harsh, that was no secret. Working doves prostituted themselves for bread and shelter, Men prayed upon them and upon each other, and disease ran rampant through the streets and houses. And the houses - well many could barely be called ‘houses’ as they were merely dilapidated shacks - were packed like sardines and if a fire broke out it would swallow a whole street in minutes, burning many alive. Vagrants and guttersnipes filled the streets and crime was wildly common, killers like Jack the Ripper were born from conditions such as this.
The dingy pub stank of drunkards and piss, the beer only tasted slightly better. The air was thick and uncomfortably warm despite the swirling snow outside that battered grimy windows that could barely be seen through anymore, men sang drunken ballads from the tops of their lungs, and others sat at sticky wooden tables, faces sullen and dark. In one corner, next to a dirt thick window sat three men, two of them talked in low tones and seemed surprisingly sober for their environment - the same could not be said for the largest man with them. Of the men was a well-dressed blond, and a short statured chinese man, and a burly tattooed giant, all three looked rough and street-worn. For the most part this trio seemed to be simply avoiding the biting cold of London winter by taking brief refuge inside the pub, though something seemed to catch the blonds’ attention and he stood with a look thrown at the other two men who got up and followed him out of the door and into the snow, moving slowly though the dark back alley. The blond looked upwards at the dark smog-thick sky heavy with the burden of snow as the group stepped out, pushing the brim of his hat up slightly he turned to them. “I saw one o’ em goin’ down back. ’E seems t’be jack.” The short man raised an eyebrow.
“Seems to be?” He received a nod in response. “Alright then. He worth it though?”
“Looks like plenty a’ bread and honey - and ’e looks plenty lost. Say we give ’im a hand?” He grinned, the scar on the left side of his face shifting to fit the expression. The group moved again, near silent despite the ankle deep snow, hugging to the deep shadows as they tailed this man the blond had seen.
It was clear that he’d been correct in guessing that this large stranger had no business being in the back streets of East end. The group had seen him yelp at a cat and a wall. The blond felt a sort of sarcastic pity at this - how could a man of such stature be so soft? It was pathetic. It was also clear that he’d been correct in guessing wealth. The coats the man wore were clearly expensive and new - in all likelihood tailor made for a man like that. He seemed defenseless despite his size and easy pickings. The man was getting himself turned right round and eventually, cornered. Perfect for the gang of down-and-outs. The blond let out a sudden sharp whistle, springing the group into action and causing the man to jerk around in surprise as they rapidly advanced.
“Hey Tattoo! Take him out! We’ll carve up that fancy tosser and leave him dead in the alley!”
The man turned slowly to look at the gang of hoodlums and muttered something, the large man - Tattoo - leapt at him wielding his favourite blade. It seemed to land at first, the others’ eyes widened slightly, but Tattoo was the one that yelled.
“IS HE STUPID? HE CAUGHT THE BLOODY KNIFE WITH HIS BARE HAND!”
He did seem to regain his composure rather quickly after this though “I guess you wasn’t thinkin’ then, ’cause if I twist this knife then you’ll be missin’ four fingers!” The blue haired man showed no signs of intimidation at all, steeling his gaze and squaring his shoulders.
“Just try it. If you don't mind a log-like leg kicking your groin the moment you twist it! I would be fine with this transaction, for I had a reason not to care if I lose some of my fingers. And that reason is my Father! To protect the Joestar house! I have a lot more at stake in this fight than you!”
Pitifully heroic.
Now the middle man tried to attack while this ‘Joestar’ was preoccupied with Tattoo. His normally flawless attack being smacked down mid-air as the Joestar sent both men flying, leaving just the blond.
“You there- You’re of asian descent. Do you know someone who sells poison from the Oriental?” He asked Amato in a justified hit-first-ask-questions-later fashion. The blond ‘tsked’ and then prepared to move.
“You! You say you don't mind losin’ your fingers?”
He flicked the rim of his bowler hat, revealing blades along the edge, with a function much like that of a discus. He tossed it lightly into the air to get a better grip.
“How about we test that?”
Now the ‘Joestar’ struck a defensive pose. Made entirely redundant by the fact that his entire torso was wide open and all he defended was his head. The scarred man felt a wave of bewilderment and again that cruel pity.
“You really are a fool, Your vitals are wide open! Have you ever been in a real fight?” He called as he approached, once again lifting his hat and preparing to throw it. As he began tossing it, the blue haired man sharply kicked Tattoo’s dropped knife into the air, striking it just over the path of the now airborne hat, causing it to go off course slightly and veer upwards, missing the man's torso and hitting his arms sinking deep into the flesh. The familiar sound of blade on bone was heard. The blond laughed triumphantly.
“Ha Ha Ha! That was the sound of steel on bone! You may’ve spared your head with that knife trick, but it was still a direct hit!”
He was expecting victory, and not for the man to simply ignore the injury and charge him like a rugby player and deliver a final kick to his face. He didn’t think he’d ever read someone’s character so wrong, nor had he ever thought that an upper-class person would think to do that or even been capable of fighting like this. He shouldn’t have tried to fight him - especially without reading his character a bit more first. As he was sent flying back he did come to a realisation - that kick had not been the full strength of this Joestar. And thus logically - neither had the blows landed on his allies. Though it was enough to sufficiently wind him and leave him in the cold snow for a short while.
Now other people - fifty or so - appeared from the shadows and began advancing upon the only standing man far too many for him to deal with alone. And the grounded blond felt an urge to do something, having come to understand something about the man.
“S- stop-” He called as he forced himself into sitting. This would be a test to see if his honour meant anything here - even if it was to people he knew and even if he was well respected amongst them, that often meant nothing at a time like this.
“Stop. Everyone. On the honour of my name, I, Speedwagon, will not allow you to hurt this gentleman.” He said with definitive firmness. The crowd stopped and looked at Speedwagon with various surprised expressions, the Joestar too, looked taken aback. “Gentleman?” he asked.
“Tell me- why didn't you kick me with your full force? The leg should’ve copped me a mouse at the least!”
“I am here for my father, and as I kicked out at you it came to my mind that you must have a father and a family - and I did not wish to sadden them.”
Speedwagon stared at him as he processed this. He could smell no lie, and he had a very good sense for that. He pushed himself into sitting.
“Tell me your name.”
“Jonathan Joestar.”
“You said you were looking for a man that sells poisons from the Oriental? Be careful, ’e’s nasty - sly as a dog and will hornswoggle you out of as much as ’e can.”
“You- You know him?!”
“To make up for my attacking of you, I, Speedwagon shall guide ya to ’im.”
Jonathan looked at him, clearly thinking over the offer, then nodded.