John stirred awake to the low hum of fluorescent lights. His vision blurred, and it took him a second to realize he wasn't in some alley or Foundation safehouse. The sterile white walls and smell of antiseptic told him everything — he was in a hospital. Again.
This time, however, his leg was in a cast, elevated slightly, and his right wrist was handcuffed to the steel frame of the bed.
A security camera blinked silently from the corner of the room.
He gritted his teeth. "Of course..."
The pain in his leg was sharp — a clean shot through the muscle. He remembered it vividly now: the flash, the sound, the weight of blood loss dragging him down. The moment his Nail Bullet pierced the robber's chest, ending it all.
He remembered the sound of Captain America's shield slicing the air before everything went dark.
The door hissed open.
Boots clicked on linoleum as the figure entered.
Steve Rogers. Suit on, helmet off. The iconic star across his chest seemed too bright for the room. He looked older than John expected — tired eyes, like a man who'd lived too many lives. But his posture? Unshaken. A soldier through and through.
He didn't speak right away.
Instead, he pulled up a chair beside the bed and sat down, placing his helmet on his lap.
"You awake?" he asked simply.
John didn't answer, eyes narrowing. His hand twitched slightly, wishing Tusk could emerge again — but the system was silent. He was drained.
Steve nodded to himself.
"You took five armed men down by yourself," he said. "Used powers I've never seen. Protected civilians. Not bad... for a rookie."
John scoffed. "What do you want? A thank you?"
Steve leaned forward slightly. "No. Just wanted to look you in the eye before anyone else gets involved."
That earned a glance.
"You're strong," Steve said. "Smart. But reckless. You left one man dead back there."
John turned his head away, jaw clenched. "He was going to kill someone."
Steve nodded. "Maybe. Still doesn't make it easier. Trust me."
Silence hung for a beat.
"You're not the first kid who's tried to take the world's problems into his own hands."
"I'm not a kid," John muttered.
Steve gave a faint smile. "Could've fooled me. Limping into a hostage situation solo? You've got guts, but you don't know what you're up against."
John's voice sharpened. "I know exactly what I'm up against. Monsters. Monsters like the Hulk, that need to be put down. Villains who don't care if innocents get caught in the crossfire. I lost my sister because I wasn't strong enough to stop it. So I'll get strong. No matter what."
Steve's expression didn't change. "That anger… I get it. But strength without control just leads to more blood."
John didn't reply.
Steve stood. Adjusted his gloves. Looked down at the boy chained to the bed.
"You've got something rare. Something powerful. But if you keep doing this alone, sooner or later, that power's going to be the thing that breaks you."
He picked up his helmet. Held it under one arm.
"I'm not here to throw you in jail. Not today. But people are watching now. You made a name for yourself, and that means choices."
Steve paused at the door, glancing back one last time.
"You're tough, kid," he said, a hint of respect in his voice. "But this path... it's gonna eat you alive."
John didn't move. Just lay there in the hospital bed, eyes half-lidded, bandages covering his leg, his breath still a little uneven.
Then, just as Steve turned the handle—
"Don't call me kid."
Steve looked back.
John opened his eyes fully now, the storm behind them steady and unwavering.
"If you're gonna call me something…" He shifted slightly, pain flickering across his face—but his voice was Steel.
"Call me JoJo."
-<<>o<>>-
John lay in the medical ward of the SHIELD containment facility, the sterile scent of antiseptic hanging thick in the air. His body ached, especially the leg wound, which throbbed in time with his pulse. The lights overhead were dim, the room silent save for the faint hum of electronics monitoring his vitals.
He stared at the ceiling. His mind spun with questions, with regrets, with power. But mostly, it spun with a plan.
The door opened without fanfare, but the presence that stepped through filled the room like thunderclouds rolling in.
Nick Fury.
Trench coat, single eye, and that calm-but-deadly walk that said he'd been in more wars than he could count—and probably started a few.
"Hell of an entrance for a teenager," Fury said, approaching the bed. "You're already trending on a few encrypted networks. Some are calling you a hero. Some are calling you reckless."
John turned his head slowly. "And what are you calling me?"
Fury shrugged. "Unfinished business."
He stopped beside the bed, hands clasped behind his back like a general surveying the aftermath of a skirmish.
"I've seen a lot of strange these last few years, kid," Fury continued, voice smooth but weighted. "Aliens. Gods. Billionaire tin cans. But you? You've got something else. That purple ghost-thing that showed up during the robbery? My agents described it as... oppressive, yet leashed. Controlled. Like it listened to you."
John didn't answer. He simply met Fury's gaze.
"I don't need to know what it is," Fury said. "Not yet. But I know this: you're dangerous. And I don't like dangerous running around without oversight."
John raised an eyebrow. "So this is the part where you offer me a job?"
Fury cracked a small smile. "It's the part where I offer you purpose. Guidance. SHIELD is building an initiative, and we could use someone like you. You'd have access to intelligence, gear, backup. You wouldn't be some kid in the shadows."
John stared at him for a moment, then let out a short laugh.
"I've read between enough lines to know what SHIELD really is," he said. "You might not see it, but from the outside? You've got more rot than you realize."
Fury's expression stiffened slightly, but he kept composed. "We're not perfect. But we're better than the alternative."
"I've seen the alternative," John replied. "And I'd rather face it alone."
Fury studied him for a long, quiet moment. Then, with a sigh, he turned to leave.
As he reached the door, John called after him—voice calm, smug.
"Oh—and you might want to check your caller ID in the next hour."
Fury paused, turning just slightly.
"Senator Speedwagon's probably ringing by now," John said, folding his arms behind his head. "You know, the one with the oil empire, and the international 'humanitarian' foundation? That one."
Fury didn't turn around. But his pause was just long enough to say everything.
Without a word, he walked out.
-<<>o<>>-
The sterile quiet of the SHIELD holding room was broken by the sudden, sharp buzz of the intercom. A voice came through, clipped and uneasy.
"Director Fury, there's… a situation. We have high-level clearance individuals demanding access. Says their authority supersedes SHIELD's on this matter."
Fury was already halfway to the control room when the agent spoke. "Names?"
"Robert E. Speedwagon, sir. And… he's not alone."
Fury's steps slowed.
By the time he arrived, the security monitors were already lit up with footage of black cars pulling into the SHIELD compound. Suits stepped out — not G-men, but Foundation operatives. Slick, coordinated, and calm. Not armed with guns — they didn't need to be.
And at the front of it all, stepping out with the confidence of a man who'd stared down monsters and Wall Street alike…
Senator Robert E. Speedwagon.
The old man had barely aged. Still wore that iconic fedora. Still had that unmistakable smile that said he knew exactly what strings to pull to make the world spin his way.
Fury met him at the gate, grim but composed.
"You're causing a scene, Senator."
Speedwagon smiled like a grandfather at Thanksgiving. "And you're holding one of our own in a box like a lab rat. So I figured it was time to visit."
"He assaulted multiple criminals and engaged in a firefight with federal agents—"
"Saved a bank full of hostages with zero civilian casualties," Speedwagon cut in smoothly. "And if you're going to argue with that, Director, you might want to prepare a better statement for the press. Because trust me—" his voice dropped just slightly, "—this doesn't stay in SHIELD's hands unless I let it."
Fury was quiet for a moment. Then: "You really think this kid's worth all this trouble?"
Speedwagon adjusted his gloves. "I don't think, Nick. I know."
—
A few minutes later, the door to John's room slid open again.
This time, it wasn't Fury.
"Yo, boss," Smokey Brown's familiar voice called out with a smirk. "Time to go."
John sat up like he'd been expecting it all along. "Took you long enough."
Behind Smokey, Senator Speedwagon stepped in, his presence somehow making the fluorescent lighting look classy. "You okay, son?"
John stood, his limp still noticeable, but pride untouched. "Never better."
Speedwagon clapped him on the shoulder. "Let's get you out of here. You've got a world to save."
—
Outside, the black cars were waiting. SHIELD agents looked tense. Fury watched from the balcony, arms crossed. As John passed under him, he looked up — and gave Fury the tiniest, most infuriatingly smug one finger salute.
Fury just shook his head. "Motherfucker."
But deep down… he knew they'd crossed paths again.
And next time, it wouldn't end in a stalemate.
It happened in the car, just as the SHIELD compound disappeared behind them.
John sat back in the leather seat, the city lights casting long streaks of gold and white across the windows. His leg still throbbed, wrapped and stabilized, but the pain had dulled into a background hum. He could finally breathe.
That's when the system returned.
[Hidden Quest Complete]
"Get beat up by Captain America."
Reward: Additional Stand Slot
He almost laughed. Of course that was the quest requirement.
But before he could even finish reading, a new screen flickered across his vision. Black background. White text. A circular frame spinning like a roulette.
[Initiating Stand Acquisition…]
Prepare for Randomization.
Symbols. Stands. Names he vaguely remembered from his old life. They spun too fast to catch — familiar, nostalgic, ominous.
The wheel ticked to a stop with a sound like a thunderclap.
[Stand Acquired: Weather Report]
"Control the atmosphere. Summon the storm."
The temperature in the car dropped by a few degrees. Moisture gathered on the window glass, fogging the edges. A faint pressure filled the cabin, like the air just before a lightning strike.
Across from him, Speedwagon blinked, clearly sensing something, though he said nothing.
Then John saw it — not in the physical world, but in that space only a Stand user could perceive.
A figure.
Vague and vaporous at first — and then clear.
Weather Report.
Humanoid. Muscular. White and navy with cloud-shaped shoulder pads. Its blank gaze stared at John with eerie calm, hands crackling softly with static.
It didn't speak. It didn't need to.
John could feel it. The atmosphere around him was no longer a passive thing. It was a weapon — an extension of his will, as if the sky itself had just taken a breath.
He raised one hand slightly, and outside the window, a few raindrops began to fall.
A grin tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Tusk and Weather Report…" he whispered. "Let's see just how far we can go."
Weather Report hovered behind him like a silent guardian, as if the heavens themselves had joined his warpath.
-<<>o<>>-
Somewhere, at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.
A coffin.
A pair of eyes open.