He remembered the heat of the sun.
That final, searing flash — not of defeat, but betrayal by a blue planet that had once birthed him. The glimmer of Joseph Joestar's smug grin. The screaming silence that followed, when gravity lost its hold and Earth vanished beneath him.
Kars had been hurled into the void like trash expelled from creation.
It should have been over then. It wasn't.
He clawed at the vacuum with hands evolved beyond hands. He raged, changed shape, screamed — but no sound ever came. No atmosphere to carry it. No gods to hear it.
Time became meaningless. The stars mocked him with their eternal stillness.
He passed Mars. Then Jupiter. Saturn's rings shimmered around him like a crown he could never wear. Even as he floated past Neptune, past Pluto, he tried to will death upon himself.
But he had become the Ultimate Lifeform.
He could not die.
His body adapted to the cold. To the emptiness. To the silence. He stopped needing breath. Then food. Then thought. His mind fought on, long after the body had accepted its exile.
Years passed, or was it decades?
He watched as stars passed him by.
He watched nebulae drift apart. He watched as loneliness, that final predator, chewed at the edges of his psyche.
Memories became his only company. The Pillar Men. The mask. Santana's grin. Esidisi's temper. Wamuu's honor.
Then… Joseph Joestar. That ridiculous, clever, unpredictable monkey.
He hated him.
But soon, He couldn't remember.
Somewhere, deep in space, he lost interest in remembering at all.
His form grew still. His mind slowed.
A thought echoed as he finally gave in to sleep:
I will dream of Earth… until the stars themselves forget it existed.
.
.
.
And somewhere, deep in the unlit corridors of space…The Ultimate Lifeform floated on. Perfect. Unchanging. And utterly, utterly alone.
The tale of Kars, the perfect being, has ended.
-<<>o<>>-
Or did it?
.
.
.
Silence.
Cold.
Unmoving.
Kars had not dreamed in countless eons. His mind, once as sharp and boundless as the genetic code it commanded, had gone silent — sealed within the stone prison his body had become.
He was more monument than man now, adrift in the black sea between galaxies. A statue of perfect flesh, floating through the void like a forgotten god.
And then —
Light.
A thin beam at first, threading through the darkness like a crack in the universe.
Then it split wide.
A torrent of color exploded across the cosmos, cutting through the black like divine fire. Reds, blues, greens, violet. The Bifrost.
Kars saw it.Even in his frozen mind, something stirred.
And then he saw him — a golden-haired warrior, broad of frame and blazing with fury, spiraling through the light like a fallen star.
"FATHER!" the figure bellowed, his voice ripping through dimensions.
"I AM THOR, GOD OF THUNDER!! YOU CANNOT—!"
He vanished, pulled away in an instant.
But the rift remained, pulsing with raw power. For the first time in eternity, Kars reached out.
His fingers, once curled against his chest in eternal rest, unfurled.
He touched the light.
And the light took him.
The void screamed. The stars bent. Reality became a tunnel of madness.
He was pulled, rushed, twisted endlessly.
Kars, the Ultimate Lifeform, flailed for balance in a cosmic windstorm of shattered dimensions. For a brief second, he saw flashes — a tree of worlds, a serpent coiled around infinity, a city of gold beyond stars.
Then—
Sky.
Gravity.
Pain.
He crashed through something hard — metal, concrete, waste — until he came to rest atop a mountain of junk. The impact tore a crater into the scrap heap, steam hissing around him as his body twitched and groaned, struggling to reawaken after years.
Breathing hurt. Movement was worse.
His limbs were heavy, his vision still shimmering with residual rainbow fire. He dragged himself from the crater like a newborn creature, half-formed and blinking against a sun that was not his own.
That was when he heard it.
A voice, distorted and synthetic, floating down from speakers bolted to rusted robots.
"Welcome to Sakaar, trash."
Kars didn't respond. He couldn't.
He simply looked up, eyes narrowing at the alien towers looming above the junkyard skyline. A strange sun burned in the green-tinted sky, and all around him were machines, weapons, bones.
He was not on Earth.He was not in space.He was somewhere else.
The stone of his skin cracked as he slowly stood. Something had changed.Something was changing.
He didn't know it yet — but Sakaar would remember the day it found a god in the trash.
-<<>o<>>-
A few days later.
The New Mexico desert had changed.
The once-silent stretch of sand and rock was now a miniature fortress of fences, sensor towers, armed patrols, and humming generators. The SHIELD base had gone from makeshift to military-grade in a matter of days. White tents gave way to reinforced outposts. Drones circled in precise patterns overhead. Floodlights bathed the entire area in stark, artificial light, even under the blazing midday sun.
At the center of it all: a small crater.
And within it, untouched, unmoving — the hammer.
Resting quietly in the dust, nestled in stone and silence. Its handle wrapped in aged leather. Its head engraved with strange, glowing runes no one could identify. No wind. No movement. Just power, coiled and waiting.
Agent Phil Coulson stood beside a cluster of monitors, watching the feed from a ground-level drone. It circled the hammer with slow, reverent steps. Like it was filming a god.
"Any change?" he asked without turning.
"No, sir," a voice said behind him.
It belonged to a young field technician — probably fresh out of one of SHIELD's top science academies. He held a tablet close to his chest, eyes flicking between spectral readings and electromagnetic scans.
"But, uh… there is something," the technician added, hesitantly.
Coulson raised an eyebrow. "Go on."
The young man stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly, almost embarrassed by his own words.
"It's these markings, sir. The runes. They're… old. Like, ancient. Pre-Viking, possibly. They match some of the Norse symbology recovered from dig sites in Scandinavia. I've already sent samples to our linguistics team, but…" He hesitated, then just said it:"My gut says this thing is tied to mythology. Like... actual mythology. It might be—" he swallowed, "—the hammer of Thor."
Coulson blinked, then looked at the young man as if deciding whether to laugh or put him on psychiatric review.
"…The Norse god of thunder?"
The technician shrank a little under the scrutiny. "Y-Yes, sir. I know it sounds crazy. But the energy readings, the material density, the historical overlap — this thing doesn't follow any known science. And if there's even a chance that it's linked to something like—"
"That's enough," Coulson said with a light shake of his head. "I appreciate the input, but let's not jump to children's stories just yet. Keep scanning. Let me know if it starts speaking Old Norse or shooting lightning bolts."
"Yes, sir," the tech said quickly, stepping back with a sheepish nod.
Coulson exhaled, muttering under his breath, "Gods and hammers. What's next?"
One of the nearby agents, a younger man with dark hair and a nervous edge, stepped forward. "Still, no one's been able to move it, sir. Not even with heavy machinery. We tried sonic resonators, vibrational mapping, even isolating it in a vacuum field. Nothing."
Coulson exhaled slowly. "It's not technology. It's something else."
He turned to head back toward the main command tent when his phone buzzed sharply. He checked the ID — secure line. Internal priority.
"Coulson," he answered.
A pause. Then a voice on the other end said, "The Speedwagon Foundation has sent a representative. He's due to arrive within the hour."
Coulson stopped walking.
"…Speedwagon Foundation?" he repeated, his voice tightening with interest.
The agent beside him looked up curiously.
"They're... sending someone here?"
"Yes, sir. From their Outer Space Division."
Coulson furrowed his brow.
The Speedwagon Foundation. It was a name that showed up in only the most classified of files. Technically a private humanitarian and scientific institution — but practically? A silent titan. They'd been around longer than SHIELD, stretching back to the early 20th century. Officially, they'd assisted with Apollo, Gemini, the International Space Station, and even some of the more hush-hush extraterrestrial tech retrievals after the World War 2.
Unofficially, Coulson knew they were a power behind the curtain in global science and space research — immune to politics, untouched by public scrutiny.
"I didn't even know they had an Outer Space Division," he muttered.
A second agent jogged up from the landing pad.
"Sir! The Foundation rep just landed. He's enroute."
Coulson turned. "What's the name?"
The agent glanced at his tablet. "John. John Joestar."
Coulson's lips parted slightly, surprise flickering in his eyes.
"…Joestar?"
He didn't recognize the name from any file on Speedwagon executives. Still, the Joestar surname rang… oddly familiar. Like an echo. One that lingered in the oldest archives of SHIELD's European records — during the 1940s. A ghost of a file, long redacted. Although he did remember the Director ranting about some "annoying little Joestar".
Coulson straightened his tie and walked calmly toward the base entrance, already seeing the desert wind kicking up around a sleek black transport.
"Let's see what kind of man the Speedwagon Foundation sends to investigate a hammer that can't be lifted."
And in the distance, the hammer shimmered once more under the desert sun — as if waiting.
.
.
.
Author's Note:
Sorry for not uploading on time recently, dead exhausted with work right now. Promise on my homie's head to upload on time now.