If you stumbled upon this story, then welcome, reader! What lies before you is a retelling of Hirohiko Araki's infamous third chapter of his famous series Jojo's Bizarre Adventure. All fans both old and new are welcome to enjoy this story as much as I enjoy writing it. Now, things might start off a bit slow at first, but it'll pick up. Some things to note about this story is that I primarily take from the manga, even going as far as to hand-translate the original dialogue. Some bits from the anime are added in order to pad out the story or to help explain certain events. Also, for those with keen eyes, you might notice some references to the light novel "Over Heaven". That novel holds canonicity in this work.

So, with all that said, happy reading, everyone!

If you have any reviews, thoughts, questions, criticisms, let me know! I'm open to answer anything!

Disclaimer: Jojo's Bizarre Adventure belongs to Hirohiko Araki, and not myself. Simple as that.

JOJO'S BIZARRE ADVENTURE
~LOST HERITAGE~

Ch. 1
Breathe

NOVEMBER 3RD, 1988
17:39
ROCHDALE, QUEENS, NY

Back when she was little, Della Brown was always warned to never to go down any alleyway for any reason. It didn't matter what time of day it was or how safe it looked. There was always bound to be trouble. And she was the last person who wanted to get caught up in anything dangerous. "If you go down an alley, you can get mugged! Or worse!" Her mother, secretary to her district attorney father, may have sounded paranoid, but she only said this because she cared about her daughter's safety.

Those very words always rang in her head whenever she passed by an alley. Which happened five times out of the week whenever she walked to and from work. Della worked at the local antique store, which was several blocks from her apartment. And every time, before 7:30 AM and after 3:30 PM, she passed by several. She never took the time to count how many there were or curiously peek down them. There was no need to. It wasn't like she would one day feel compelled to enter one.

But the day she did happen to come sooner than she ever would have expected.

It was when she was walking home from work one cool fall evening. Out of some whim, she turned her head down an alley for no particular reason and stopped in her tracks. Gathered around in a circle was a crowd of excited, cheering young adults. They looked like punks, from what Della could make out, each wearing punkish clothes and sporting wild hairstyles. From within the hubbub, she could hear that distinct whooshing sound boxers made whenever they threw punches and the pounding of fists on flesh.

It's a fight, she realized. Not some random fight over an argument, either. It's… organized. How did Della know? Well, it came to her the moment the crowd went wild and someone began to count. Someone had been knocked down, and they only had ten seconds to stand back up to resume the fight. This wouldn't happen in any other fight unless money was on the line. And it seemed that whoever wasn't knocked down was the one people were betting on to win.

Della never liked fights. At least, participating in them. She didn't mind watching the occasional wrestling match on TV, but despite the pain and blood portrayed, it was all staged. These fights were real. The fighters weren't actors. And what they were doing was not at all legal. It filled Della with some odd thrill. It's not every day you come across a real fight taking place. And who am I to pass up an opportunity like this?

And so, for the first time in her life, Della ignored her mother's voice in her head.

The counting stopped at seven as she walked down the alley. Whoever fell had gotten back up, and the crazed cheering calmed to a mild buzz. Della pardoned several of the spectators as she squeezed her way through the tight ring. Looking over one of their shoulders, she managed to get a better look at the fighters. And as she took in their appearances, she also analyzed their fighting styles.

The first of these was a scrawny, pale man with one half of his head shaved and the other half covered in black, curly locks. He was wearing a tropical shirt, ratty sneakers, and khaki shorts, and Della could easily tell he was no real fighter. His punches were wild and uncoordinated. Not to mention weak, as they barely hurt his opponent. With his sloppy fighting and his rather nasty scowl, he looked like someone who couldn't back up his mouth. He was by no means the crowd favorite.

The second was a tall, lightly tan man with a slight muscular physique to him. He was dressed for the occasion, a black wife-beater, dark jeans, scuffed leather shoes, and fingerless gloves that sported golden studs on his knuckles and what looked like the Puerto Rican flag on the back. He looked more laid back than everyone else, and the way he fought was remarkable. Fluid and precise. His punches made their mark each time, and his dodging was done with relative ease. He was in his element. And as he fought, she noticed something she was certain the crowd had yet to realize.

This man was holding back.

As soon as she made this realization, the crowd favorite hooked the other across the jaw and knocked him down again. The crowd exploded with cheers, and Della couldn't help but cheer on as well. A man with a black and white bandanna ran into the circle and knelt beside the fallen fighter to check him before turning and shouting into the cacophony "TKO! JOAQUÍN IS THE WINNER!" And the crowd, sans Della, chanted his name as Joaquín waved happily to them. Another man stepped in to hand him what looked like his winnings.

Della might have just came in at the tail-end of the fight, but she felt rather impressed with what she experienced. When she imagined street fights like these, she envisioned a bloody, chaotic mess where everyone ended up involved. But this was far more organized than that. There was order. The crowd showed support to both parties, even if they favored one over the other. Even the opponents had respect for one another, evident by Joaquín helping his opponent to his feet and patting him on the back.

I ought to catch these fights more often. They're a lot more fun than I thought. As soon as she thought this, the cheering stopped. And when she saw why, she gasped. The loser had brandished a knife, aiming it right at Joaquín. Things were about to take a serious and bloody turn, evident by the daggers in the madman's eyes. And yet, despite this, Joaquín looked composed. He was even smiling.

Taking some offense to this, the scrawny man yelled, "What's so funny, maricón?! Wipe that smirk off your face before I slice it off for you!" He was Spanish, and from what she was told by her mother, they seemed to have a rather proud and fiery nature to them. They would erupt at anything if it insulted them. Though she knew this wasn't completely true, given the Spanish people she had met in her life.

Joaquín seemed rather amused by the threat. He looked down at him and said, "I'm sorry, but this is actually pretty funny. Look, enano, we spoke about this yesterday. You weren't gonna win this fight." He was Spanish too, though his accent was lighter than his attacker. "Look at you. You don't look strong. None of your blows hurt me. On top of that, your style's sloppy, like a bull with a red blindfold on. You never could fight properly."

"SHUT THE FUCK UP," shouted the other, clearly offended. A nerve had popped up on his temple. "What the fuck do you know?! Everyone I've fought lost to me! I never lose! I'm Juanito Alimaña! And you, you're just a puta who likes showing off your powers each time you fight someone! How many of those have you won without sparking up your hands, eh?!"

Powers? Sparking hands? What's he talking about? Della looked amongst the crowd, just to see if they heard properly. They must have, but she noticed that none of them were questioning what they heard. Do these guys know something? He can't possibly be serious. Powers? That's only something people have in comics and movies. There's no way anyone can have special powers like these "sparking hands" he mentioned.

Her attention snapped back when she heard Joaquín say snarkily, "Fewer times than you pull a knife out in a fight, coward." And this set off Juanito. He screamed in fury and lunged straight at him, thrusting his knife to stab him. But it was met with a rather bored dodge. Even with a blade in hand, he was still reckless. None of his stabs connected, and it looked like he was getting increasingly furious each time. It actually was funny now that Joaquín mentioned it. But nothing was funny about Juanito's last thrust.

It looked like it would finally make its mark…

Only to miss. Or rather, be blocked. Joaquín had thrust his palm against his attacker's knife hand and pushed it away from him. With his other hand, he brought it down against his neck in a chop. The kind that could knock someone out if performed properly. But then Della noticed something bizarre. His entire hand glowed and sparked with a mysterious light the moment he did it. It was almost like electricity. And when it connected, it made Juanito collapse and drop his knife. He was knocked out.

He wasn't lying.

The silence in the crowd lasted for one second after the fact before it was shattered with a rather relieved cheer. Della sighed in relief herself, but rather than join in on the cheering, her mind wandered for a second to take in what she had seen. This man, Joaquín, has a special power. And when he used it, nobody reacted. Everyone acted normal. Have they seen this before? What exactly was it he used? Just who was this man? She just had to know.

With the fight over, everyone who had bet on Joaquín was given money, and they all went home. Except for Della, who stood behind to talk to this strange man. He was still there, and he was kneeling beside the fallen Juanito. It did not look as if he would be waking up any time soon.

"I told him this would happen," he said to nobody in particular. "I didn't wanna fight him. And this is why, because he would, and did, end up embarrassing himself. Poor Juanito." He stood up and looked at Della, continuing to speak without so much as a hello. "I mean, don't you agree? He doesn't look cut out for fighting, does he?"

Della almost felt off guard from the question. "Uh, no. Not really," she replied. "He's kind of shrimpy. Why does he think he could fight?"

"He's been like that since we were kids. He would always act tough, picking fights with everyone he meets. Especially me. I never understood why. Maybe he's got something to prove. Then again, everyone does. Just the way he goes about it is… irrational." He then realized that he was talking to a stranger and smiled nervously. "Oh. S-Sorry. Here I am rambling about him and I haven't even introduced myself. Name's Joaquín Trejo. What about you?"

"I'm Della Brown," she said with a smile.

"Della. Is it short for anything?"

"Adeline."

"Hm. I like it. But Della rolls off the tongue nicer. It fits better for someone like you, anyway"

"For someone like me," Della asked with mild offense. "What's that supposed to mean? Is it the way I look?" This confused her because she looked rather plain for someone her age. Her skin was pale. the only color being the freckles on her face. Her brown hair was a frizzy mop that she always pulled back into a long flowing tail behind her. And her eyes were wide and green. The rest of her was unimpressive, thin and short compared to who stood before her. Della was simply ordinary, so what did he mean?

"I don't know, to be honest." His smile was wide and rather goofy. "You just look like a Della to me. Or maybe it's because you're Italian."

Della looked at him with bemusement. "How did you know I was Italian?" When he pointed to his nose, which had a curve to his, she laughed. Hers had a slight bump along her bridge, but by no means did this make it look beaky. "Of course it's the nose! Everyone tells me that!"

"No offense, but I can usually tell what someone is based on their facial features." He looked back at Juanito and then back at her. "So, if you don't mind me asking, what made you stay behind? You a friend of his?"

She shook her head as she stuck her hands of her jeans. "I was kind of curious about something I saw."

"Was it the sparks? Let me guess, you're gonna say 'How did you know that was what I was gonna ask?', am I right?"

"How did you know that was what I was gonna ask?" And as soon as those words tumbled out, she gasped.

Joaquín just chuckled and leaned against the brick wall of the apartment building that made up part of the alley. "It's a bit obvious. Everyone who knows Joaquín Trejo knows or wants to know about my sparks. That's why some people come to my fights. They wanna see me use them. Though lately, I've been using them less often. I used to do it for show, but then I realized that they put me at an unfair advantage. I mean, my sparks are powerful enough to knock someone out in an instant. Like Juanito."

"Just what are they? Do you know?"

Joaquín looked at his hand. It began to spark again, this time for longer than a moment. He then said, "You know, I don't know what it is. I tried looking it up in the library, but I didn't get any results. When I was twelve, I got sick one day and my breathing got really funny. I went to the bathroom to try and throw up, but I couldn't. My abuelita was freaking out and about to call the hospital. And as my breathing got crazier, this happened." he waves his hands, both consumed by the sparks.

"And it wasn't just my hands. It was my entire body. I felt like there was this heat in me that had nothing to do with being sick. We were both panicking because I had no idea what I had just done. Before I could even scream, it stopped. And that sickness just went away. Afterward, I tried to replicate what happened that day. When I did, I began to practice with it, using it on myself and others. Especially in combat. It's been ten years since then, and I have pretty good control over it."

His hands were still sparking. Della was shocked and impressed that something so incredible could exist. She almost felt as if she were dreaming, that this was impossible. But here it was, literally right in front of her. This Joaquín sure was an interesting fellow. Without thinking, Della asked him, "What would happen if I touch your hands?"

"I wouldn't if I were you." They immediately stopped sparking when he said that. "Yours would go numb for a few seconds. And that's just my power at its weakest. You see, my power is kind of like… controllable sunlight. I can use it in many ways, from giving someone a miniature heat stroke to causing blisters. But I can also use it to heal broken bones and even sickness."

"How do you do it?" Della was practically at the edge of her seat. "And have you ever met anyone else who can?"

"Boy, you're a curious girl," he chuckled. "Well, no. I've never seen anyone else but myself do it. Although someone I know told me about this kid from fifty years ago who did something similar. If that's true, I never met him. And as for how, well, there's only one word as to how I can do it:

"Breathe."

Joaquín got off the wall, relaxed his posture, and took in a deep, calm breath. Then he let out a long exhale. Longer than anyone ought to. And from this, sparks and light were already beginning to emanate from his body. It felt very warm. While his sparks grew more intense, they did not lash out at her. After about sixteen seconds, he stopped exhaling. The sparks faded away. Della could only gawk and mouth the word "Incredible." She could only imagine what it must feel like wielding such a power.

"Thank you," he said before wagging his finger. "It's all about the breathing. The better I can control my breathing, the better the sparks work. If I can't breathe, I can't use them. Simple as that." He began making his way past her before turning back and saying "Hey, I'm gonna be heading home. If you got nothing better to do, you wanna can come with me for some sancocho? My abuelita makes it really good."

You don't often ask a stranger to come to your house when you just met them. And being a stranger, you don't often agree to do so. On any other day, Della would have said, "No, thank you." But after what she had just witnessed, she went against her better judgment and said, "Sure, I'll join you." And with that, she followed after Joaquín, walking down the rest of the alley and leaving behind Juanito Alimaña.

As they walked in silence, Della took the time to take in his appearance properly. Joaquín was indeed tall. Probably six inches taller than Della's 5'7". His tan body had small, barely visible scars, probably received from countless fights. The wild hair on his head was such a dark brown it might as well be black. And his eyes also held a curious spark, one that blazed a bright blue. What was it, though? Kindness? Rebellion? Whatever it was, they complemented his youthful, Spanish features.

He didn't look too out of the ordinary. If you were to look at him, you would think that he was your run-of-the-mill hoodlum. But I know better than that, though, she thought. There's always more to guys like these than just fighting and looks. This guy seems special. Hell, just walking beside him, he feels a lot different than he looks. He's not cocky or punkish. Maybe not too much... He actually feels… kind. Inviting. Trustworthy, even. It was an odd charm that not many men inherently have. And Della couldn't help but admire him.

His home took several blocks more than her own home to reach. And it was situated on the fourth floor. His hand reached for the doorknob once they reached his home, but not without pausing first. Joaquín looked back at Della with an apologetic smile and whispered, "Be prepared. Knowing her, she might already know about the fight. Cover your ears if you need to."

She nodded and he opened the door. And almost immediately, he was rounded on loudly by a tiny lady with a cloud of white hair. She was speaking entirely in rapid Spanish and waving a wooden spoon at him. It was clear she was talking about the fight because she heard the name Juanito and the word "telefono" in the same sentence. Someone called her and told her everything that happened, and she was none too pleased. Joaquín just stood there, not even phased by her tirade while Della did indeed cover her ears.

"And who is this girl you brought home," she finally said in English, aiming the spoon at her. "¡¿Tu novia?! No habrá follando en e'ta casa, ¡¿entiendes?!"

Whatever she had said made Joaquín's cheek flush. "E-Ella es mi amiga," he replied with flustered indignation. "¡Acabo de conocerla hoy! ¡¿De verdad crees que voy a follarla tan rápido?¡" He shook his head in exasperation and then turned to Della, giving her a sheepish smile. "Sorry about that. Um, Della, this is my grandmother Lupe. My abuelita."

Della held out her hand and said, "A pleasure to meet you, ma'am." The elder Trejo gave her a momentary, shrewd look before she softened and shook it.

"I'm sorry you have to meet me like this. I told this one here to stop getting into fights and get a job. But he never listens. He's always coming home with cuts and bruises! One day he's going to end up dying in a fight against someone much stronger than him!"

Her grandson sighed and shook his head. "I've been fighting since I was six. I'm not gonna die, Abuelita. Say, is dinner almost done?" Lupe harrumphed and went back inside. "I'll take that as a yes. Come on, Della." And the two entered the home, which looked rather fitting for an old lady. There were old chairs, a small color TV, a dressed table and a cabinet filled with decorated china plates and ceramic roosters. All along the walls were beautiful paintings of countrysides. And the air was the smell of simmering soup. She felt quite welcome here.

When Della approached the kitchen, Lupe turned to her and asked, "Have you ever eaten sancocho?"

"No," she responded honestly. "What is it?"

"It's a stew. I make it with cerdo, mazorca, platano- Oh, I'm sorry, you probably don't understand what I'm saying."

"I only understood plantains"

"Yes, as well as pork and corn. That's how I usually make mine. And it always comes out delicious. Isn't that right, Joaquín?"

"Si, abuelita," said Joaquín as he took a seat on the couch. "Hey Della, if you want to sit down, you're more than welcome to. Dinner might take a bit." And so she did, taking a rather comfortable seat across from Joaquín. "So, tell me a bit about yourself. And I might tell you a bit about me."

She felt taken off guard by his request. What do I even tell him? Where do I even start? Geez, I'm not good at this. "Er, what do you wanna know?"

"Just start with the basics, I guess. Birthday, what you and your parents do."

That was simple enough. "Well, you know my name. I was born 21 years ago on April 19th. Aries, I think. My mom and dad adopted me when I was little. They work together in law. Mom's both a lawyer and my dad's secretary and he's the local district attorney. He's worked on some high profile cases. I work over at the antique store close to my place: Adam's Apple Antiques."

"I've never been there, but I've passed the place a few times. If you don't mind, what happened to your real parents?" She responded with silence and not looking at him. That's not something I wanna talk about. Joaquín seemed to understand, as he nodded solemnly and said. "I'm sorry. Um, I don't have my mom and dad myself. My dad died last year in a bar fight. Happened when I turned 21, too."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said sincerely.

"It's okay. I mean, it's not, but I'm not letting it affect me. He told me before he was killed, 'Shoot for the stars. Don't let any meteors hold you back.' A weird phrase, I know. But what he meant was that no matter what, I shouldn't let things hold me back from achieving my goals. It wasn't until his funeral that I understood that… You know, growing up, he taught me everything I needed to know about fighting. And it's thanks to him I can earn money to help my abuelita."

"It's gotta be rough working on your own like that. Even if it's technically not work."

"I mean, I gotta do what I gotta do for someone with cancer."

There was silence, punctured only by the sounds of Lupe setting up bowls of stew. Della couldn't help but steal a glance at the little old lady, who looked back at her with a smile. She looked so strong and unafraid, despite suffering from a deadly disease that may one day kill her. Before she could apologize, Joaquín waved her off and said, "Don't be. We've been fighting this together for years now. Abuelita is a force to be reckoned with. She'll never let a thing like cancer hold her back. Ain't that right, Abuelita?"

"Si, mijo," she said as she began setting the table with bowls and a large loaf of Spanish bread. "6 years. Can you believe it? I've been in and out of doctor's offices and nothing they did could help. We even tried that one treatment, chemo o lo que sea... And one doctor wanted me to smoke marijuana. I don't smoke! I can't handle it!"

"You could just cook it," suggested Della. And both Joaquín and Lupe gave her bewildered looks.

"Cook it?!"

"Yeah. I think there's a store that sells it as cooking oil and butter."

"But it's not medical."

"Er, no, but-"

"Ah, pue…" She looked mildly grumpy now, but in an amusing way than serious. " You got my hopes up for nothing. Come sit, dinner's ready." Della was going to argue that she could be prescribed cannabis oil as a substitute, but she stayed silent as she joined the Trejo's at the table. It turned out Lupe was right about the sancocho. It was delicious. They all spent the next few minutes making small talk, talking about their day and how they met each other.

It was as they were about to finish when Della carefully said, "Say, Joaquín... I've been meaning to ask, but... you haven't said anything about your mother... Did something happen to her..?"

She immediately felt regret when she asked this question. Lupe shot a worried look at her grandson, who silently looked down at his stew. It was almost hard to pinpoint what emotion he was feeling. But she could tell that there was sadness in his now somewhat stoic expression. "I-I'm sorry... I shouldn't have asked that…"

But Joaquín raised his hand at her. "No, don't be. It's okay. I mean, I told you about Dad. May as well tell you about Mom." He took a deep breath and sighed, trying to keep his composure. He really is a lot more emotional than I thought. Della never would have taken Joaquín to be the kind of person to show such intimate emotions and be openly talking about such sensitive matters like this. He really was different than what people would normally think if they just looked at him

"My mom's name is Holly. And she and dad got into a massive argument before I was born. I never knew why, and neither does Abuelita. So because of that, she gave me up to him. She didn't want anything to do with dad, even if it meant me. I mean… I guess she did it so as to avoid not loving me cause of him. That's all I really know about her"

"Have you ever tried looking for her," asked Della gingerly.

"No. I mean, I want to, but… Do you know how awkward it would be to meet her after all this time? After twenty-two years? Where would I start? How can I feel towards her? And how would she feel towards me? Meeting her now would just open up Pandora's box for both of us. Out of respect, I chose not to look for her and just let her live whatever life she's made."

Wow. He's that selfless that he would sacrifice meeting his mother just so she could live a peaceful- Della's thoughts were interrupted when the clock in the kitchen chimed seven times. It was already seven o'clock. "Oh, shoot, I ought to get home," said Della, getting up and then shaking Lupe's hand. "Thank you for the wonderful dinner. It really was delicious."

"Ay, gracias, cariña." And Della knew what she had said just by the warm smile she wore on her face. She must not get visitors often to compliment her cooking.

"And thanks for having me over, Joaquín. You're a really nice guy."

"I try my best," he said with a flattered smile. He stood up as well and led her to the door. "Say, tomorrow's Friday, you off?" He was met with a shake of her head. "Ah. I might stop by to say hi. I've got nothing planned. No fights or anything. I kinda wanna check out that store, see if maybe I can buy something for Abuelita."

Perhaps it was because Della did not have as many friends as she would have liked. Or perhaps it was because Joaquín seemed like such a relatable person. Whatever it was, Della felt rather anxious for their second meeting tomorrow. Perhaps they could learn more about each other during lunch. "That'd actually be pretty nice. Work's always slow, so I could use the company. I'll see you later, Joaquín."

"You too, Della." And as he turned to go back inside his home, Della noticed something rather peculiar about him. It was right there, between his left shoulder and the nape of his neck, exposed to her. Just looking at it sent an indescribable shiver down her spine. Maybe she would ask him about it tomorrow.

That smudge-like birthmark mark in the shape of a star.