Forgotten Pages (rewrite)

Prologue- The March of Time

In the heart of New York stands an old granite building, it's architecture is elegant and sophisticated; it's narrow roof reaches high up to the heavens, and it's dark stone exterior shines in the sun. This is the Speedwagon foundation headquarters; an institution dedicated to the betterment of humanity and development of useful technologies. A stark contrast to it's original inception as just another oil tycoon's business. Despite the change that had happened over the years, the spirit of goodwill and goal to help others remained unchanged for more than a century. Beyond sleek automated doors and a gate of metal detectors, past the winding hallways of elegant granite, in the most guarded center on the first floor, is an area that was open to all, but few ever saw.

It's a room unlike any other in the building. Some may even mistake themselves for accidentally walking into some kind of a museum from how it looked. In a way, it is a museum, dedicated to the history behind the very spirit of the foundation. There were no artifacts of the creation of the building though, no broken-off pieces of oil rigs , nor photos of the founder here. Instead, kept in secure glass exhibits on each wall of the room were mostly ordinary belongings. This is 'The Hall Of Heroes' a history of 7 generations of Joestars, each with a different story to tell. Displayed underneath each arrangement of objects was a plaque with a name, birth and death dates, and a speaker that after pressing a button, would begin to play audio of someone explaining each person's story in detail.

The first few are spoken by the founder himself, an older gentleman with an ancient-sounding cockney accent; and despite the man's perceived age, he sounded rather lively. Those first few sound old, with a notable fuzziness and the crackling of the archaic methods used to record them. As the stories go on the audio switches many times and gains clarity, with a myriad of voices, each distinct from the others. A different older man with a gruff voice and an American accent, the gravelly voice of a man who sounding to be in his thirties or forties, a jovial young man around his twenties, and lastly to a boy in his late teens with a thick Italian accent. Some tell their own stories while others recount them for others who could not live to tell their own. Each item, each voice, and each story is a different soul that inspired the foundation; all of them a different branch on a family tree of legends.

This does not mean that every story is remembered or revered equally though. It followed the first case containing an ancient sword still stained with the blood that changed the engraving on it's hilt for 'Luck' to 'PLuck', an old wedding ring, and stack of well-worn diaries. Yet, it preceded a case with singed bits of colored cloth, a set of glass clacker balls, odd rings that seemed to be from different piercings, and an old brown hat. This one was far more unassuming, and seemed slightly out of place within the collection. The arrangement seems more fit for some kind of military museum with a heavy stack of letters tied together with red string, a tattered military hat and neatly folded uniform, and a small frame containing a black and white photo of a couple presumably on their wedding day. The only thing really of note was a little medal shaped like a bird of prey, dented and scratched heavily, but still displaying the words "Flying Ace."

The voice that played through the speaker was that of a woman, smooth and calm. Her same voice is heard again later on in her own exhibit, telling her own life story.

This is the story of a man who's story is not lost to history, but lost to his family; swallowed up in the legacies of others. Tales of his heroism, still recounted in countless museums and history books, but not by his descendants. This is the story of George Joestar II, a forgotten page in a book filled with greater stories than his.

(Author's note: Sooooooooo, uh, this is a little passion project I've been working on between chapters of 'What You Lost in the Fire'. To give a little explanation, this is a remake of a story I started and worked on when I was a sophomore in high school. It turned out pretty bad; the story didn't really go anywhere, characters didn't really interact in interesting ways, and George II didn't have an interesting personality. Overall, I'd failed in my attempt to write an entertaining part 1.5 of Jojo, but it got me into writing more long-form fanfiction, and I still think George II has a lot of potential. As today was my last day of being in highschool, I thought I'd pay tribute to the first big story I ever finished and would start to post this remake. It's nowhere near complete, and I won't have any sort of consistent schedule, but I will occasionally update this story.)