Saints and Sinners (Ghost Rider/Worm AU)

[TheStranger]

"Vengeance is my heart, death in my hand
Blood and revenge are hammering in my head."
—William Shakespeare


​

"The name's Eric," is the first thing my apparent savior says to me after he all but forced me to eat his crappy attempt at breakfast. "Before you ask, no, I'm not a parahuman. Got none of those weird-ass brain tumors in my head like other folks, and I sure as hell don't go parading around in tights."

"Then how did you…?"

"Fight off skin, bones, and pissed off?" Eric chuckles. "A little something useful when fighting all things from Hell."

He pulls the gold cross from his neck and throws it at me. I instinctively grabbed it, only to yelp when I felt my skin burn on contact. It wasn't like holding my hand up to a flame; ever since I started playing host to Zarathos, fire doesn't affect me at all anymore. Even so, I remember what it feels like to be burned. This was worse. It was freezing as if I was touching ice so cold it burned.

"The fuck!"

"Blessed silver," he says with a wry grin. "Made from the melted remains of a cross bathed in holy water from the Vatican church. Mighty expensive, but worth it. Get your hands on anything holy, and chances are, they'll work on just about anything that pops out of Hell. Even Ghost Riders like you." He looks over at the sheathed sword leaning against the entryway leading out of the apartment. "Though I mostly use them for dealing with things other than hellions like yourself."

I look warily at the discarded cross on the kitchen table, then look up at Eric. "So…what? You're an expert on all things demonic?"

"I wouldn't go that far. My expertise isn't Hell. It's Hell's cousins, the ones that go bump in the night. I'm sure you'll run into one of them eventually."

God, could you be anymore cryptic…?

"…okay, who are you exactly?" I ask, deciding it was time to cut the bullshit. "How did you know where to find me? It seems convenient that you show up right when Vengeance had me dead to rights."

"Easy. I've been watching you ever since Brockton Bay."

…what?

I stare incredulously at Eric. He looks amused, but somehow, I know he's not lying. My head struggles to wrap around that fact. He's been watching me? For how long? Since the car accident? Since my first kill? Since the gang war? My mind goes into overdrive in fear and anxiety as I think about Mom and Dad, about Emma and Uncle Alan. How much does he know about me?

My panic must have been showing on my face because Eric spoke up. "If you're worried about whether I'm going to blackmail you, chill out. My job isn't to learn every skeleton in your closest or to threaten you."

"And what is your job, exactly?" I ask heatedly. Hellfire slowly seeps through my fingers and scorches the kitchen table. "I'm not in the mood for games. Who the fuck are you, and what do you want from me?"

Eric stops smiling. The air feels suffocating. Suddenly, I feel danger around every corner. Every cell in my body screams at me to get away from him, to run like hell or kill him. He's nowhere near his swords, yet all I feel from him is danger. Like I'm only one step away from dying or losing my head. He locks eyes with mine, and I feel so small. I feel like an ant about to be crushed an elephant's foot.

"To make a long story short, somebody wants to make sure you're up to snuff," Eric starts, mirth and amusement dead gone from his voice. "You don't realize it, but shit is going down. The kind that'd make you crap your pants and run for the hills, the stuff religious nuts yell and scream. The end times and all that. Honestly, I don't know what's going on, only that the Hellfire Club's smack dab in the middle of it. I don't normally take on gigs like this, but whoever wants you ready for what's to come made some pretty convincing arguments. Hired me on about a year ago. Told me about some hotshot kid who got stuck with the meanest son of a bitch to ever wind up in Hell in her head and watch her, and if need be, teach her. Until recently, all I did was hang back and watch you get to work."

"Until last night," I croak out.

Eric nodded. "I watched you waltz right on into Hellstrom's den. Gotta say, kid… I'm not impressed. You ran in half-cocked and arrogant. You didn't even have a plan besides run up, grab her by the hair, and start spewing threats like letting Zarathos out for an hour or two, did you?"

I wasn't expecting someone like her, I wanted to argue. I'll be ready next time.

The truth is, Eric is right. I didn't have a plan. I thought, just because I could use Zarathos' powers for myself now, I could just do what he did and steamroll right over everyone. I was arrogant, high on a power trip. Watching Zarathos fight… He made it seem so effortless. I lost count how many times he beat Lung into the ground. I thought I could the same.

Now, of course, I realize I'm out of my depth. Vengeance practically controlled that whole fight, and before that, I was barely holding my own against Overkill. A soulless meat puppet.

Last night made it very clear to me.

I'm weak.

"Seems like you understand that, at least," Eric observes with a hum. "So, kid. What's your plan now?"

And there's the million dollar question. What the hell do I do now? There's no doubt in my mind Vengeance will come looking for round two. He's a walking ball of hate with a bone to pick against my apparent predecessor, and he won't stop until he gets his answers. I doubt I'll get anything out of Zarathos, and something tells me trying to reason with Vengeance will just put me right back where we started, and I don't like my chances in the upcoming rematch.

I could try and go after Hellstrom again, but when I considered Overkill and how I struggled to beat him, as well as Zarathos and Eric's own warnings… Fighting her head-on is a no go.

I look at the cross, still sitting there on the kitchen table as if mocking me. I can still feel the pain in my hand from when I touched it.

"…I don't suppose hellfire can corrupt holy objects and still have their properties?" I ask.

At this, Eric chuckles. The tension lightens. "'fraid not. Infernal and holy don't tend to mix well. But, if you're looking to upgrade your arsenal a little bit…" He started walking away, gesturing for me to follow as he grabs his sheathed sword. "Come on. Got something to show you."

Against my better judgment, I get up and follow after him.



We didn't have to walk very far. In fact, we only went across the street. Across the apartment complex Eric was renting was a series of old warehouses with a fence and "WARNING! KEEP OUT!" signs across the mesh. Judging by the scorch marks on the warehouses themselves, it wasn't hard to guess why people were warned to keep out.

"This place used to be used for long-distance cargo and supply chains," Eric tells me as he ducks under a small opening in the mesh. I follow him while taking note of the smell of brimstone and hellfire. This place was the sight of a battle. "A couple months back, a hellhound showed up and started wreaking havoc, set the whole damn place ablaze and killed about twenty people before Protectorate showed up. They wrote the whole thing off as some escaped bio-tinker experiment."

"Why are we here?" I ask curiously. "Not that I don't appreciate the history lesson and that Chicago apparently has a history of demonic activity."

"Kid, you don't know the half of it," Eric grimaces. "Since the start of the year, all sorts of weird-ass shit's been going on. And it ain't just Hell, either. Everybody and their goddamn mother's gone crazy. Someone, or something, is stirring up shit, though damned if I know what. From what I gather, Mephisto and the other head-honchos seem to think it's got something to do with the Hellfire Club and his runaway son."

I blink in surprise. "That red-eyed bastard has a kid?"

"That he does, though I don't know much beyond that daddy dearest ain't too happy with him at the moment," Eric tells me. He stops to lean down, grabbing the handle on the metal gate before effortlessly throwing it up like its nothing. I heard the faint sound of crunching metal and saw a warped and broken metal bit hanging off the bottom of the gate. He broke the lock like it was nothing. A mild Brute rating, then? "Whatever the case, Mephisto and other concerned parties like my boss want to put a stop to whatever the Hellfire Club's up to before it gets worse."

As we enter the ruined remains of the warehouse, I take stock of the interior. Some of the concrete floor had been torn up, either ripped apart by sharp claws or partially melted from intense heat. A steel beam had been cut clean through and now sat in the middle of the floor, also partially melted. The stench of brimstone became pungent to the point it made my nostrils burn in irritation.

"Which brings us to the here and now." The man stops in the middle of the room and turns to me. His eyes seem more intense now like a predator sizing his prey. Goosebumps run down the back of my neck as I clench my fists. Suddenly, I realized why he brought me here. "You've got power, kid, but you don't have experience. More than that, you don't even know how to use your power right. If you were to run up to Hellstrom or that prick friend of yours, you'd be a smear of charcoal and dust on the concrete. We're gonna fix that."

"So, what? We're going to train?" I grit my teeth and glare defiantly at the man, even as he reaches for his silver sword. "I don't have the time—"

One second he was across from me, and in the next, his sword was coming down atop my head. Chains sprout from my person and block the blade and wrap around it, halting it in place. The orange flames turn blue and the chains start steaming, cracks eating away at the links. Just being near the sword made me squirm. When the first link broke, I jumped away. Not a moment too soon as the sword shattered its bindings. Eric didn't stop and was already on me, attacking faster than I thought possible

A gloved hand seizes me by the neck and pins me to the steel beam behind us. The sword's tip presses against my chest. I clench my teeth, biting back a hiss when I feel the sharp end digging softly into the flesh. It was not enough to draw blood, but it was enough to make me feel like ice was biting into my stomach.

"And you think I do?" Eric snarls. I swear I saw what look like fangs on his upper teeth. "Or that we have time? This ain't some comic book where I spend the next few weeks kicking your ass to kingdom come before you finally learn how to use your powers right. No kid, this ain't training. This…is a trial by fire. Either you walk out of this alive, or you die. No middle ground."

He pulls the sword away from me and throws me halfway across the warehouse. I roll back onto my feet, heat pumping in my veins. I hear Zarathos chuckling in the back of my head.

"I like this dhampir."

Before I could even begin to understand what that meant, Eric was already gunning for me. At that moment, I didn't see a man. I saw a monster in human skin, ready to rip me limb from limb.

Fuck me, he was serious!

Hellfire burns through my skin. Chains wrap around my fists alongside the most intense flames I can muster. Sword met chained fist.

I scream.



God dammit, Rob.

There really was no other way to describe the shitshow he landed in. As a personal rule, Eric made it a point not to involve himself in the affairs of the demonic. In his admittedly small experience with all things relating to Hell, dealing with the demonic was more trouble than its worth. It didn't help the people he knew who dealt with the demonic were idiots. He's seen plenty of fools who had no idea what forces they decided to deal with.

He just never thought one of the few people he considered a friend would be one of them.

It'd been years since he last saw Robbie Reyes. He was a tired man back then, the toll of being Mephisto's hunting dog having finally become too much to bear anymore. They talked of how he might break free of his contract, but all roads they explored were dead ends. It seemed utterly hopeless, but a few years ago, Robbie contacted him and said he was finally free of his Spirit of Vengeance. Ordinarily, Eric would have been happy for his friend were it not for the somber, almost pitiful tone he made. It wasn't until he got a phone call from his "employer" that Robbie went and did something stupid.

Eric was almost certain Robbie hadn't meant to pass on Zarathos, at least not intentionally. Somehow, the bastard got loose on his own and jumped into the kid Robbie saved. That didn't change the fact Robbie created a new Ghost Rider, one that had zero means of taming Zarathos as he went hog-wild across Brockton Bay.

Since the start of the year, Eric observed and watched Taylor Hebert like a hawk. Kid was as average and pitiful as one might expect. Spending three years as Zarathos' unwilling partner did a number on her. On her worst days, she looked like a walking corpse. It hadn't been until the powder keg blew up and some cowboy from a bygone age showed up for things to change, enough for Mephisto to finally make an appearance and get his shit together. He made the kid a deal, one she had no hope of fulfilling.

The Hellfire Club wasn't some upjumped band of psychos. No, these were psychos who consorted with hell and then some, with Mephisto's own son at the head. Dozens of Ghost Riders went after them, and not a single one ever managed to scratch the top brass. Oh, sure, the "lower ranks" were culled and sent back to hell, but the premiere members like Hellstrom? They were a constant fixture, the creme de la creme as it were. Fighting them was suicide.

Looking at her now, it's hard to believe this kid is going to be the one to finally bring them down. Even if she is Zarathos' new host, Eric didn't believe it. She's barely been in the driver seat for more than a month, and she still hasn't caught on to the inherit nature of her powers. She's got a glimpse, an "idea", but that's it. She still doesn't understand.

So, as was asked of him by his employer, Eric decided he'd make her understand.

If there's one positive thing he can say about Taylor, it's that she's a quick learner. It's been less than ten minutes since he went on the assault, and so far he's only stabbed her at least ten times. She's light on her feet, using her chains to pull herself around and avoid his strikes faster, but Eric's own physiology makes it a moot point. Contrary to what he told her, he's not actually trying to kill her here. His employer would be pissed if he did. At the very least, though, he made the effort to let her know that, if she slipped up, he'd capitalize and kill her.

Presentation and all that dumb shit, as his friend would say.

Now if only she could throw a punch worth a damn, Eric thinks as he sidesteps and bats away an incoming fist, tripping Taylor up and slashing at her exposed back. The flickering flames briefly turn blue from contact with holy weaponry, accompanied by a howl of pain. The girl stumbles and nearly falls flat on her face, but somehow manages to push through it and whirl on her heel, bringing a chain-wrapped fist with her for a haymaker. He blocked it with the flat of his sword and kicks her back.

"That all you got, kid?" Eric taunts her.

Indignation and anger sparks around her flames. It's hard to tell what kind of expression she's making when she's got a flaming skull for a head at the moment, but the way the flames waft and intensify gives him a good idea. She dashes at him, jumping up and propelling herself with a burst of flame from her feet like they're jet-boots, even doing a front somersault ax-kick for good measure like she's some kind of amateur martial artist. Eric dodges out of the way and grabs her ankle, wrapping it tight in his grip and throwing her against one of the steel beams. The metal dents on impact as she slides off.

Eric doesn't give her any time to recover. In seconds he's on her, a boot on her chest and his sword in both hands.

"I told you, kid. You either walk out of here, or you don't. Time's up."

A lie, but a motivational one. He brings the sword down and aims for her chest. Taylor's hands reach out and grab the sword. Even with chains wrapped around her burnt gloves, they don't offer nearly enough protection. She hisses and whimpers, blue flickering flames dancing around her gloves. The holy attribute of his sword is enough to make even a lowly demon hiss in discomfort. Touching it is the same as dousing your hand in gasoline and lighting it on fire.

Eric has no doubt that Taylor's in pain, mind-numbing in fact, but the way she holds onto his sword for dear life, to keep it from piercing her, is enough to make him respect her. Well, almost. She still hasn't done anything—hm?

"GET!"

The blue flames are suddenly overpowered. Crimson hellfire, the kind he saw from Ketch, suddenly pours out from the seams of her gloves and burns them away. The chains start melting. His sword heats up.

Well, shit. How 'bout that?

A natural, indeed.

"OFF!"

An explosion of concentrated hellfire nearly consumes him. Eric bites back a hiss, digging his molars into his cheek as he's suddenly forced off her and made to retreat. The crimson flames flow around Taylor like a cloud as she unsteadily rises to her feet. Her shoulders sag and her legs tremble, her breaths coming out like pained wheezes. She looks at the flames around her and at the flames swirling around her arms. Slowly, the crimson color fades and the flames start to sputter away into sparks. Eventually, the only flames around her are those wrapped around her skeletal form.

"What… What the hell…is this?"

Eric's lips quirk upward. Maybe the quack should've gotten Ketch to teach her. Been a while since I've seen anyone dredge up those flames.

Hellfire by itself is dangerous. It's wild, volatile, and sometimes it has a mind of its own. It doesn't discriminate in who it burns and what it destroys. Unlike normal fire, which can happen as a result of mother nature or because someone wanted to burn down the world, hellfire happens because it wills it to happen. In a way, hellfire is alive. The flames wielded by the Ghost Riders are not natural hellfire, but merely the flames of resentment and anger born from the dredges of what little remains of their damned, scorched souls.

Crimson hellfire, the proud and true, untamed flames of the Ninth Circle, is a whole 'nother ballgame. Ordinarily, such flames would normally be used by the lords of Hell, including Satan.

Then again, Zarathos ain't exactly normal, Eric muses. Okay, kid. You got one up on me. Let's see what else you got.



It took me at least two hours before I realized Eric was not, in fact, trying to kill me. In hindsight, it should have been obvious since he had dozens of opportunities to kill me during our "training session", and I use the term quite loosely.

I thought touching the cross hurt like a bitch, but being stabbed and slashed was so much worse. Ever wonder what it'd feel like for someone to jam a poker made from dry ice in you? Imagine that, only it's also covered in salt and covered in spikes. Worse, the pain wasn't mind-numbing. I felt each and every single inch of that silver sword as it cut into my bones.

Three hours of fighting, and I never landed so much as a single hit on Eric. It infuriates me to say it, but he controlled the whole fight. I was dancing to his every tune, unable to take the advantage even once. The only time I managed to catch him off guard was when those weird flames suddenly exploded out of me. Eric refused to explain to me what they were, even though the look on his face blatantly said he did. I was too tired to argue. I felt like I would drop dead at any moment.

Tired and weary, I decided it was time to call it quits and return to the apartments. I half-feared Vengeance finding me, but there was no sign of him at all. I don't doubt he's still in the city, though. Something told me the guy wasn't going to stop chasing me, not until he got the answers he wanted, even if he already did. Zarathos was telling the truth about Blaze, but Vengeance refused to hear it. He hates Johnny Blaze that much.

Still, at least I have a name. I'm well aware of the Unwritten Rules, but I sincerely doubt they apply to Ghost Riders.

I make it back to the apartments without any trouble. The manager barely spares me a second glance, too preoccupied watching some dumb 90's show on his television set. In turn, I ignored him and march up to the second floor.

It only occurred to me after my "sparring session" with Eric that I never told Emma what happened. I figure she's either going to be frothing mad at me or bawling her eyes out, and I'm not sure which is worse. I stand in front of the door leading to mine and Emma's apartment, my hand hesitating over the handle. I try to think of something I could say to her, anything at all, but I couldn't think of anything that'd placate her. It'd be better to just face the music.

Reluctantly, I open the door and step inside.

"Yeah, I know, I'm in the doghouse," I start as I close the door behind me, fully expecting to see an irate Emma standing there. "My burner got destroyed and…" I trail off as I look up, blinking and staring at the absurd sight in front of me.

Emma's lying on the couch, her face red as her hair. Above her, seemingly pinning her, was a dark-skinned girl I didn't recognize. She felt familiar as I smelled brimstone from her, but I don't remember her at all. Her black hair fell over her face, some of it framing and mixing with Emma's own.

The two girls stare at me like deers in headlights.

There were a million things I could say to this.

"…I'm too tired for this shit."

 

[TheStranger]

"You know, you could have mentioned you left a girlfriend behind."

Emma sputtered. "I already told you, it's not like that!"

"Ems, your face was bright as your hair, and she had her leg—"

"Oh my god, can we not do this right now?! Sophia, don't just stand there! Say something!"

Sophia Hess, or rather Shadow Stalker as I now recognized her, sat quietly off to the side. Ever since I came back, she eyed me like a hawk, not sure what to make of me. She had no visible weapons anywhere on her person, but that didn't make her harmless. I vaguely remember what I saw when Zarathos had her by the neck back at the bank. This girl was a ball of violence and issues and a skewed world view. In another life, I would have detested her. To be frank, she rubbed me the wrong way.

…but, she was also there for Emma. While she's far from a nice person, she wasn't the same as most of the scum Zarathos hunted. The fact Zarathos settled for scarring her cheek spoke volumes when he could have made her feel the pain of her victims, like the poor son of a bitch she pinned to a wall with crossbow bolts. There was a hint of begrudging respect, but not enough to spare her from a fist fueled by hellfire.

"Y'know, you're really not at all what I was expecting," Sophia said after a minute of staring at me in silence. "Thought you'd be this really beefy motherfucker."

"Sophia…" Emma whined.

I shrugged my shoulders. "Reality disappoints," I snarked. "What's the saying? Never meet your heroes or some shit?"

Sophia tensed up. "How do you know about that?"

I tapped my finger against my skull. "One of the perks. Some days it's useful, but other times… Well, let's just say there's a lot of shot I wish I could un-see, if you catch my drift." Sophia still looked warily at me, but she accepted my explanation. "Anyways, what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be back at Brockton Bay? …or are you here for me?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Hebert. I came here because of this idiot," she said as she jabbed a thumb in Emma's direction, causing her to squawk indignantly. "Her folks kept calling me, asking if they knew anything about why their daughter was wanted for murder. Emma's a survivor and a motherfucker. First time I met her, she broke some chink's nose when he tried to carve her face up. A killer, though? Nah, that's not her. Figured there was some other shit going on."

"And the PRT…?"

"Fuck the PRT," Sophia spat.

Zarathos raspily chuckled. Even I had to admit I was impressed. She's still a bitch, but at least she's a loyal bitch.

"So, anybody gonna tell me what in the hell is going on?"

Emma and I exchanged looks. An unseen conversation played out between us.

Should we tell her?

Would she even believe us?

The exchange lasted a few seconds longer before Emma gave me a stern frown, even folding her arms while trying to pull off mom's "look". I shook my head in resignation and turned to Sophia. "You'll probably think we're crazy."

"Try me."

"Alright… Okay, it's like this. Three years ago…"

And so I told her what started all this, how one stupid girl begged for anything to save her life, her mother's life, her best friend's life. Instead of God or a hero, she got a flaming devil who passed on his power to her, and was helpless as she watched the demon raise havoc for the next three years of her life.

Throughout my explanation, Sophia listened with an unchanging expression, all while shooting curious glances at Emma, who grew increasingly uncomfortable with retelling. It only occurred to me afterward that I never told her what life had been like for me during those three years, allowed only a few moments of brief respite before Zarathos took back control.

"…okay, so let me get this straight," Sophia said after I finished my story. "You accidentally made a deal with some demon straight from the pits of hell, and said demons are the source of the Ghost Riders powers and got stuck as said demon's bitch for three years of your life. And you only recently got your life back because Emma, in her infinite wisdom, though it'd be a good idea to summon a fucking devil, who then proceeded to use her as his personal meat suit to make a deal with you to put that flaming douche under lock and key. Am I missing anything?"

"No, that's about the gist of it."

"Ah, cool. In that case, what the fuck Ems!"

…Okay, I wasn't expecting that.

"Seriously?! Of all the boneheaded things you could have possibly done, you went and got yourself Mastered?!" Sophia rounded on Emma, teeth bared like a wolf. Emma shirked back in surprise, not expecting her friend's reaction. "You couldn't have asked for help?!"

"W-what was I supposed to tell people?" Emma weakly protested. "Hey, my best friend is being possessed by a demon and I need help getting it out of her. I'd get thrown in a loony bin!"

"Wait, you actually believe us?" I asked in surprise. She didn't strike me as the type to be so open-minded.

"Normally, I'd call you fucking crazy, but weird shit's been going on over at the Bay since you skipped town," Sophia said. "Not to mention the fucking cowboy."

"Cowboy?"

"Another Ghost Rider that showed up around the time you bailed," Sophia explained.

I vaguely remember hearing about that from news articles and PHO. A Ghost Rider dressed like he came out of an old Western film showed up and saved Mayor Christner's niece from a bunch of kidnappers. Despite the fact he was a Ghost Rider, i.e. one of the most dangerous capes in the world, the mayor gave him a heartfelt thanks and offered a reward, which he kindly turned down. People were more than a little confused, but eventually took to calling him one of the more "honorable" Ghost Riders once people started to realize there was more than one.

A frown formed over my face as a familiar thought crossed my mind. Learning that I was far from the only one to play host to a demon didn't make me feel any better, but it did raise some curiosities. Were the Spirits of Vengeance all raging pricks like Zarathos, or did they have a good relationship with their hosts? Vengeance partially answered that question, but I remembered Zarathos' words about his and Badilino's shared hate toward Johnny Blaze, whoever he may have been.

I knew so little about my powers, much less the Ghost Riders. They must have been more than what Mephisto made them, more than hunting dogs sent to find anyone who didn't pay their dues.

Maybe, when this is over, I can go out and get some answers. Learn more about what I can do, and maybe get a mentor who won't kick my ass six ways from Sunday. Speaking of, I made a mental note to look up any capes that matched Eric's description. With that level of skill, there was no way he wasn't an unknown cape. Indie, maybe, but definitely not someone people wouldn't know about. Not unless he went out of his way to stay hidden.

"So, what's the deal with you guys?" Sophia questioned. "I mean, why come here to Chicago?"

I grimaced, remembering what happened last night. "Part of my deal with Mephisto involves me hunting down the Hellfire Club." Her eyes grew the size of dinner plates and choked on her own spit, looking at me as if I was crazy. "We tracked down one of their members here, The Devil's Daughter herself."

"Fucking hell, the Hellfire Club? The sick pricks as bad as the Slaughterhouse Nine, if not worse?" She shook her head. "No offense Hebert, but you got a fucked up job."

"Gee, thanks."

"Er, speaking of which, I have some bad news," Emma said suddenly. Sophia and I turned to her as she reached for the laptop on the coffee table, turning it so we could see the screen. On it was a news article. "Media outlets are already covering what happened at the club. According to official sources, the actual owner, a guy named Clive Stephenson, was found dead in the janitor's closet. Apparently, he's been dead for over a week, around the time people started going missing."

"Hellstrom's work, probably," I surmised. "And what about her? Any word?"

"None. No one ever saw her, not even the club regulars. Even the suspected gangbangers working for her never actually met her in person, just by proxy. Her bodyguard's also in the wind."

I wanted to shout. One of targets was here in Chicago, and she got away. It irked me to the point I wanted to vent my anger on something, but losing temper over something like this wasn't going to do me any good. It was not as if this would be the last time I saw her. Fighting her was out of the question for now; if I couldn't beat her soulless pet, then I definitely stood little to no chance against the boss herself. I needed to get stronger. On the plus side, Hellstrom not being around anymore meant we could leave Chicago behind before people started to realize who I was.

For the umpteenth time, I wondered how my parents were doing, both from learning about my circumstances and the fact that I'm wanted as the main suspect in Thomas Calvert's murder. Not that anyone realized the poor fucker was actually a villain. That scumbag was one of the few I had no problems with Zarathos sending to the bowels of Hell. Motherfucker was going to kidnap some poor girl for her powers, drug her to make her more compliant.

I take a moment to consider our next plan of action before remembering that we couldn't leave Chicago, though not for a lack of trying. Dim as his presence was, I could still sense him out there. Hiding, waiting.

"So, what's the plan here?" Sophia asked. "We pack up and leave?"

Emma and I stared in surprise. "You want to come with us?" the red-head asked. "I mean, a-are you sure? You, uh, do know we're wanted by the police, right?"

"Ems, I knew what I was getting myself into when I left town looking for your sorry ass," Sophia scoffed. "And besides, it ain't like I'm sad to leave the PRT. They were cramping my style and a pain in my ass. Only person there to actually be worth a damn is the midget."

"And your folks?" I inquired, more than a little suspicious. "They won't try to look for you?"

At this, Sophia paused. Doubt briefly flickered across her eyes before she shrugged. "Eh, we're not really close these days anyway. Not since my dad went and offed himself and my Trigger Event happened."

A lie. I keep silent and think of the pros and cons. I personally don't trust her, not even to have my back in the middle of a fight. I could trust her to kick the shit out of criminals and capes, but not to prioritize saving people or going too far. Zarathos scarred her because he felt she was deserving of that much at least, of her arrogance and beliefs. She'd leave the "weaklings" to fend for themselves unless they put up a fight or threw a punch. It's the only reason she saved Emma's life.

She won't change her mind. Her worldview won't change anytime soon, not unless someone challenges it and smashes it to pieces.

I looked over at Emma, who in turn looked back at me. After a moment of consideration, my friend looked up at Sophia. "…at least tell me you brought shampoo and a toothbrush with you."

"The fuck do I look like, Skidmark? Of course I brought a fucking toothbrush and shampoo. You still like that camilla shit, right?"

"Ohthankyougodyourememberedmyfavoritescent!"

…I really hope I don't regret this.



After ordering takeout and going over our plans, we turned in for the night. Emma took the bed as usual while Sophia went and claimed the couch without asking for my input. I would have argued were I not using Emma's laptop for my own research.

The first thing I did was look up capes matching Eric's description. I expected to find information about him on the indie forums from PHO or other parahuman-related websites. PHO was a bust, though that was to be expected given I was working off limited information. A black man with a sword wasn't exactly very descriptive, and there were at least a dozen capes with similar appearances. That didn't mean my search came up empty-handed, though. In addition to popular cape websites, rumormonger forums were included in my search engine.

The rumormonger sites are pretty much tabloids and sketchy articles run by people working off little to no info. As the name implied, they worked off rumors and hearsay, rarely anything concrete or evidence to back up their claims. More often than not, there was Fallen propaganda and fearmongering bullshit. The Ghost Riders were a frequent topic of discussion, though.

Anyway, the rumormonger site "Nightly Report" had a forum about underground capes, the kind who rarely appeared in the spotlight and favored skullduggery work. The article listed in my search engine was about a cape named Blade, who matched Eric's description; a black man with a gold cross around his neck and carrying a silver sword on his back. There wasn't much to say about Blade, save that he hunted down supposed Case-53 capes. The descriptions of said capes sounded like something you'd read about in a horror novel. One user claimed he was a vampire hunter.

Ordinarily, I would disregard anything I read on this site, but considering Hell's real…

"So, he's a monster hunter," I murmured to myself. "Doesn't explain why he's here in Chicago helping me, though…"

Eric mentioned someone paid him to help me with the Hellfire Club. He never said who, and if his attitude was anything to go by, I sincerely doubt he'd tell me anything. I sighed as I rubbed my eyes, feeling exhaustion starting to sink in. I was about to turn in when another thought came to me.

Johnny Blaze. One of my apparent predecessors, and someone Zarathos apparently considered a "friend". The person Vengeance had a grudge against. I knew next to nothing about him besides that, but if he had a name, he existed. Which meant there must have been something about him somewhere on the internet.

I typed the name into the search engine. Two articles caught my attention.



QUINTON CIRCUS TRAGEDY! MOTORCYCLIST LEGEND AND LEAD STUNTMAN CRASH SIMPSON DIES IN MOTORCYCLE ACCIDENT!

HIGHWAY 66 MURDER REMAINS UNSOLVED! LEAD SUSPECT STILL AT LARGE!



I narrowed my eyes. Both articles were written all the way back in the 1960's, years before the appearance of Scion and the rise of parahuman culture. By that point in time, the Ghost Riders were a known existence, albeit as rumors and ghost stories. The article titles themselves didn't inspire much confidence, but they offered a glimpse of what sort of person Blaze was.

The first article detailed the tragedy and passing of a famous motorcycle icon. The Quinton Circus was best known for its daring motorcycle stunts, with Barton Blaze and Crash Simpson co-leading the show. The pair were known by many as the Quinton Daredevils, with their most famous stunt being their biggest performance at Pearl Harbor when Crash and Barton jumped over five Helicopters in a single bound on their motorcycles, as the blades were still spinning. I couldn't decide whether to feel impressed or dismiss them as a bunch of adrenaline junkies risking their lives.

The Blazes and Simpsons were nonetheless considered the best motorcyclists in the U.S., with their shows almost always drawing huge attractions. Unfortunately, tragedy struck the circus when Barton Blaze was killed in a fatal car accident where a truck slammed into him on his motorcycle at top speed. Barton died on impact, leaving his only son Johnny Blaze, then twelve-years-old, in the care of the Simpsons. Ten years later, tragedy struck again when Crash Simpson attempted a world record stunt, only to die in the attempt. According to some rumors, the Simpsons were debating whether to shut down the circus with Crash dead, only for Johnny Blaze to attempt the same stunt Crash did and succeed.

Oddly, despite this success, Blaze disappeared shortly after performing such a daring stunt, with Crash's daughter Roxanne also disappearing. There were theories such as the two running off to elope or some darker secret, like Johnny being responsible for Crash's death, but the truth remains unclear.

A few months later, Roxanne Simpson was found dead on Highway 66 in Chicago, Illinois. Police claimed she was the victim of a brutal homicide, having been savagely beaten before being cruelly shot twelve times in the chest. Eye witness reports claimed to have seen a man matching the description of Johnny Blaze at the scene of the crime, though the cops were never able to find him.

I stared at the articles as I tried to connect the dots. There was a picture half-complete in front of me. An ugly one.

"…when did he make the deal?" I asked my unwanted passenger. "Crash, or Roxanne?"

Surprisingly, Zarathos responded with a somber tone. Does it matter?

…no. I guess it doesn't.

I closed the laptop and laid myself down on the hardwood floor. I could still feel Vengeance's presence out there, somewhere. I had to deal with him sooner rather than later. There was no telling what he would do if I didn't.

I couldn't risk him dragging Emma into this. One way or another, I had to deal with him.

You'll lose, Zarathos reminded me.

I scoffed. "Any suggestions? Besides letting you free?"

As you are now, you have no hope of beating him. A few measly days of getting your ass kicked by the dhampir and learning how to harness my hellfire won't change that.

"So what? I just run and hope for the best?"

Not quite.

I raised an eyebrow.

There is one thing you can do…though whether you'll live long enough to do so is up to Balidino.


May 6, 2011



We planned to leave Chicago tonight. With Hellstrom in the wind and the police and PRT now on high alert, there was no point in staying in the city any longer. Which, of course, meant I had today to deal with Vengeance lest he hunt our asses down across the state. As Zarathos cruelly pointed out to me, my chances of winning against the bastard as I am now are slim to none. Even with my newfound knowledge of how effective blessed and holy weaponry are against anything from Hell, I wasn't confident in my chances.

Which, of course, meant I had to turn things in my favor. I needed every possible advantage I could get.

"You lit a fire under your ass," Eric noted as we circled around each other. His sword was drawn whereas my skin was incinerated, leaving only hellish flames and bleached bone. "In a hurry to hunt down Hellstrom, are we?"

"I have to deal with my stalker first," I snarked. Instead of conjuring chains to wrap around my fists like normal, I opted for something different. As far as weapons go, a steel pipe is crude and boring, but it'd get the job done. Especially once corrupted with hellfire. "I've got a vague idea of how to deal with him, but I need more time. More than that…"

I needed experience.

I wasn't Zarathos, who spent who knows how many years serving Mephisto and how many years he spent on this Earth, fighting god knows what. Just because I had a front-row seat of him fighting the toughest capes back home and him tearing off one of Simurgh's wings doesn't mean I could do what he did. Hellstrom's soulless pet, Vengeance, and Eric have made that very clear.

Eric chuckled, understanding my meaning. After that, there wasn't anymore need for words.

In a moment, he was in the air, sword prepped to slice me in half. I grounded my feet as deep into the earth as I could, remembering the sensation I felt yesterday when I summoned those horrible flames. I felt my nerves being set ablaze as Eric fell upon me, right as I grabbed hold of his sword to stop it from cutting through my body. White-hot searing pain surged through my arms and into my brain the second my hands made contact. It was agonizing, almost mind-numbing, but I managed to push through the pain.

Oddly, the pain was both a motivator and a reminder. That horrid feeling from before, that moment when the flames first burst forth, rushed back like a dam spewing open. Crimson hellfire rolled around my arms and coiled through my fingers like snakes. The searing pain of touching blessed steel abated somewhat, but not entirely. It still hurt like hell.

It was tolerable at best. I gritted my teeth, grabbed hold of the sword as tight as I could when I saw Eric tense, realizing what I was planning. To my effort, I managed to keep him in place, just long enough to drive my flaming skull into his temple. The headbutt made contact with enough force to break his sunglasses and make his head snap back. I kicked him away, pushing him further from me and taking hold of his sword. In comparison to the blade itself, holding it by the handle brought no pain. Only the steel was blessed and doused in holy water, it seemed, though that didn't make touching the damned thing any less uncomfortable.

Time to see if this works, I thought as I let the flames coalesce around the sword. The sword seemingly trembled as if alive, reacting to my infernal touch. The crimson flames wrapped around the blade, flickering and changing between its deep red and blue colors. I felt the sword resisting my attempts to corrupt it, fighting back against the hellfire.

Movement flickered within my vision. Eric was already back on his feet and closing in, his fist clenched and flying through the air. I dodged, if only barely and—

"Shit!"

Eric's leg came out of nowhere and knocked the sword out of my hands, followed by a swift kick to the chest that sent my flying. Instinctively, a chain shot out from my hands and latched onto the ground, pulling me down to Earth and back on my feet. I looked up in time to see Eric snatching his sword right as it came down. He angled his sunglasses, just enough for me to see wine red eyes peering over them with a look of exasperation.

"Really. Kid? Stealing a man's sword. Haven't you ever heard of manners?"

I responded by throwing a ball of red flame, which he promptly sliced through like butter, briefly leaving behind a streak of blue flame. Without pausing, Eric closed the distance between us again and struck, his sword cutting into my side. Once more, I was greeted with viciously familiar pain. Despite that, I smiled, realizing my experiment bore fruit. It'd been a gamble, but one that seemingly paid off. I looked back in time to see Eric coming at me from the air, his sword raised to cut me in half. I slammed my bony hands and sandwiched the sword right as it came down, holding it in place and violating the blessed steel with the crimson flames. Although the pain refused to subside, it steadily grew more dull by the second.

Eric must have realized what I was doing because he pulled back, only to find his sword yanked out of his hands. He never noticed the chains I managed to hide within the flames until it was too late. Unfortunately, whatever glee I had from disarming him twice today was viciously robbed when the bastard suddenly punched the sword, impaling it into my chest and sending me flying right into the concrete wall behind me. The blade kept me pinned, and worse, the blade sunk hilt-deep to where I could actually feel it cutting into my spine. Although the pain was far less intense compared to before, it still stung like a bitch.

"Looks like you're quick to learn when you're in the thick of it," Eric said as he waltzed up to me. I thought I saw what looked like approval in those eyes of his. He grabbed his sword and pulled it out of me, which somehow hurt worse than when he impaled me on the damned thing. I landed on my knees, panting as the flames sputtered away, leaving muscles and flesh. For some reason, my whole body was aching. "But you've still got a long way to go, kid."

"Tell me something," I gasped. "I don't already know…" I took a few moments to catch my breath, then steadily force myself back on my feet. "At least… I got your sword… Twice."

"True," the man conceded. "But you still have trouble landing a hit on me. Also, you're using me as a benchmark for Vengeance, which is another reason why I've been kicking your ass." I didn't understand what he was getting. I had no idea if he was as strong as Vengeance, but I always assume them to be evenly matched. Eric elaborated upon seeing my befuddled expression. "Think back to when you fought Vengeance, then think back to yesterday and today. What's the difference between me and him besides one being a goddamn hellion and the other a guy with a sword?"

"Your both fast," I said. "And stronger than me, which is a given. You've fought tougher opponents than me, and your fast enough to where you can overwhelm your opponent. Vengeance hardly ever let up and was always on the offensive. I barely had any time to breathe." I paused as the contrast started to sink in. "…but Vengeance was using overwhelming power. In a contest of strength, I would lose hands down. I bet I'd still lose, even if learned how to better control raw hellfire."

"And me?"

"You don't give me time to rest or plan my attack, but you focus more on capitalizing on mistakes and crippling me."

Eric's strikes, while deadly, were never delivered with lethal intent. He stopped just short of them being actually life-threatening, but it was obvious he was not wearing "kiddie gloves" so to speak. He could get away with such attacks because of my ability to heal while also taking advantage of his sword's properties, which more often than not, made me stall and left me in so much pain I could barely formulate any real plan of attack.

That was the difference. Vengeance wouldn't stop until his opponent was dead and no more than a scorch mark. Eric's tactic, while similar, focused on leaving his enemy at a disadvantage.

"Me and Vengeance have similar abilities, but he's way more experienced than I am. Confronting him head-on will just have the same result as last time. So I'll just have to get creative."

"And how are you gonna do that?"

I remembered Vengeance and how he fought, how anger and fury drove each and every one of his attacks. He was fighting under the impression I was the man who apparently ruined him. That anger made him focused.

"I'll push his buttons, get him sloppy."

"Might backfire on you."

"Not if I don't give him time to think," I replied cheekily while eyeing his sword.

Eric understood my plan then. He raised an eyebrow. "You're gonna be in a world of pain, kid."

"Like you said, I need every possible edge. Besides, I think I've gotten used to pain by now."

The man still seemed skeptical, but otherwise shrugged. "It's your plan. Take a few minutes, then we'll get back into it. And this time," he lowered his voice. It turned husky, low with a hint of steel and danger. A shiver ran down my spine. "Come at me like you're trying to kill me. No pussy shit, got it?"

I nodded.

"Good. One last thing… What you've been doin? It's a solid plan, but you'd better learn the difference between something that's been blessed and something that's holy by nature. Trust me on that much, otherwise you'll be in for a world of hurt."



Well into the night, with the moon hanging high in the sky, the being known as Vengeance writhed in still-broiling fury. The charred skeleton that made up his "core" creaked and groaned under the intensity of his flames. As the night waned, the body grew less and less stable. Before long, he would need to find another viable host.

It'd been years since the last time Vengeance felt so intuned with his roots, of the vestiges of what had once been two separate entities. In truth, it was hard to tell if he was still a Spirit of Vengeance, a once-noble soul tormented and twisted by Hell's most vaunted torturers or if he was Michael Badilino, a once-good man who's life had been upended by a man drive by pure spite. He remembered bits and pieces of both lives, yet they were so muddled and mixed it was impossible to tell which memories were which. He never gave it much thought, however, not since the Spirit of Vengeance had found a kindred spirit with Michael.

Before Johnny Blaze ruined his life, Michael Badilino was a good man. He was a police officer who made it his life's mission to keep the peace, to ensure no one would ever suffer as he did. A pure and righteous soul that would surely be welcomed within the Pearly Gates. Sadly, Badilino willingly damned himself when Mephisto came to him with a contract, one Michael accepted in exchange for the power and opportunity to take revenge. Although Johnny Blaze brought Michael misery, Michael only wished for the power to punish those like Blaze. It seemed fitting, then, that the Spirit of Vengeance would take to him so quickly.

Learning that Blaze was a fellow Ghost Rider instilled a fury unlike anything the spirit felt before, a fury that resonated so deeply within his very being when the spirit learned it was Zarathos who was empowering the wandering vagabond. If he were being honest, Vengeance did not understand why Zarathos made him feel so much fury. It was not simply because he was superior to him in every way, commanding the very power of Hell with such mastery one would mistake him for a trueborn demon. No, there'd been something else.

What had it been that filled Vengeance with rage?

…Mockery.

Yes, that was what made Vengeance despise Zarathos so deeply. He made a mockery of the "justice" he sought to upheld, of the laws he would enact and execute with every fiber of his being. Worse, Zarathos perverted those very same ideals to suit his own ends. Vengeance knew not whether Zarathos was one of his fellows or something else entirely, and in the end, it did not matter. All that mattered was wiping Zarathos from the face of the Earth and turning every scrap of his infernal being into dust and ashes.

Their last confrontation with Johnny Blaze and Zarathos had ended in failure. Michael's body "gave up the ghost" so to speak, unable to withstand the punishment and overload of power he experienced in their battle with their counterpart. It was only because of their bond, their mutual desire, that they persisted when their flesh perished. Two souls, one mortal and one damned, intertwined and melded into something still damned, something burning with infernal desire and a putrid hate. This was the essence of the being named Vengeance, of the Ghost Rider who would stop at nothing to kill the one he so despised.

Vengeance had long since lost track of the passage of time. It mattered not to him. Even as the years changed, the world remained the same. The Endbringers continued to lay waste to the world and sinners of all kinds still roamed freely, basking in their so-called glory. Throughout it all, Vengeance never cared about any of that. They were simply the motions of his life up until now.

Zarathos claimed Johnny Blaze was dead, that he was in Hell, but Vengeance couldn't accept that. He refused to accept that his revenge was denied, that someone other than him had killed that fucking vagabond. No, there was something else at play here. Perhaps Zarathos abandoned Blaze in favor of a new host, or Mephisto dumped him in that waif of a girl. Whatever the case, he would not be tricked. He would have his revenge, and he would have his answers, even if he had to drag them out from that girl's rotting corpse.

The girl was still somewhere in Chicago. Her presence was well hidden, no doubt thanks to that dhampir who interfered some time ago, but she could not hide forever. He memorized the stench of her soul, and the moment she exposed herself, he would hunt her down, all the way to the very edges of the Earth. For what reasons that girl became a Ghost Rider, Vengeance neither knew nor didn't care. She was so woefully inexperienced, she may as well be a lamb before the slaughter.

Still—

"I'm running out of time…" Vengeance hissed as he clenched and unclenched his bony claws. This body was running on fumes at this point. At best, it'd serve him for another day. He would need to find a new host, and soon.

The Spirit of Vengeance exhaled as he focused his senses, ignoring the scathing scents and irritating cries of sinners as they reveled in their injustices. They were not going anywhere. They could wait. His quarry was more important than riffraff that skittered about like cockroaches.

Suddenly, a burst of power erupted across his senses. It was close to the First Evangeline Free Church, burning like a beacon.

Vengeance growled, rising to his feet while summoning forth his iron steed. The hellish bike roared in response as if echoing its master's building wrath.

"You won't escape me this time, Zarathos. This time, you will die!"

 

[TheStranger]

"If faith made us able to stand
Logic knocked me right down to my knees
'Cause that faith hides the face of a sham
And God is not talkin' to me"
​

The tinkertech bike rolled to a stop, just short of the curb. My hair spilled free as soon as I removed my helmet and set foot on the sidewalk, looking up at the church. I half-expected it to be one of those pristine, grandiose white churches with stained glass, like the one back home in Brockton Bay. Instead, it was dull brown with a series of colored windows, with a large cross sitting boldly atop the building's face. Being so close to the church made my skin crawl and my body jerk, as if just being close to it was offensive.

I stamped out the uncomfortable feeling and approached the church. I had to wonder whether the discomfort was because this was a church or if it was built on some long-forgotten holy ground. Or maybe the asshole in my head didn't like churches. Either way, I didn't want to be here any longer than I had to. Getting inside was rather simple. All it took was a little hellfire and the handle melted off. Destruction of public property, but at this point, it was probably the tamest thing I've done since Mephisto slapped a leash on Zarathos. The inside of the main lobby looked as I expected it to; rows of pews lined up, a single path in-between leading up to the podium. At the far back was a cross, and below that, a small statuette of the Messiah himself.

My lips twitched, remembering the day my life went to Hell and I became the Brockton Bay Ghost Rider. I remembered how I begged anyone to save Emma and mom.

"I guess Heaven's not what it's cracked up to be," I muttered acidly. A small, petty part of me wanted to burn the effigy to cinders. I knew it wouldn't do me any good anymore than it would to beat up some street punk because he mouthed off. Even so, the thought was tempting.

I take a moment to inhale, then slowly exhale. For a brief moment, I felt my senses sharpen. I could hear and see everything. The pain, the suffering the cries of the innocent as they endured unwarranted punishment by the guilty. Each time I did this, I felt sick to my stomach. Even after three years of exposure to the worst sorts of scum in the world, it never failed to amaze me just how horrible humans, average day-to-day humans, could be. How little excuses or justifications we need to harm our fellow man. And for all the punishment we dole out, the guilty are like cockroaches, numerous and hard to stamp out.

It made me wonder how my seniors could endure hearing all this.

I forcefully block out the noises, drowning them out as I focused my senses elsewhere. As I opened my eyes, I found the world dyed in a faint blue hue. A small haze of white sat under the podium.

I exhaled and let my senses dull, ignoring the small throbbing pain behind my eyes. I would never get used to that. I walked over to the podium and kneeled, picking up a plastic bottle, one of those large Gatorade ones, with a cross floating inside. I flinched, almost dropping the bottle on instinct when I felt a tingling, practically prickly sensation explode across my palm. Even when I wasn't physically touching it, being so close to something blessed made me feel like I was holding a hand over an open flame. Eric's words from earlier ring in my head.

If blessed weapons and water made me feel like I was being burned, how would it feel to touch something that was bona fide holy?

I gave the bottle a few shakes. There was not much left inside. Hopefully, it would—

Footsteps bounced off the empty halls of the church. I froze like a deer in headlights, instinctively conjuring a ball of flame in my hands. I'm ashamed to admit I almost threw it at the priest who entered the main hall, only just barely stopping myself the moment I realized who it was. The priest looked to be in his early twenties, with dark locks of hair neatly combed and bangs swept toward the right side of his face, his eyes a cloudy light shade of green and lacking pupils. In his hand was a sleek black cane.

"Hello?" the priest called out. "Hello? Is someone there?"

Every muscle in my body went taut. I didn't dare move. I didn't trust myself to so much as breathe. I wasn't expecting anyone to still be here, not at this hour.

The priest carefully closed the door behind him, slowly stepping into the main hall while probing the space in front of him with his cane.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I very much doubt I can."

I kept my mouth shut. Thankfully, the priest moved further away from where I stood. Quietly exhaling, I slowly began to back away, now on the tips of my feet and—

The priest's ears perked up, tilting his head in my direction. There was, apparently, truth to that old wives' tale about blind people having bullshit hearing.

A cold sweat broke across my face. I wondered how I might be able to escape this predicament, whether to run and risk being reported or stay silent. I looked up at the cross and statuette, then at the priest.

I still have no idea what possessed me to reveal myself when I should have just stayed silent. Much less say something so…stupid. "I'm…not a thief?"

Fucking Christ.

Kill. Me. Now.

The priest smiled wryly, ignorant to my steaming ears. "If that is the case, what brings you here? Shelter? I've heard it's quite cold tonight."

"Er, that is, I mean, I…"

The priest chuckled and waved his hand. "It's quite alright, child. If you are a thief, I'm afraid you'll be quite disappointed. Nothing here is of any real value, not even that cross." He made his way to one of the pews. I noticed there was a slight limp in his right leg, stiff and dragging behind. "There used to be, but that was a long time ago. Or so I've heard, at any rate." Carefully, he sat down on the wooden pew, taking great care not to agitate his stiff leg. Once he got himself situated, he leaned on his cane and looked in my direction. "Forgive me for saying this, but… The air around you seems troubled. Is something the matter? I'd listen to your story in the confessional, but I'm afraid I don't know where the key is."

There was no reason to oblige his request. There was no point in spilling my guts, and I doubted whatever he had to say would be of any real use to me. What was the point of listening to pitiable words that were utterly wasted?

…I had nothing to lose. Besides, the holy water wasn't going anywhere.

I thought I heard Zarathos chuckling darkly in my head, perhaps out of amusement for entertaining the priest. I walked over and sat next to him. As I looked at the man, I could feel emotions rolling off him. Sincerity, kindness, traits and values I rarely saw back home. He was genuine about not reporting me to the police, genuine about wanting to help me by offering an ear.

"…Could I ask you a question, Father?" The priest shrugged. "Speaking not as a man of faith, but as a person… Do you think God gives a shit about us?"

"Hard to say." Credit where it's due, the priest spoke truthfully and not at all perturbed by my bluntness. "I'd like to believe there is a higher power that cares for us. Not God, maybe, but someone who wants what is best for us. The sad thing is… People don't want to hear that. They're not interested in someone trying to understand their pain or make empty promises. They want someone to do something, to make the pain stop. To answer your question, though…" He hummed and looked up at the ceiling, lips pursed in thought. "I think God cares, even if He doesn't show it. We wouldn't have heroes."

I smiled bitterly. "You think they're here because God told them to be heroes?"

"I believe he created people with the capacity to do good, and heroes are people who act on that capacity."

"Not every hero's out to do good, though."

One hero stuck out to me. Armsmaster, the leader of the Protectorate East-North-East, was a man struggling to stay relevant in a city that had been tearing itself apart long before Zarathos found me while also dealing with others who were more popular than him. He was not a glory hound in full, but someone who held himself to a high standard. The problem was that the standard worked against him. Each failure drove him up the wall, and the success of his colleagues only made it worse. Before long, a tinker who wanted to do good became a man ruled by pride and a desire for recognition. Zarathos took no small amount of pleasure pounding him to the ground, all but ripping out of his armor in their first meeting and destroying what was no doubt months, maybe years of hard work and melting it into the asphalt.

Being able to peer into someone's soul, learn everything about them… It was terrifying. I'll admit, I was pretty bummed to learn Armsmaster, one of my favorite heroes growing up, turned out to be a glory hound, but at the same time, I felt pity. It seemed like, no matter what he did, he'd always be seen as "second best". That seeming inferiority pushed him harder, more dedicated, but it worked against him, too.

Among the heroes I met, while Zarathos took the driver seat, the one that unsettled and infuriated me the most was Carol Dallon. Brandish. One of the downsides to peering into a person's soul was also being able to seek the metaphorical skeletons in the closet. I've heard about Trigger Events, about how terrible they are. And yet, for all I pitied Brandish, it did nothing to excuse the neglect and feelings of veiled hostility and judgment she had for her adopted daughter.

Learning Amy Dallon, one of the most respected healers in the cape community, was the daughter of a villain was surprising, more so because her father was Marquis, a villain Dad had a modicum of respect for. I knew little about him, save that he was surprisingly popular among the middle-class and the DWA. He was also the villain New Wave, then the Brockton Bay Brigade, used to springboard into the spotlight for their unmasked movement. Even a self-proclaimed cape geek like myself knew the story of how New Wave defeated a bigshot villain.

What was unsaid was how. The memory of Brandish attacking Marquis in his own home made my blood boil as much as the memory of how she, based on a hunch, attacked a closet Marquis was oddly keen on protecting. A closet where Amy was hiding as her father fought New Wave.

The worst part? The part that made me lose any and all respect I had for that woman? She didn't have the fucking decency to feel ashamed afterward. Because, in her eyes, Amy was the daughter of a villain, a girl destined to become just like Marquis.

I was surprised Zarathos never used the Penance Stare on her, instead settling for searing her face with hellfire. Perhaps he found it poetic. "Justice is blind" and all that.

"True," the priest shrugged, ignorant to my thoughts on a certain heroine. "But, you don't need good reasons to be a hero. It would be nice if everyone were virtuous, but as you learn in life, those with goodwill are likely to be taken advantage of."

I raised an eyebrow, incredulous. "So, what, it's okay to be selfish?"

"If there's one thing I've learned, speaking as a man who grew up in these city streets, it is that evil sometimes serves a purpose," he said. He sighed as he leaned back, looking much older than he should be. Hazy eyes looked ahead with melancholy and sadness. "A man kills another for the sake of protecting his child. A thief steals bread to provide for his starving family. Acts we sometimes deem evil are done for the sake of others."

"The path to hell is paved with good intentions," I shot back.

The priest smiled wryly at my words. "And yet, we walk it all the same."

Silence fell between us as I mulled over his words. He didn't know my situation or what I had done. I can still see it when I close my eyes, watching as Jeremy and his scumbag friend burn. He was a good person who made bad decisions, trying to make a better life for his sister. I should have let him live, but I didn't. He hurt people, killed people, did things Zarathos would have punished him for. And so I did as that bastard did.

I wanted to be better than that. I need to be better than that…but do I really deserve it?

I swallowed the lump in my throat, finding my throat oddly dry. My hands felt clammy and laced with sweat. "What if… What if someone does something unforgiveable? That nothing they do will make up for it?"

"That's the funny thing about atonement, child." The priest's words grow soft as he gently rubbed his hand atop my head as if I were a toddler. Oddly, his hand felt comforting. It reminded me of Dad, strangely know. "In it's own way, atonement is punishment. Whereas others may forgive you, you yourself may not."



"…mind if I ask you a favor? I've got a kid sis. Owns an apartment in Welston Street. Pass on a message for me? Tell her… I'm sorry. For being a total screw-up. And… For not telling her the truth."



"You're not a monster. Monsters do not cry or feel bad about what happened. Taylor, you spent three years with a literal demon from hell riding shotgun in your head. Three years of having no choice but to let do what it wants. You're better than you think you are. You just…need to give yourself time."



"…thanks, Father."

He didn't quell the feeling of shame and self-loathing, I doubt that was ever going to go away, but his words gave me something else. I sat up and started making my way toward the door. I made it halfway before I realized something.

"I never got your name," I said.

The blind man smiled kindly. "It's Murdock, child. Go with God."



I stood on the outskirts of Chicago, a little ways away from the road leading out of town. I leaned against my bike, the bottle of holy water in one hand and my chains in the other.

"This is going to hurt like a motherfucker, isn't it?" I asked despite knowing the answer. Zarathos responded with an amused chuckle, the prick.

I grimaced and gritted my teeth, unconsciously clenching the fist holding the chains. With any luck, dousing the chains in the stuff would hurt slightly less than being stabbed by a blessed silver sword like the one Eric used, but I wasn't holding my breath. I unscrewed the cap and held the bottle over my arm. Water dribbled out from the bottle's lip, spilling across the steel links and my arm. In seconds, I felt my skin sizzling and burning on contact. I bit the inside of my cheek just to keep myself from screaming. The pain was nowhere near as bad as Eric's sword, but it still hurt like a motherfucker.

At least it was tolerable, though I doubt whether I'll be able to feel my left forearm by the time we're done.

Seconds ticked by as I slowly and thoroughly doused my chains in holy water, all the while holding back scathing cries of pain. Once the bottle was emptied, I let it drop to the floor. The cross inside spilled out onto the concrete. I left it alone, ignoring it in favor of focusing on the pain. My arm was shaking, my hand so tightly balled into a fist I could feel my nails piercing through the thick leather and digging into the base of my palm. Blue flames danced across the chains as I felt the insipid corruption spread across my flesh. Ever so slowly, skin peeled and burned into cinders and ash.

"How long will it last?" I asked.

Zarathos grunted. "An hour, at best."

One hour. That was all the time I had.

It would have to do.

I took a deep breath, then let the power flow. I never got used to the feeling, of the flames burning away what made me "human" and turning me into a fiend from the bowels of Hell for a short while. The blue flames around my chains grew stronger.

Not long after I transformed into the Brockton Bay Ghost Rider, I heard the sound of a roaring engine. Accompanying it is the rolling waves of pure hate. Hate toward me, toward Zarathos, and toward my predecessor, whoever Johnny Blaze may have been.

I braced myself, digging my heels into the concrete.

The next second, I heard what could only be described as the klaxon blares of the damned. A twisted mockery of a motorcycle bearing a fanged skull for a headpiece and flaming wheels jumped across the nearby buildings and into open view. Atop it was a flaming skeleton clad in rags, bones discolored and burnt. Sockets full of scorn glared at me. In hand was a double-barrel shotgun, also twisted and corrupted by hell's flames.

The moment he took aim, I let Zarathos' own crimson red flames surge through my untouched arm. Two fireballs collided and clashed, exploding in a blast that sent shockwaves across the whole area. Car alarms sang into the night, and glass windows exploded into shrapnel. A plume of smoke obscured my vision. I rolled away just as a clawed hand reached for me, snatching only empty air while a hellcycle came crashing back down to Earth, melting the concrete from under its wheels.

Vengeance skidded to a stop, pausing long enough to level another hateful glare at me before he once again took aim. This time, I summoned my own shotgun and aimed right back.

"Round 2, asshole."

He growled and responded by pulling the trigger. I did the same. Another clashing explosion, less destructive than the first. A barbed chain shot out from the smoke, nearly nicking me across the face(skull), followed by another. I ducked and fired off my shotgun again. The fireball tore through the cloud of smoke, hitting nothing but air. I heard roaring flames above and quickly threw myself to the ground, just barely avoiding Vengeance's heavy boot. I snapped my hand out quickly, shooting a small burst of crimson flames at Vengeance, buy myself enough time to get back on my feet.

On the one hand, it stunned him as intended. On the other hand, he looked even more pissed, which was the point but still worrisome. The flames around his bones grew hotter, and what little dregs of clothes he had on were slowly coming undone and turning into flecks of ash. The shotgun disappeared in favor of a hellish-looking barbed-wire bat. A normal barbed-wire bat looked dangerous enough, but I sorely underestimated how one would look in the hands of a Ghost Rider; the wood was scorched and cracked, the wire twisted and mangled like a thornbush, and the barbs looking more like serrated shark teeth than spikes.

I blocked the bat with the blessed chains around my arm, trying to ignore the searing pain and focus on the fight. I moved to retreat, but found Vengeance slamming his foot down on mine, pinning me in place and ramming his skull into mine. The blow made me reel and stumble, giving him enough time to slam his hellish bat into my face and send me flying.

(On a side note, I was seriously so fucking tired of getting knocked halfway across the fucking city.)

My body sailed through the air for at least five seconds before it came crashing down on asphalt, smashing the crosswalk into chunks of debris. Vengeance, unwilling to give me any time to myself or recover, re-appeared above me with the rocket launcher he used in our last fight.

I clenched my jaw and responded by bringing out Kid Win's gun. I pumped as much power as I could before the damn thing could explode in my hands and pulled the trigger, right as Vengeance fired off a hellfire-infused rocket.

If the first explosion of the night was destructive, that one had the force of a dozen fucking bombs. First came the shockwave, nothing but raw wind and force that sent me further into the asphalt. Then came the raw heat, hotter than the warmest summer day in Brockton Bay cranked up to eleven. Flames had never bothered me before, but there was a marked difference between flames made by capes and flames made by hellions. If not for the fact I was fire and bone, I wouldn't have any flesh. Asphalt melted back into gooey black tar, buildings cracked, windows shattered, and cars were sent flying.

I groaned, still reeling from the force of the blast. I picked myself out of the miniature crater, looking around for any sign of Vengeance. I didn't believe for a second that would end him.

All around me, I see destruction, and for a moment, I find myself back in Brockton Bay. Streaks of flame carved across the streets and walls, cars demolished and overturned, people screaming and running frantically for their lives… Even in the dead of night, a city like Chicago was not without its night life. I had no idea how many people died from the blast or how many were injured, but that didn't matter.

What mattered was that I let this happen. I intended to fight Vengeance on the city outskirts, keep innocent people away from the fighting, but the bastard didn't care. Everyone around us was no more than collatoral damage.

I was not blameless. I contributed to this chaos. Once again, I feel shame and self-loathing, but it all paled in comparison to the sheer rage pumping through my chest. The pain around my arm dulled as the feeling grows more and more. I feel the flames around me growing in intensity.

Through the haze of rapidly building rage, I heard a raspy voice chuckle in the back of my mind. "Atta girl…"

"YOU FUCKING PUNK!" I heard Vengeance roar, suddenly popping into view as he tore his way through a brick wall. The flames around his body were tinged dark scarlet. "YOU THINK YOU CAN BEAT ME?! YOU ARE NOTHING! EVEN LESS THAN BLAZE!"

I glared back at him with equal loathing. "…Blaze should have killed your sorry ass when he had the chance."

Originally, my taunts were simply going to be provocation made out of ignorance. I needed Vengeance to get angrier, get sloppy. My words then were born from genuine contempt and loathing.

Regardless, they had the intended effect. Vengeance roared and threw a fireball at me.

One moment, I stood there in its path.

In the next, I felt everything fade. For a moment, I felt nothing. Not the heat around me, not the burning hate in my chest, not even the wind. The world looked like a muted gray blur.

"Wha—"

That was far as I allowed him to go when I reappeared next to him, forming from cinders and embers. I clenched my fist tight and slammed it as hard into his skull as I could. I absolutely relished the sound of cracking bone as, for once, it was Vengeance was sent flying. He flew into a nearby clothing store and slammed into the far back room. I followed in after him, hopping over what little remained of the glass window pane. I paid no heed to the burnt remains of a wedding dress under my feet.

Vengeance stumbled, looking to actually be in pain for once. He had a bony claw gingerly touching the side of cracked skull, where wisps of blue embers clung to the scarlet wreathe of flame around him.

"Hurts like a fucking bitch, doesn't it?" I growled. "I can barely feel my arm to be honest. It hurts so bad I want to scream."

The hate-filled Ghost Rider looked back up at me, sockets full of anger and, for once, fear.

"But if I'm being honest right now… I want to hear you scream even more."

Vengeance snarled and lunged at me, his hate skyrocketing to where it was almost suffocating. I moved to attack him right as he was in range, only to hit nothing but air and sparks. He reappeared next to me, ramming a haymaker into the side of my face and smashing me across the room. My back smashed into the wall. I looked up in time to see him spewing flames. I rolled out of the way, hissing through clenched teeth as I felt the heat from his flames. I looked back and saw that the wall melted away into gooey burnt plaster and scorched brick. Vengeance inhaled again, sending another spewing wave of flame my way. I quickly sprinted out of the ruined store and leaped through the broken window, just barely avoiding the flames lapping at my back.

A barbed chain flew toward me. I snatched it, ignoring the stabbing pain in my hand, and pulled the son of a bitch out into the open. Vengeance sailed over me as I swung him around like a ragdoll and slammed him atop the crumpled remains of a car half-destroyed by the blast. The car, already brittle and broken, snapped in half along with the ground beneath it. For a moment, all went still. I almost believed Vengeance to have tapped out until the car exploded in a violent blast of flame. The charred skeleton emerged from the flames, looking more and more like an unholy pissed off motherfucker.

He really doesn't like to lose, does he?

Zarathos chuckled darkly.

"I'm going to rip out your insides and shove them down your fucking throat, you fucking cunt!" Dozens of chains exploded out from Vengeance's back. Instead of going for me, they scattered and split off, latching onto other demolished vehicles and chunks of debris. With another angry roar, Vengeance chucked them at me.

I summoned my shotgun to my side and took aim, pulling the trigger. The fireball consumed everything in front of it. Another angry roar pierced the air. To my shock, Vengeance charged through the fireball and jumped straight at me, grabbing me by the face and smashing me into the ground. Just as quickly, he started to ruthlessly smash my head into the ground. Asphalt cracked apart with each slam. His bony fingers dug into my skull, threatening to smash it to pieces.

With a final slam, Vengeance pinned me to the ground. A rocket launcher, the same one he used the night before, emerged from his flames. He snarled down at me and took aim, ready to finish me off. I had no idea whether I would die, but I was under no illusions that a point-blank explosion from a hellflame-infused rocket was going to hurt like hell. I growled and retaliated, summoning those crimson flames from before and letting them loose in a point-blank explosion of my own. It had the force of a grenade; nowhere near enough to do any actual damage to Vengeance, but enough to knock his rocket launch upward and divert the rocket.

My chain-wrapped hand grabbed the charred claw holding me down by the wrist and squeezed. First came Vengeance's howl of pain, and then came the sound of cracking bone. Never before had the ugly sound brought me so much joy. Vengeance's hold over me lapsed, giving me the chance to kick him off me and roll onto my back and onto my feet. I shot out a chain from my free hand, using it less as a weapon and more of an anchor to wrap around Vengeance's own appendage and pulling me toward him for a flying punch. I struck him right across the jaw.

It'd been something of a running gag to see a jaw become dislocated and dangle off the skull, either done to myself or to Zarathos when someone got lucky. In this case, it wasn't so much as the jaw being dislodged as it was being outright destroyed. The jaw shattered like glass, bits and fragments flying through the air. Vengeance hit the floor, bouncing around like a ragdoll before rolling to stop.

The hate-fueled man staggered, shakily standing back up on his feet. It's then I noticed his flames. The dark-colored hellfire was waning, much less intense than it had been before. His skeletal body, now devoid of any and all scraps of clothing, was slowly cracking apart. His left arm looked as if someone took a hammer to the forearm and shattered it. The missing bits were regenerating, but at a much slower rate compared to before.

"About time…"

Even with my chains doused in holy water, I didn't think I could beat Vengeance in a head on fight. Thankfully, I wasn't trying to beat him. I just had to wait for him to run on fumes.



"There is one thing you can do," Zarathos said. "Though whether you live long enough to do so is up to Badilino."

"What do you mean?"

"The number of humans capable of hosting a Spirit of Vengeance, leash or no, is few in number. That said, even a highly compatible host can't handle our power. Why would you? Weak, frail creatures, even parahumans, aren't able to handle something dredged from the pits of Hell. That's why the leash is important. It isn't just to bind us to our hosts, its to stabilize the host and ensure they won't go and burn themselves just by using our power."

I frowned. "That makes sense I suppose, but what does this have to do with Vengeance?"

"When Badilino and Vengeance fused, they essentially became a singular entity, but otherwise they're still a Spirit of Vengeance. One unbound and rampaging around like a wild dog. In cases like his, the small number of humans who can handle him becomes much smaller."

The implication of Zarathos' words slowly came to my mind. "…how compatible is the body he's using right now?"

"About as useful as a piece of tissue," Zarathos replied.



I didn't need to beat Vengeance.

I just needed to wait until his meat suit ran on fumes.

 

[TheStranger]

"From the deepest desires often
come the deadliest hate."
​

Vengeance was running out of time. Me pushing his buttons and generally pissing him off worked; he was using too much power and his host was paying the price. I had no idea how long it would be before the host body ran out of steam and died completely, but that was not my concern. What was my concern was Vengeance himself. Just because I managed to corner him didn't mean I won yet. If anything, I felt I was in more danger than ever. Nothing was worse than a cornered animal fighting tooth and nail to survive.

When Zarathos went to work in Brockton Bay shortly after he jumped into my body, one of the first villains he dealt with was Hookwolf. As one of Kaiser's top lieutenants, he was a well-known name and one of their strongest members. I vaguely remember reading somewhere how he once impaled Vista on one of his blades, an act that earned him the undying hate of the Protectorate and supposedly a fierce reprimand from his boss. When Zarathos fought him, I compared Hookwolf to a wild animal driven by instinct.

No, that's not entirely right. It'd be more accurate to say Hookwolf was…born in the wrong age and fell in with the wrong group. He might have cared about the Empire's agenda, but at his core, he's simply a man who enjoys fighting. Kaiser gave him an excuse, giving him targets and people, cape or not.

Aside from Lung's repeated attempts to beat Zarathos, Hookwolf managed to give Zarathos a run for his money. He never backed down, never wavered; like a savage wolf who knew nothing but the hunt and battle, he didn't stop. Even as his metal coffin melted and killed him, he never stopped. A man steeped in sin, and yet he was one of the very few people Zarathos seemed to respect, if only for his sheer determination.

Did that make Vengeance my "Hookwolf" then?

For a brief moment, neither of us acted. I waited for Vengeance to make his move, and he waited for the moment to launch a counterattack. He realized he was running out of time; if he didn't find a new body soon, he was done for. I couldn't give him that chance. I needed to take him out now.

I readied myself for the finale. I heard sirens in the distance. The PRT would be here soon. I couldn't let them interfere.

I whistled and called for my hellcycle while also charging at Vengeance, who in turn roared back in defiance. The broiling hate around him made it clear he refused to go down without a fight. He conjured what looked like a twisted caricacture of a minigun, the barrels twisted and mangled into what looked like knots held together by skeletal hands and thin lengths of bones. I gritted my teeth as Vengeance opened fire. A spray of flaming bullets washed over me, piercing through bone. The constant gunfire didn't hurt nearly as bad as the near mind-numbing pain from the blessed chains wrapped around my fist, but it was hardly pleasant. Building up a pain tolerance made it easy for me to power through it and deliver another punch to Vengeance's skull. The blow knocked him to the ground.

The hellcycle came roaring into view behind me. In one fluid motion, I grabbed Vengeance by the skull and sent out a chain, latching onto the speeding hell-touched motorcycle right as it passed me and yanked me along for the ride. I tugged on the chain and pulled myself onto the driver seat, all the while grinding Vengeance's head into the ground. Better yet, I grabbed him with the chains doused in holy water. The muffled cries of pain beneath my hand was almost sweet music.

"Not so fun to be on the receiving, is it, you sack of shit?!" I snarled, driving Vengeance's head further into the ground.

The red flames around him exploded in intensity. "FHAK'OU!" A burst of flame erupted across his body, forcing me to let go and steer away. Emerging from the explosion of flames was another hellcycle, a twisted caricature of a "Road King" Harley, Vengeance riding atop it with a look of unbridled fury amped to eleven.

What started as a street brawl was now a death chase across the wide, empty streets of the suburban outskirts. Vengeance was hot on my tail, whipping a barbed chain in my direction. I countered each lash with the blessed chain on my arm. Red flames clashed with blue ones. I felt the wind whipping across my body like I was riding through a storm. A trail of flame blazed behind me, melting through the asphalt and turning it back into tar.

I couldn't afford to keep fighting him in the suburbs. Even if was less densely populated, I had enough involving civilians in my fight. Fortunately, we were close to the waterfront. All I had to do was keep the bastard laser-focused on me.

"Is that all, Michael? Fucking Skidmark put up a better fight than you, and he was a drugged-up pussy!"

It wasn't an entire lie. Skidmark was pathetic, easily the weakest piece of trash Zarathos dealt with. As I understood it, his power involved reflective barriers. Against any other person, they might have been useful. For Zarathos, who saw only a drug addict who sold to underage kids and engaged in murder, they were an inconvenience he broke through.

I doubt Vengeance knew who Skidmark was, but it didn't matter. My words had the intended effect.

"I'm going to rip off your fucking head and shit down your throat, you fucking cunt!"

I made a sharp turn around the corner, putting me on a one-way road all the way to the waterfront. Vengeance elected to simply use his chains and leap over a house. His flames extended and formed a new weapon; a chain with a spiked ball and a scythe. The blade's sharp curve was serrated like shark teeth, promising a painful death to any who fell to it. With a yell, Vengeance swung his new weapon at me.

I swore and ducked. The weapon sailed over my head, though Vengeance's attack didn't lose momentum. The weapon came back again, this time coming straight down. I leaned to my side and pulled, steering the hellcycle just as the scythe came down and pierced the ground. The scythe sank hilt-deep into the asphalt before it began to bubble and crack from the heat pouring out of the blade. Vengeance yanked it back toward him and began spinning the chain, all the while keeping his attention focused on me.

He went in for another attack. I chose to go on the counteroffensive and replied by swinging my blessed chains back at him. The two weapons collided and bounced off each other. We recalled our chains back to use and prepared for another round when I noticed something worrying. The links in my chains were cracked.

It hadn't even been half an hour yet!

"Holy water isn't as potent as a true holy blessing," Zarathos chided as if I were a child. "Between you and Badilino, I'm surprised the blessing hasn't fully worn off."

I clenched my teeth.

"No choice, then."

Vengeance swung his weapon once more. I gauged the weapon and the chains, as well as Vengeance's current state. He was on fumes, but that made him more dangerous than ever. If the holy water was losing its effectiveness, I needed to act quickly.

Instead of dodging or blocking, I chose the stupidest decision possible and let the scythe hit me. It sank into the bone and latched on like a leech. I felt something claw its way into me, a vile feeling that made me nauseous. I was no stranger to feelings of hate, and Vengeance's hatred was the most pungent I've seen until now. That same hatred sunk into me like a poison, crawling into my mind like a worm.

This was not simply an attack on the mind, but an attack of both mind and poison. What I was experiencing at that moment was not simply raw, unbridled hatred toward one who Vengeance wanted nothing more than to kill, it was a toxin. An infection that overwhelmed the mind, consuming and ravaging every rational thought until there was nothing left. A weapon as deadly as the Penance Stare, a disease of trueborn wrath. Death by rage.

I hated to admit it, but it was a potent weapon indeed. Even as I struggled to keep my wits about, I could feel Vengeance's hate slowly creeping into me. I gritted my teeth and let my own anger flare. The bottled feelings of repressed anger at my circumstances for the last three years. Of the sheer helplessness I felt as a prisoner within my own body, unable to do anything other than watch as a devil wreaked havoc, showing me the worst in people and uncaring of those left behind to pick up the pieces.

The boiling, deep-seated hate within raged against Venegance's own corruptive hatred and grabbed hold of the chain, yanking the scythe out from my arm. Rather than toss it aside, I gripped the chain tight and wrapped it around my fist. I pushed the pedal to the metal, forcing my hellcycle to charge faster until the sheer force of my speed was blowing out window panes and ripping apart the asphalt. A quick glance over my shoulder showed Vengeance struggling to get his weapon back.

Within a second, we reached the waterfront. I pulled on the throttle, pushing the hellcycle's engines as far as they could go. From what I remembered seeing of Zarathos' time riding a motorcycle tainted by the fires of Hell, the hellcycle could easily reach speeds surpassing even a jet fighter. But my hellcycle was not born from a motorcycle. It was made from a tintertech motorcycle; a collaborative project between Gearbox, once known as Squealer, and Armsmaster, one of the best tinkers on the east coast.

The phrase "tinkers are bullshit" exists for a reason.

The bulky metal unfolded, plates splitting open and exposing six large exhaust pipes the size of shotgun barrels. All it took was the flick of a button for the pipes to rattle and explode, gouts of flame roaring in a burst that saw the hellcycle launched high into the air while dragging Vengeance along for the ride. I kept up the pressure until we were at least twenty feet high before pulling on the chain, swinging Vengeance around and yanking him off his hellcycle before swinging him down below me. My tinkertech bike disappeared, and in exchange, I summoned the tinkertech weapon Zarathos nicked off Kid Win. Rather than aim it at Vengeance, I aimed it behind me.

Vengeance roared and summoned his rocket launcher back to his side and took aim. We pulled the triggers at the same time, one firing a blast of energy and the other a rocket infused with the powers of Hell. The recoil and force of the resulting blast propelled me forward. The rocket flew past me, missing entirely. At the same time, I tugged on the chain in my hand and dragged a flailing Vengeance toward me.

Kid Win's weapon disappeared. The cracked chains tightly wound around my hand. I tightened it into the fist.

Vengeance howled something incomprehensible as he summoned a gathering of red flames around his arm, as if to prepare a counterattack. The flames sputtered as the arm hosting the flames disintegrated into dust.

The blue flames around my arm burned as if responding to my own surging hate for Vengeance. I poured every ounce of that hate into my fist.

I drove my fist straight into Vengeance's skull. For a brief moment, I felt time slowed to a crawl and watched the skull collapse and splinter, half of the dome shattering to pieces and the right corner of the jaw breaking off. Cracks spread all across Vengeance's "face" as he recoiled. Time resumed, and he shot out of the air and down into the ocean below. The water exploded on impact, spewing a tower of water up around me. I hung in the air for a few seconds before gravity caught up to me and dragged me down.

Falling into the ocean as a flaming skeleton was not something I recommend, if only because being little more than a walking matchstick covered head-to-toe in hellfire created an interesting dilemma. Much as water does when on an active stove or a lit Bunsen burner, the water around me bubbled and boiled. It made it surprisingly difficult to see.

Despite the flames, however, I could feel the water's ice-cold touch. I would have enjoyed it and changed back, were it not for the fact that my enemy was still lurking around. Through the boiling bubbles around me, I could see scarcely little. The fact that it was dark out also meant there was hardly any light in the water as well. At the very least, I would have been able to see Vengeance seeing as how he was also on fire. I doubted I beat him yet, not when I could still sense his presence somewhere.

For a moment, I was tempted to revert back to my ordinary, human self. At the very least, I would be able to see more clearly without the boiling water.

I turned around to look behind me. For a moment, I thought I saw motion.

I—

"AGH!"

Something barbed and pointy hooked into my shoulder. I grabbed hold of it and yanked it out, finding the barbed end of a chain. I whirled around just as a clawed, bony hand grabbed me by the face and sunk its spindly fingers deep into my skull, piercing through the cranium.

A broken skeleton glared hatefully at me with a socket filled with swirling flame. Half of its body was gone, and even now, it continued to break apart. All that was left of it was half its spine, its ribcage, its left arm, and a third of its skull.

"If I'm going back," Vengeance snarled in my face. "I'm not going back alone! I'll make you suffer the way I suffered!"

The venomous poison of hate from before threatened to consume my mind, this time far, far worse than before. This was not corruption or poison, but a true mind-killer. Brain-death made possible by hate. Memories, the good and bad, burned away right before my eyes. Mom, Dad, Emma… The best and worst moments of my life were turning to cinders, replaced by nothing except cold, dead hate.

Hate. Nothing but hate.

Hate. Hate. Hate.

Hatehatehatehatehate.

hatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehatehate



"TAYLOR!"



—a familiar voice screamed.

Something in me snapped.

"GO—"

I seized Vengeance by the wrist. I snapped it like a twig. I dragged him forward and smashed my head into his. The skull cracked apart. It looked like the remains of an eggshell.

"—BACK—"

The blessed chains, a hair's width away from breaking apart, unfurled at my command and lashed out, ensaring what little was left of the bastard's head. The sputtering red flames were snuffed and consumed by my chain's blue ones.

"—TO—"

I pulled the chains back, spinning them and my target around like a flail. More and more of Vengeance's body disintegrated.

With a roar that reverbed across the suffocating waters, I threw what little was left of Vengeance down into the dark depths of the Lakefront.

"—HELL!"

Just as I hoped, Vengeance's dying screams were sweet music to my ears.

And then…everything is silent.

The chains doused in holy water lost all power and shattered like glass, the broken links slowly sinking down deeper and deeper into the dark abyss below. I couldn't feel the flickering flames anymore. As if that final act took every ounce of strength in me, the flames were all but snuffed out. The icy-cold water sunk into me, piercing through whatever was left of my clothes and swallowing my skin.

It took me a moment to realize I had changed back, either out of fumes or simply exhausted. I could barely keep my eyes open, even as I move. My limbs felt like lead.

I couldn't stop the water from spilling into my mouth. My chest tightened, my lungs screaming for oxygen.

Fuck… I can't…

The last thing I see before I felt my mind sink into unconsciousness was a shape reaching out to me.

■

​

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♦ Topic: Chicago Showdown! Ghost Rider vs Ghost Rider
In: Boards ► News ► Events ► America ► Chicago
Sumbastich (Original Poster) (Cape Groupie)
Posted On May 7th 2011:
You know, considering all the crap I hear about Brockton Bay, I'm happy I don't live in that city. No offense to any Brocktonites reading this post, but your city is fucking crazy, and it somehow only got crazier after your Ghost Rider up and left town for some reason.

Now, see, here's the thing. I'm a simple man. I like my peace and quiet. On quiet nights like last night, I spend my evenings reading comics and listening to the radio. 98.5 KFOX for life yo.

SO WHY IN THE GODDAMN NINE CIRCLES OF HELL IS THE MOTHERFUCKIN' BROCKTON BAY GHOST RIDER DOING FIGHTING ANOTHER MOTHERFUCKIN' GHOST RIDER?!?!

(Showing page 103 of 669)
►Antigone
Replied On May 7th 2011:
LOL
Rip Chicago.

►BadSamurai
Replied On May 7th 2011:
News reports and photos from the fight are finally coming online.

I thought I left this shit behind in Brockton, for fuck's sake.

►Nondeceptive
Replied On May 7th 2011:
Annex is gonna have a hell of a time fixing all this up. I do not envy that Ward in the slightest.

►Annex (Wards Chicago) (Verified Cape)
Replied On May 7th 2011:
If either of the Ghost Riders involved in the fight are reading this.

Thank you. So much. You cockbiting fucktards.

►Valkyr (Wiki Warrior)
Replied On May 7th 2011:
WTF I take a break from PHO for, like, two days and this happens.

What the hell did I miss?!

►Thatdude
Replied On May 7th 2011:
Here's what I wanna know. Why in the ever-loving hell were two Ghost Riders fighting in the first place anyhow? I thought these guys were, like, anti-heroes or something.

►Ryus
Replied On May 7th 2011:
There could be dissention in the ranks, or maybe there's in-fighting.

EDIT: Now that I get to thinking about it, I don't think we've heard anything about the Ghost Riders working together, have we?

►Procto the Unfortunate Tinker (Not a tinker)
Replied On May 7th 2011:
There have.

Link.

►Aloha
Replied On May 7th 2011:
...please tell me I'm not the only one who sees a Ghost Rider driving a u-haul while a guy dressed like a freaking Greaser is up on top with a tommy gun.

I can only handle so much crazy today.

►BadSamurai
Replied On May 7th 2011:
Now I've seen it all.

Doesn't answer the question of why two Ghost Riders were kicking the shit out of each other in Chicago.

►Grace (Wards Chicago) (Verified Cape)
Replied On May 7th 2011:
This isn't the first time we've seen these two beat the shit out of each other.

Revel and Brazier saw these two going at it the other day, just outside Club Spade.

►Untapped (Kyushu Survivor)
Replied On May 7th 2011:
Hey, I could be goin' crazy, but is the black Ghost Rider wearing a beat cop uniform?

Also, when I say black, I mean the charred skeleton mofo. Plz don't ban me. I JUST got off a suspension.

►XxVoid_CowboyxX
Replied On May 7th 2011:
What? You mean that one of the Ghost Riders is actually a cop? That sounds ridiculous, and that's coming from *me*.

►AllSeeingEye (Veteran Member)
Replied On May 7th 2011:
It's a sad day when I agree with Void. Though this wouldn't be the first I've heard of a cop going crazy. There are a bunch of horror stories about cops going off the deep end, even before cape culture was a thing.

At any rate, if this is what a fight between Ghost Riders is like, I'm surprised the Triumvirate hasn't come together to deal with their asses. Yeah, I know, Eidolon got his ass handed to him and got a kickass scar out of the deal, but seriously, the amount of damage is insane. How many people died because of these two? Do they even care?

►Detective Tapp-Man (Verified PRT Agent)
Replied On May 8th 2011:
Actually, we can confirm there were no deaths at the scene. Surprisingly. Some victims had to be rushed to the ER, but so far, no fatalities.

Additionally, we also looked into the unknown Case-53 at Club Spade the BBGR engaged before Brazier and Revel showed up. With permission from the higher-ups, I'm allowed to divulge some information. The cape in question is named Overkill, a merc cape who's services were purchased by the owner of Club Spade some weeks ago.

Who, I should mention, was also found dead in a janitor's closet. The coroner states he's been dead for several days and Club Spade was managed by someone else who engaged in illegal criminal activities, such as human trafficking.

►Bagrat (Veteran Member) (The Guy in the Know)
Replied On May 8th 2011:
Following up on that, and take this info with a grain of salt as the source hasn't verified his info, but the supposed new owner of Club Spade was a member of the Hellfire Club.

I usually pride myself on getting things out there, but in this case, I'm hoping to fucking god I'm wrong.

►Winged_One
Replied On May 8th 2011:
The Hellfire Club is that cape group that's said to be just as bad, if not worse than the Slaughterhouse Nine, right?

What were they doing in Chicago?

►XxVoid_CowboyxX
Replied On May 8th 2011:
Take my advice @Winged-One and follow my lead.

I don't know, and I don't wanna know.

►ArchmageEin
Replied On May 8th 2011:
You feelin' alright there, Void?

►XxVoid_CowboyxX
Replied On May 8th 2011:
Why wouldn't I be?

►ArchmageEin
Replied On May 8th 2011:
Because you're making more sense than usual. I'm just so used to you being that crazy conspiracy nut who's good for a chuckle.

►XxVoid_CowboyxX
Replied On May 8th 2011:
Tin_Mother: For the love of god, XxVoid_CowboyxX, you have got to stop doing this. I'm giving you a one-month ban. Even by the standards of PHO, that is uncalled for.

►Red (Veteran Member)
Replied On May 8th 2011:
It's always so much fun to watch chaos unfold. A shame things always end, right as we get to the good part.

Ah, oh well.

Perhaps we'll have better luck in New York.

Maybe we'll see you there?

►AllSeeingEye (Veteran Member)
Replied On May 8th 2011:
...............um, what?

Okay, am I not the only one creeped out by that message?

►Winged_One
Replied On May 8th 2011:
Oh, don't mind Pheles.

He has a flair for the dramatic.

End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 101, 102, 103, 104, 105 ... 667, 668, 669

■​

 

[TheStranger]

"We're living in troubled times
So many fighting for their lives
Why do the troops despise the news from the front?"
​

While Hebert went off to deal with whatever kicked her ass last time, Sophia went about her own business. Chicago's city streets were uncharted territory for her. She knew little about the city's cape and villain population beyond what was said on cape forums like PHO, though general hearsay indicated the city was relatively peaceful compared to Brockton Bay. Cape fights still happen on a semi-regular basis, people died, but compared to her city, casualties were in single-digits even on the worst days, and property damage was less extensive. That last one was thanks to Annex, a relatively new member of the Chicago Wards who's power involved merging with inanimate objects. Thanks to him, the Chicago Protectorate had a lot more leeway and didn't need to hold back nearly as much as they would otherwise in densely populated areas.

The criminal element, Sophia found, was surprisingly lacking. To the best of her knowledge, there are four active criminal groups in Chicago. First and foremost was The Folk. They operated in Chicago since before the rise of cape culture and played the role of "villain peacekeepers", ensuring everyone on the other side played nice with each other. They were a stabilizing influence and a necessary evil, and they had enough influence among other groups to back up any threats they made. The PRT tolerated them, if only because they knew The Folk kept everybody else in check.

The Royals and the Condemned drew a line between being regular street scum, anarchists, and an actual villain organization. When Sophia did research on them, she learned the current groups were not the original gangs; in the early 2000's, a Ghost Rider driving sexy 1967 Chevy Impala came to town and immediately got to work. The original Royals and Condemned were gutted and torn apart; casualties were in the triple digits, capes went straight, gave up cape life altogether, or just flat-out disappeared. By then, the Chicago Protectorate was still in its nascent stages and the PRT Department 4 didn't exist yet, not in any official capacity at least. The villain population dropped into the low double digits.

Around a year ago both groups reformed, though in the case of the Condemned, it was clear someone took the name for themselves while the Royals went and reinvented themselves to fit the name of their group.

The Condemned was little more than a bunch of up-jumped street thugs who got swelled heads because they had a few capes on their side. Their list of crimes mostly consists of petty vandalism, destruction of public property, arson, theft, and her personal favorite, public indecency. All in all, petty brats who loved causing mayhem. From what she read, the only ones among the group with any kills under their name were the capes, though in her opinion they were just as pathetic as Leet and Uber.

The Royals consisted entirely of capes; a band of thieves named after playing cards. The leader was Spade Ace, the second-in-command was Club King, followed by Heart Queen, Diamond Jack, and Joker. Compared to the low-profile Undersiders, the Royals embodied poker at its core: "High-risk, high-reward". Banks, casinos, private information from secure data servers; the list went on. Furthermore, the Royals were professional and had a strict 'no civilians' policy. They used hostages, but they always turned out fine after they got what they needed from their target.

The last gang Sophia read up on was the Kami-Youkai Alliance, an Asian-centric organization with supposed ties to the Azn Bad Boys. Although comparatively smaller than its sister gang, their leadership was split between four capes, all Case-53s by the names Jorugumo, Hanya, Susano-o, and Ebisu. The latter two names were taken directly from gods of Japanese mythology, which made Sophia snort. In her experience, capes who named themselves after gods usually did so to compensate or had egos the size of the sun. Unlike the Condemned or the Royals, the Alliance preferred to be low-key and focused on mundane operations, like illegal gambling dens, money laundering, and the black market. This made them somewhat popular with the Folk, if only because their mundane operations were not as overly threatening toward the general populace.

Thinking about the ABB, Sophia's lips curled in disgust.

Contrary to what many assumed, Lung's death did not lead to the group's collapse. They were gutted by the Ghost Rider, almost immeasurably so, but that didn't make them any less of a threat. Bakuda, the bomber bitch responsible for the ABB-Empire Gang War blowing up in the first place, succeeded Lung as the ABB's new top dog with Oni Lee being her top lieutenant. Of all the pieces of shit Sophia's had to deal with, the bomber bitch was easily the worst. Within two weeks of taking over what was left of the ABB, she became an A-Class Threat, near bordering S-Class with a Kill Order on top of that. It wouldn't surprise her if she reached that threat classification within the next few weeks, if not days.

Fortunately, things in Brockton Bay were not all that bad. A new Ghost Rider dressed as if he were in a Old Western film took to roaming the streets, hunting down any and all criminals he could get his bony hands on. He was a surprisedly marked contrast to Hebert in how he dealt with villains; whereas Hebert's "friend" would settle for scarring, physically and/or mentally, or beating the absolute shit out of the unlucky son of a bitch, the new Rider would mentally scar them or just beat the crap out of them and leave them hanging for the cops and PRT to cage. Not that it earned him any friends in the PRT.

Sophia sighed, her breath slightly visible in the chilly air. A TV on display in a store across the street from her showed off a weather report. Summer was just around the corner, it seemed; they were calling for near eighty to ninety-degree weather within the week. Already, she felt her skin crawl in dismay; she despised warm weather, both for its unpleasantness and the reminder of the worst day of her life.

It'd been over a hundred degrees that day, the sunny rays so hot she came home with a sunburn all across her face. It'd been the least of her worries when she entered the living room and saw her father holding a gun in his hand.

Sophia's jaw clenched. Her fists trembled at the memory, all but drowning it as deep into her subconscious as she could. She hated the memory and all it represented, but most importantly, she despised it because it reminded her of how fucking weak she'd been back then. Years ago, Sophia Hess was like every other average school girl, spending days thinking about boys while minding her figure in preparation for upcoming school events. Back then, she winced and reeled and cowered at the first sign of conflict, ducking out of sight and closing in on herself whenever her father or another adult raised their voice at her.

She—

A man wearing a hoodie followed a woman in a skimpy dress into an alley. The scene was so familiar to her that her body moved on instinct, dissolving into a shapeless ink-black mass. Her body ascended the side of a building, climbing until she was on the rooftop. Her body regained physical form as easily as it was breathing. She pulled the hood of her sweater over her head and reached for the baklava she stashed away in her back pocket. The collapsible crossbow, a tinkertech invention of Kid Win's design, unfolded out from her sleeve and into her hand.

Shadow Stalker carefully crept up to the edge and peered down into the alley, watching with narrowed eyes as the hooded man approached the woman. The conversation went as it always did, a man thinking only with his dick and not his brains and a hooker who wouldn't even give him the time of day. The only difference between how it usually went in Brockton Bay was that the thug wasn't high as a kite this time; he was lucid, his speech intact, and spoke with words of derision and profanity.

As she expected, the hooker rejected him when he claimed to have no money on his person and continued on her merry way. The thug seized her by the arm and threw her to the ground. She tried to scream, but a swift kick to the face silenced her. He grabbed her face and shut her up while his other hand went to work on his belt.

Fucking Christ. Even in Chicago, punks just want to get their dick wet, Shadow Stalker thought.

The woman thrashed, trying to free herself, but she was too weak. She was sheep like all the others.

Ordinarily, this would be the moment in which Shadow Stalker decided she was a lost cause. In her worldview, there were only two kinds of people; the weaklings who could do nothing as they were taken from, and the strong who survived and persevered through adversity. Emma Barnes, a red-haired spitfire she barely knew of back then, was the latter. She didn't cower when some ABB punk held a knife to her face. She looked them square in the eye, insulted him, and then punched him clean across the cheek. That was the moment in which Sophia Hess developed a gold standard.

The woman was too weak to fight back. Chances were she'd be beaten, raped, and maybe beaten again. No one would care. No one would bat an eye.

Shadow Stalker scoffed, her grip on her crossbow lessening. She stood up to leave and—

Scorching hot hands seize her by the throat. Sockets full of orange swirling flame, bright and hateful, glared down at her in judgment. The woman called Shadow Stalker trembled and whimpered fearfully as the flaming skeleton's frightful visage overlapped with another, a man with features similar to hers and short dark hair neatly swept back. Eyes of bitter resentment and disappointment stare her down. There was no cape in the Ghost Rider's grasp. There was just a scared little girl staring up at her father, tired and broken and beaten and—

—the burnt scar on her face ached and throbbed in agitation. Sophia hissed and cursed, even as she descended upon the thug right as his hand reached for his zipper.

Her body fell on him with full force, and in that same moment with practiced ease, Sophia grabbed the thug by the back of his head and slammed his face as hard into the concrete as she could. The thug cried out in pain. A second slam, and he spoke no more.

Sophia rose to her feet, spitting scornfully at the would-be rapist before she kicked him across the face for good measure. The unused crossbow folded back in on itself and slid into the hidden holster on her wrist. She then turned her gaze to the hooker. At a closer look, it made sense why the thug targeted her in the first place; heart-shaped pink lips, dusky skin, dark brown eyes, and dyed-blue hair that came down her shoulders. A pang of jealousy rushed through her breast when she noticed how…shapely the woman was.

The hooker looked up at Sophia, shaken but grateful. "T-thank you," she whispered. Her tears ruined her makeup and made black runny streaks across her cheeks. "Thank you so much! I-I thought that I…"

"Yeah, yeah, just get the fuck out of here," Sophia waved her hand in dismissal. The hooker blinked, not expecting her savior to be so crass. She looked like a deer in headlights. Sophia scowled beneath her baklava. "You fuckin' deaf? I said beat it!"

The hooker got the hint and got up on her feet. Sophia scoffed in distaste for the helpless woman before turning back into shadows. It wouldn't do well for her to be caught here for vigilantism, much less by the PRT. Chances are they would know who she was just by looking at her powers and weapon of choice.

As she quickly made a quick getaway, Sophia reflected on her actions while gingerly tracing the burn mark on her face. It no longer ached, yet it throbbed still, as if protesting her actions.

"What a waste of my time."



Barely half an hour later, explosions rang into the night. One particular explosion created a burst of black smoke and red flames rising above the many buildings of Chicago.

Sophia knew what it was and felt all the more angry.

Taylor Hebert was an enigma. She first learned about her from Emma a month after they met at Winslow in her civilian identity. Emma showed her a missing person's poster, dating almost two years back. From what she could recall, Emma and two-thirds of the Hebert family were caught in a car accident, T-boned by a truck. Someone pulled them out of the wreckage, though Emma could barely remember anything about that time.

Emma wanted to find her friend as much as Hebert's parents did. Sophia couldn't promise anything; the PRT handled parahuman cases, and Hebert was missing for two years at that point. The trail was long cold. That didn't mean Sophia couldn't make a passing mention and hope for the best.

Imagine her surprise when she learned Emma's missing friend was the Brockton Bay Ghost Rider.

Learning the extent of Taylor Hebert's "condition" threw her for a loop. Sophia built this image of what Hebert was like based on what she knew of Emma and what Emma told her. Although their first meeting was brief, what she saw painted a markedly different picture. Hebert was brooding, maybe a little angsty, though she'd give her that one at least. She couldn't begin to imagine what it must be like, to be a prisoner in your own body while some aggressive son of a bitch goes on a rampage. Truth be told, while skeptical about the whole "demons and hell being real" thing, she did believe Hebert wasn't a cape. Something about her just felt…wrong. She didn't know why, but something deep within told her.

In any case, Hebert told them they had to skip town to hunt down the bitch she was after. If nothing else, Hebert was gutsy for wanting to take down the Hellfire Club. Suicidal, but gutsy. Before that, they had to deal with some other Ghost Rider sumbitch calling himself Vengeance. She was almost tempted to call him an edgelord until she learned Hebert lost to him and was looking to settle the score.

Sophia hated feeling helpless. She hated it, even before her Trigger Event. As much as she wanted to help Hebert deal with this Vengeance asshole, recent experiences told her she wouldn't be of any use.

As the battle raged on, loud sirens blared past. Fire trucks, black-and-white police cars, and yellow-and-black PRT vans. Revel was flying solo tonight, it seemed.

Sophia watched the entourage of vehicles pass with a frown. She briefly wondered whether she should follow before shrugging. She hit her quota for the day, anyway. She tugged on her hood and slid her hands in her pockets, trudging in the opposite direction of the explosions when she saw a curious sight. There was a girl, maybe two or three years younger, sitting on a bench talking with a man. She would have dismissed the scene, thinking maybe it was some kid and her father, when she noticed something.

There was nothing special or off-putting about the man. In fact, he looked like one of those dandy gentleman she saw in her mom's black-and-white film collection; well-kempt graying hair, a thick beard neatly trimmed, and red eyes that glimmered with mischief. If his pin-stripe suit and the decorative cane with a goat head handle was any indication, the man was very well-off.

She narrowed her eyes, looking at the scene more closely. The red-eyed man was smiling, but it was not a kind one. It reminded her too much of those sleazy scumbag attorneys and bloodsucking layers she saw in dramas. The girl at his side shifted nervously, constantly wringing her hands and staring nervously at the ground.

Much like Hebert, something in Sophia instinctively recognized there was something wrong with the red-eyed man. More than that, part of her felt nauseous, as if looking at the man made her feel ill.

Cautiously and carefully, Sophia began to approach. As she neared the pair, she heard their conversation.

"A-and she'll be okay? She won't…?"

"I guarantee, by tomorrow morning, she'll be as healthy as a horse."

Well, if I wasn't suspicious before, Sophia thought darkly, now sorely tempted to take out her crossbow.

The girl's face brightened as she shook the man's hand excitedly before standing up from the bench and racing off, no doubt returning home. Sophia looked back and forth across the street, finding it empty. Not surprising, given what was happening not far away. Everyone and their mother was probably bunking down, clenching their ass cheeks and praying they didn't wind up caught in the crossfire. In an empty street like this, no one would notice anything.

The crossbow unfolded into her hand. She kept her footsteps light, slowly coming up on the red-eyed man from behind.

"You know, it's awfully rude to eavesdrop," he said without turning around.

Sophia tensed. She kept her crossbow aimed at his back. "Yeah, well. I'm a bitch."

"Oh, I wouldn't go that far. At best, Miss Hess, you're aggravating."

She gritted her teeth. He knew who she was. And in turn, she knew him.

Mephisto looked over his shoulder, his smile sending shivers down her spine. "Tell me, how is Miss Barnes?"

She pulled the trigger and let the bolt fly. It never even touched him. It just sat there, floating inches away from his form. She fired off two more bolts. They landed much the same.

"That was awful rude of you. Is that the thanks I get for ensuring Miss Barnes welfare?"

Sophia bared her teeth. "You made her into a murderer!"

"And if I hadn't, a hooligan from the Empire would have dragged her off and beaten her to within an inch of her life, all because he bumped into me and spilled my chili dog all over him," Mephisto countered. "A terrible waste of a good chili dog, in all honesty. If I may ask, is there anyone even remotely still decent in your city? I've been to many cities with all sorts of sinners, but yours? I have half a mind to believe Brockton Bay is sin city, not Las Vegas."

She wasn't sure what infuriated her more, the fact that he was so cavalier, so confident she couldn't hurt him, or that he was so flippant. She was tempted to fire the rest of her bolts into him if only to test the limits of his apparent 'barrier'.

Begrudgingly, Sophia lowered her crossbow. Mephisto smiled and gestured for her to sit next to him.

"Come, sit! No sense standing around like a dullard."

"And why the fuck would I do that?"

"It's not like you have anything better to do."

"And what makes you think I want to talk to you?"

"Perhaps you're curious. Or perhaps…you want answers."

Sophia glowered at Mephisto. A mental war raged in her mind, one half of being screaming at her to kill him, and the other half to turn and walk away. She wanted nothing more than to cave his face in for the trouble he caused her friend, but she also knew he was too dangerous to take on directly.

With teeth clenched and her hands balled into fists, Sophia sat down next to him, all the while glaring at him with narrowed eyes.

"See? That wasn't so hard."

"Fuck you."

Mephisto licked his lips. "Tempting, but I'm afraid I'm more into mature women, not brats."

Sophia growled in annoyance and outrage. This motherfucker!

"But, I digress…" The devil leaned against his cane as his smile turned mischievous like the Cheshire Cat finding an interesting toy. "So then, Miss Hess… What do you want to know? And, more importantly…"

"What do you want?"

 

[TheStranger]

"My secret side I keep
Hid under lock and key
I keep it caged,
but I can't control it"
​

Two Hours Earlier…

Eric stalked through the sewers, not caring for the foul smell invading his nostrils or the disgusting fluids and gunk sticking to the bottoms of his boots. He lost count of how often he came to places like this to hunt his quarries, who preferred dark spaces where light could not reach them. It helped that the only people who came down to the sewers were maintenance workers, either periodically flushing excess waste or repairing the sewer system to ensure it worked properly. Few people would hear the sounds of screaming and bloodshed.

Beyond the rank smell of piss, shit, and rot, he could smell it. The stench did nothing to mask the pungent, familiar smell of iron.

Fresh blood had been spilled. Poor bastard was either fresh off a bite or dead. It wasn't surprising. His quarry wasn't some bigshot or an experienced warrior. He was weak and clumsy, no more than a mere thrall. Although his "employer" sent him to Chicago to meet with Taylor Hebert, he intended to come to this city anyway as it was where his quarry bunkered down. If they were hungry, it meant they were weak and prone to mistakes.

The first point of evidence to the latter was how "clean" the sewers were, for a given value of the word. There were no traps, no wards he came to expect from those more magically inclined. He couldn't even sense a single familiar. Easy prey, all around.

That said, even easy prey were could be dangerous when sufficiently provoked. Especially if they were of a certain "kind" of prey.

Eric ducked under a low archway as he followed the metaphorical blood trail. It led him to the far left side of the tunnel, where a metal door sat ajar. Streaks of dry blood sat under the door, the size and shape telling him the victim was dragged. He took a whiff and found multiple scents. Male, 15, AB+. Female, 18, O. Male, 18, A-. Male, 15, AB-.

The fresh scent of blood was a girl, sixteen years of age. O blood-type.

His face contorted into something ugly. The sick fuck likes 'em young, doesn't he?

It reminded him of a job he took a few years ago. Paris, a city famed for its renowned landmarks, became a den of horrors when a roaming band of monsters moved in. Within three months, Paris had more missing persons posters and murders than it had in a year. It took Eric a week and a half to kill the sons of bitches, but by then, most of the captured civilians were shriveled husks or worse. The affair left a bad taste in his mouth, one of the few jobs that left him deeply bitter and angry for having been unable to find them sooner. He couldn't get the sight out of his mind, the dead faces of children and pregnant women…

Eric pressed forward. The hinges had rusted over the years, leading to the door making loud groans that bounced off the walls of the corridor in front of him. Unless his quarry was in the middle of something important, there was no way they wouldn't have heard the sound.

As he walked down the corridor, the smell of blood grew stronger. Signs of light shined through the black darkness ahead of him. Up ahead was a metal door with a lantern hanging on the wall next to it. From beyond the door, Eric smelled fresh blood.

His hand reached for the sword on his back, drawing it from its sheath. He pushed the door open, discarding any and all attempts at subtly. There was no doubt his quarry knew he was here. The moment he opened the door, the smell of blood intensified. He crossed the threshold and stepped inside the room. Given the small space and the discarded boxes of equipment lying around, it was likely a storage room left abandoned by maintenance workers.

A young girl with brown hair and freckles sat on the floor, her eyes glassy and her face pale. Her clothes were disheveled and stained in grime and muck. On her neck were two small holes the size of pinpricks, surrounded by black veins and dribbling rivers of red.

Eric took a step toward her. The moment he did, something stirred in the corner of his field of vision and lunged for him. To an ordinary human, the reaching limb wouldn't even register as a blur. It was too fast. For someone like Eric, they may as well have been a stumbling drunk. With practiced ease and movement made possible from years of experience and combat, he spun on his heel and evaded the limb, whirling around with a sharp pivot before bringing his sword down on the arm. Steel cut through flesh and bone like a hot knife through butter. Black fluid spews out from the newly-made stump. The limb's owner shrieks in a way that is decidedly inhuman.

With speed surpassing that of his attacker, Eric seized his quarry by the throat and pinned them to the wall, one hand firmly on the neck and the other driving his sword hilt-deep into the monster's stomach Finally, Eric got a good look at his prey.

"Man, I've seen some things, but you? Now that is a face not even a mother can love."

Just as Eric predicted, the vampire hadn't had a decent meal in quite some time. Its body was emaciated, little more than thin gray flesh clinging to warped bone. Its cheeks were sunken to the point the skin was stretched thin, straining to encompass the bone. Red eyes glared hatefully at Eric. It opened its mouth to speak, maybe insults and demands of blood, but he wasn't interested in what it had to say. Eric tightened his grip and twisted his sword, silencing the vampire before forcing it to turn its head.

There, right below the earlobe, was a pentagram seared into its flesh.

"If you ain't selling your souls, you're selling what little you have left to Hell," Eric said scornfully. "Dumb fuck. You even realize who you sold yourself to?"

The vampire tried to speak, but found its voice constricted by the tight grip over its throat.

"I don't want to hear what you have to say. Instead, all you gotta do is nod. I don't like what I hear, you die. Simple, no?" Eric shoved his sword a little deeper, dragging it up and cutting through more flesh. The vampire hissed and whimpered as its flailing grew weak. "You made a deal with a devil called Azazel, right?"

The vampire didn't answer. It didn't have to. The silence told Eric everything he needed to know.

"And you came here to Chicago looking for Satana Hellstrom, right?"

Nod.

"Follow her orders?"

It shook its head.

Eric narrowed his eyes. "Somebody else's?"

Nod.

That complicated things. Eric assumed the Hell-Marked would follow those handpicked by Azazel, but if it wasn't following Hellstrom's orders, then by who's? He would have asked, but he knew it was a pointless endeavor. When a Hell-Marked makes a deal, restrictions and rules are put in place. The most common is never to divulge the identity of whoever they made a contract with, both to ensure their privacy and to keep the Hell-Marked from running their mouth off.

Of all the devils Eric recently dealt with thanks to his "employer", Azazel was one of the most cautious. Not unexpected, given how he was one of Blackhart's lackeys.

At the very least, Eric managed to confirm his presence in the city. He would have to do a little more wetwork, find out who the vampire was working for, and…

Something glittered under the vampire's stringy hair. Eric tilted its head and pulled the strands aside. It was an earring, diamond-shaped with a blue-gem in the center. The gem had long lost its luster, but in the dim light, it could still produce a shine.

"Eric? Eric, honey! Slow down!"

An old memory played out in Eric's head, a woman with a beaming smile as warm as sunlight.

In an instant, rage thrummed through Eric's veins. With a snarl, he tore his blade out from the vampire's stomach and tossed it to the floor, pinning it with his boot. The sword hovered close to the vampire's neck, its steel touch kissing tender flesh and drawing sickly black blood.

"You're one of his spawn, aren't you." It was not a question. "That earring. Where did you get it?"

In contrast to its anger and disgust, the vampire went still. Fear overwrote its features, cowering before Eric. It shirked away from his gaze. "F-f-f-from the master," it stammered. "A-a-a gift, for g-g-good work!"

A gift. It had been a gift.

Eric saw red.

He didn't give the worthless creature time to scream.



The kidnapped girl was taken to the nearest medical clinic in the area. Eric contacted her parents, giving them an anonymous tip that their baby girl was safe and sound. What he didn't tell them was that she would never be 'normal' again. Those bitten by vampires never fully recovered. In the best-case scenario, the victim would suffer from partial paralysis, nightmares of their encounter with the vampire, and sensory deprivation, mostly taste and touch. In most circumstances, the victims were comatose. Worst case, brain-dead vegetables.

Eric didn't know which would be the case for that girl, and he knew better than to hope for the best. Hope was scary.

He would have left the clinic and went straight home to rest, but a familiar face caught his attention. He saw a pair, the girl's parents judging by the woman having similar features, talking with one of the doctors. The man looked as if he hadn't slept a wink with how deep those rings under his eyes were. He looked tired, exhausted even.

"We'll do everything we can to ensure Kate's recovery," the doctor said. "You have my word."

"Thank you, doctor," the father said sincerely with watery eyes. "T-thank you so much."

Eric watched the pair bow their heads and leave, making a beeline for their daughter's room. He paid them no attention and walked up to the doctor.

"You really think you can help that girl with your magic mumbo jumbo?" he asked.

The doctor smiled wryly. "It's easier than you think, though magic is just as difficult as surgery, especially where vampirism is involved. Did he infect her?"

"He was more interested in sucking her dry. If I got there a few minutes late, she'd be a husk." Eric leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. "He was Hell-Marked, just like most rats I've been chasing for the last few months. Vampires selling their souls to devils, that a new trend or something?"

"More like expansion. Azazel has his own agenda, one that happens to overlap with Blackhart's. I'm still looking into things over on my end, but I do have a working hypothesis."

The doctor glanced around, looking to see if there was anyone who might overhear them. Once he was certain the lobby was empty, he waved his hand. Purplish wisps of light flowed and flickered around his fingertips as the world around them started to shift. At a glance, everything looked the same. On closer inspection, however, Eric noticed there was a distinct lack of texture and form. It was as if everything around them suddenly turned flat and melded into the floor and walls.

"They're collecting souls," the doctor said grimly. "The vampires aren't just feeding. Ordinarily, Hell-Marks are meant to act like bomb collars. If someone breaches their contract, the Hell-Mark incinerates their body and sends the contractee's soul kicking and screaming into Hell."

"You're saying these are different?"

"For the most part. They still keep the contractee in-line, but they're also used as a sort of relay. When the vampires drain the soul of their victim, the Hell-Mark "transmits", for lack of better word, and sends the collected soul to the contractor. In this case, Azazel."

Eric hummed. "Well, at least now I get why they're getting bloodsuckers to help. And it explains why they've been on a goddamn feeding frenzy. So what do they want with these souls anyhow? They gonna eat 'em? Use them for a ritual?"

"The latter most likely." The doctor grimaced. "Most sorceries derived from Hell love using souls as fuel. What worries me is why they need so many, and how many more they need." He looked at Eric with a raised eyebrow. "You've met Taylor. What do you think?"

"She's wet behind the ears," Eric replied bluntly. "She learns fast, but she's reckless. When shit hits the fan, she'll start to crack. Worst case, she might let her 'friend' take the wheels. On a scale of one to ten, how fucked are we?"

"Let me put it to you this way. If the limiter is removed, not even an ocean blessed by all the forces of Heaven will be enough to put out the fires."

"So we're fucked."

The doctor shook his head. "In the worst case, yes. Zarathos is…temperamental. I'm sure Robbie told you as much."

"Enough to know they hated each other with a fucking passion." Whenever Robbie got drunk, he would talk Eric's ear off about his 'roommate', spouting profanities and rants so violent they'd impress even Jack Slash if the sick fuck was still alive. "For the record, I still don't like this. What the hell is so special about that kid that you'd bet on her?"

For some reason, the doctor smiled. "If I told you that kid would save the world at the cost of herself, at the cost of her own sanity, of everything that makes her "Taylor Hebert"…would you believe me?"

"For fuck's sake, can't you be straight with me?"

"I am, believe it or not. If she hadn't gotten involved with the forces of Hell, Taylor Hebert would have gone on to save the world, and no, that is not a joke."

"What, she would've been a hero?"

"In a…manner of speaking."

Well, doesn't that sound ominous, Eric thought blandly and rolled his eyes. If his "employer" insisted on being so mysterious, fine. It wasn't like he was expecting to get very many answers anyway.

"You'll also probably need to fish her out of the water within the next half hour, by the way," the doctor suddenly said, making him blink. "She's fighting Vengeance."

Eric frowned when he heard that. While he knew what Spirits of Vengeance were capable of, having been friends with Zarathos' prior host, he never fought one himself. At the very least, he knew they were strong enough to take on the meanest motherfuckers that went bump in the night, infernal in nature or otherwise. From what little he knew of Vengeance, he was one of the meanest and angry of the bunch. The doctor said as much, noting how the Spirit of Vengeance had even developed an ability specifically to hurt the target in the most efficient and damaging way possible, weaponizing his own hatred as some sort of mental virus.

The bastard was creative if nothing else. And he was experienced. Taylor, meanwhile, was a fledgling still learning how to fly. It didn't matter how fast she was learning or how she adapted on the fly, there was a difference between a kid with talent and a veteran with experience. It was just another reason why he was so skeptical about the doctor's claims, nevermind how cryptic they were. If Taylor Hebert was destined to save the world, he had to wonder how the hell she was going to do it, and what exactly was so bad it rivaled whatever the Hellfire Club had in mind.

"Will she win?"

"Oh, yes. She's fighting smart," the doctor told him with a grin. It barely lasted a few seconds before it grew tighter. "Though whether it will help her in the days to come… That's another story."

"Something you wanna tell me, doc?"

"I need you to do me a favor. Not a request, a favor." Eric raised an eyebrow at the doctor's words. "I need you to give Taylor a nudge, get her to New York."

"New York? The hell for? You want her to pick a fight with Legend or the Teeth or something?"

"Robbie's there."

It did not surprise Eric that the doctor knew where his old friend was.

Even so—

"Hell no." The words came out harshly and full of venom. "Sorry doc, but that ain't happenin'. Robbie's out of the biz, and if there's anything we agree on these days, it's that his days with Hell are over and done. 'Retirement' is a thing for a reason."

The doctor sighed. "Eric, please."

"Look, I get you want your golden girl to succeed, but if there's anything I've learned from watching her, it's that wherever she goes, trouble follows. If it ain't following her, she goes stumbling after it without stopping to think that, maybe, she shouldn't do it." He shook his head adamantly, making sure the doctor knew he wasn't going to budge on this. "I'm sorry, but my answer's no. What the hell do you even need Robbie for anyway? If it's to find her a teacher, can't it be somebody else? What about that Blaze asshole's brother?"

The doctor's face grew grave. "It's not about finding a teacher. It's about saving Robbie's life."

"…the fuck is that supposed to mean, doc?"

"Zadkiel is on Earth," the man answered. Eric did not recognize the name, but for reasons he could not fathom, it filled him with existential dread. "And he brought Uriel with him. If Taylor Hebert does not go to New York, Robbie Reyes dies."

 

[TheStranger]

"The bright blessed day
The dark sacred night
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world"

​

The first thing that registered in my mind was pain. My muscles felt like lead and my head was screaming. There was a dull throbbing pain behind my eyes. I tried to open my eyes, but the sunrise across the horizon was too bright. The dull pain intensified. I wanted to claw my eyes out. I turned my head to the side, avoiding the sunlight before realizing I was not in the water anymore. I was in the backseat of a car with a thick blanket drawn over me.

"How...?" I winced. My voice was hoarse. My throat felt as dry as the desert.

"Careful, now. Try not to move around too much."

Eric looked over at me from the passenger-side seat, a cigarette butt dangling from his lips. Something about him seemed different, but I couldn't figure out what. There was a cloudy haze in my brain. I could barely hear my own thoughts.

"What…happened…?"

"You kicked ass, and you got your ass kicked," he said, taking the cigarette in his mouth and tossing it out the window. "Your stalker's gone, so you can rest easy. Not a bad idea, letting him burn himself out, though you were damn lucky."

I sighed in agreement. Although the plan worked, I knew it was nothing short of a miracle I managed to eke out victory. Another painful reminder how I have a long way to go before I can be free of Zarathos.

"…how did you…know I was here…?"

"My employer," Eric responded. He sounded annoyed for some reason. "Told me I'd have to fish you out after you beat Vengeance's candy ass."

Not for the first time, I wondered who Eric's employer was. Was he a precog of some kind? I opened my mouth to speak again, but my throat protested in irritation. All that came out of my mouth was a raspy cough. Seeing this, Eric leaned down and reached for something under his seat. A second later, he sat back up and handed me a flask. I gratefully reached out and accepted it, twisting off the cap and—

A familiar vile taste filled my mouth. I nearly spat out the liquor on reflex, forcing myself to swallow despite the unpleasant feeling. I heard that flaming bastard laughing in the back of my head.

"Tequila, hm? Haven't had that in a while. Johnny preferred whiskey, but personally…"

"You—" I coughed. "Bastard! This is alcohol!"

"And?"

…I wanted to kill him so badly.



Emma and Sophia were waiting for me in our apartment. The second I walked through the door, my friend rushed up and glomped me. "Oh, thank goodness! Are you okay?! There were explosions everywhere!"

"Everyone and their fucking mother are raving about what happened," Sophia said from her seat on the couch. "Forums are talkin' about how you and the other flaming douche went apeshit on each other and wrecked LaSalle and North Damen."

"Any casualties?"

"None that I saw."

I let myself slump in Emma's arms, releasing an unconscious breath I'd been holding in my chest. There were no words to describe the relief rushing through me. I was not so naïve to think that people wouldn't get hurt in my battles, but I didn't people to die because of something I did. People were hurt, and I felt horrible, but all the same, I was relieved that no one died.

"So, the prick dead?" Sophia asked.

I nodded. "Sent his ass back to Hell where he belongs. Whether he stays, though…"

That was something I had to consider on the way back to the apartment. Vengeance was my enemy, but he was a Ghost Rider nonetheless. All he needed was a compatible host to inhabit, a leash to bind him, and he would be back. Subdued, yes, but back out in the world. I doubted however much time he would spend in Hell until then would do anything to lessen his grudge against Zarathos and Blaze, much less whatever newfound grudge he had against me. I also considered something else as well.

Namely, not all Ghost Riders had "good" intentions.

By their very nature, Ghost Riders don't care for the "morality" commonly found in the superhero community. If you sinned, if you were guilty, if you spilled innocent blood, then you were their enemy. It didn't matter who you are. It was why so many people feared them. The "unwritten rules" the capes used as guidelines, as a means to keep them within "acceptable" limits, meant nothing to the Ghost Riders. There was a reason why they are "unwritten", and I knew very well that not all capes subscribed to the cape's gentlemen's agreement.

I had little doubt Vengeance was the only one who hunted his fellow Ghost Riders, even if he only targeted one Rider in particular. There would be others like him. I needed to be prepared. I needed to be stronger.

I needed to know more about my powers, preferably from someone who was forthcoming in the details.

There was a strange look in Sophia's face, as if she was deep in thought about something. What it was, I couldn't say.

"Who's your friend?" Emma asked, finally taking notice of Eric.

The man gave her and Sophia a curt nod. "Eric Brooks. I'm a recent acquaintance of your friend here."

"He's also working under someone who apparently wants me to save the goddamn world," I added.

Emma and Sophia gave us both blank stares. The latter summed up my thoughts perfectly.

"The fuck?"



Elsewhere, in a place far removed from the mortal plane of existence, a group convened at the behest of their master. Each and every one of these people were the most vile, wicked, and depraved to exist, be they human or demon.

It was not often the members of the Hellfire Club convened. With few exceptions, most of its members held no loyalty to each other and otherwise acted independently from each other, both to ensure the best chance of success and to ensure none of their operations intersected. That was not to say their goals and plans crossed with each other or interfered, sometimes leading to infighting. Such matters were quickly dealt with, with their master putting his foot down with threats of punishment and eternal suffering.

When Satana Hellstrom arrived, she found most of their members were already present. They sat and watched eagerly as their master circled around some hapless human. The look of despair delighted Satana almost as much as seeing the man her demented heart yearned for more than anything.

"Look at you, a poor pitiful soul who lost everything."

The leader of the Hellfire Club was a young man with features that could only be described as "otherworldly". He bore a face and physique that would put the famed Adonis to shame, with a smile so perfect it could tempt even the purest of maidens and hair as black as ink, neatly combed and perfectly cut at chin-length, his bangs swept toward the left side. In Satana's mind, his best feature were his eyes, red as blood and filled to the brim with delightful mischief and thoughts of chaos.

Her master spoke in a suave tone, speaking to the pitiful human as if he were a priest offering words of kindness and faith to a poor and hopeless soul in need of guidance. In a way, he was. For he was the rightful priest of darkness, and this space his chapel and church for all things wicked and depraved.

"It must have been difficult for you, living with a father so deep in his worries he couldn't bother to spend time with you or your lush of a mother." Her master stopped behind the hapless human, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder as he continued to speak. "A mother who both loved and despised you, to make up for her own inadequacies. Oh, how you suffered as she beat you…but you loved her. You worshipped the ground she walked on, revered her as if she were your god. When she struck you, lashed out at you, screamed at you for having been born, you never bore her ill-will. No, all that hate went toward your father."

He kneeled next to the human. "Why?"

For a time, the human didn't answer. Satana wondered if they were so broken and despondent that they couldn't even hear her beloved master's words. The thought nearly sent her flying into a rage. She was tempted to skewer the human for their insolence until they finally began to speak.

"Because he never did anything," they said. "He always locked himself in his room, screaming at his phone or at himself. Momma did everything, from taking of me to house chores. The men she was friends with were nice. Better than papa."

"And how did you feel when your mother killed your father when he found out about her infidelity?"

"Happy. He wouldn't cause momma anymore trouble."

Satana raised an eyebrow. The other members had various reactions, ranging from amusement to boredom. Some looked keenly interested, wondering what the master's plans were for this human.

"But the beatings never stopped," her master said. "She still cursed you."

The human shook their head. "She did it because she loved me. After she hit me, she'd give me something the next day. Sometimes she'd bring toys or give me candy. Sometimes we'd go to the park or the circus." A strange smile danced across the human's face.

Off to the side, one of the Hellfire Club's members sighed dreamily. Satana knew why; that smile was so broken it couldn't possibly belong to a "normal" human. The smile was so wide, she thought the human's face would break in half. It was clear this was not some sacrifice like she thought.

This was a recruit.

"And how did you feel when the police came to take your mother away?"

The smile died. The human's eyes grew cold. "I wanted to kill them. They didn't understand. Momma didn't do anything wrong. She wasn't a bad person. They're the bad ones. They don't get it."

"No, they don't," her master agreed as he smiled. He stood up and walked toward the large portrait hanging on the wall. It depicted the King of Hell in all his infernal glory, lounged languidly and seated upon the Black Throne with the seven-horned crown atop his head. Satana never understood why her master adored the painting when she knew his thoughts and feelings of His Majesty, and his plans to one day take the Black Throne for himself. "That's the thing with humans. They don't understand how 'evil' is subjective. It's a label they slap around. They're self-righteous like that, just like God. Take his Commandments for example. God proclaimed that to kill your fellow man is a grave sin. Is it evil, then, to allow a man who killed your dearly beloved to walk free and let him roam unpunished? Is it evil to steal bread to feed your starving family when you have not a cent to your name?"

The master turned around to face the human. "When we were born into this world, God decried us as monsters, that our very existence was evil incarnate. But how could he know that? Are we not more than he makes of us? Do we not feel love? Compassion? Do we not yearn for the companionship of other races? I do. I love humans. I love how you can make up the flimsiest of excuses to justify your actions, be it in the name of revenge, in the name of liberty, in the name of justice…"

His smile grew minutely, showing off his fanged molars. "In the name of God." He kneeled down and looked at the enthralled human at eye-level. "Evil cannot be so easily defined, my friend. Deep down, you know this as well as I do. In which case, if they declare us evil…" Darkness seeped out from the master's being, rolling off him in waves. He extended a hand of friendship toward the human, the darkness curling and coiling around it, tendrils reaching out to touch the human. "Then let us prove otherwise. Let us ask them what is true evil as we rip the hypocrisy from their words, and expose the dark, ugly truth they keep buried. What say you, Ebenezer Laughton? Will you not walk with us?"

To the Hellfire Club's delight, the human didn't hesitate. They reached and clasped the master's hand, grabbing it and holding it tight as if it were a lifeline. The darkness ensnared and swallowed the human whole, wrapping them in its insipid embrace. First came horrific, agonizing screams of pain and suffering. Then came laughter. Joyous laughter mixed with tearful cries of pain, the laughter of a broken madman with a soul stained pitch-black. The darkness shifted and shrunk, becoming a more solid and defined shape. The master stood up and pulled the recruit to their feet as their new form, one befitting the vile nature of their soul, took shape.

Where once stood a man was now a lanky humanoid being, its limbs too thin and too long. Tattered clothes marked with patchwork cloth and stitches adorned its lithe frame. Around its neck was a severed noose. Adorning its skin was a series of stitches, barely keeping the unnaturally thin flesh together, so wrinkly and tight even the slightest movement would open a tear in its flesh like paper. A crude burlap mask was drawn over its head, stitched on at the neck. Two eyeholes filled with sickly yellow eyes stared at the master with reverence. Below the eyeholes was a jagged smile, its maw filled with the same unearthly light.

"Be welcome, brother," the master smiled jubilantly. "For today, you are reborn as one of us."

The Scarecrow bowed its head. "This…is a gift, my lord," he said in a raspy voice. "Thank you…"

"But of course." The master turned to one of the members. "See that our newcomer is given his lodgings. Tomorrow, I shall put them to task." The member nodded and beckoned for the Scarecrow to follow. As the newest recruit to the Hellfire Club was led away, the master turned his attention to Satana. Her heart leapt with joy as she felt his gaze upon her. Oh, how she longed to bury herself in his arms and bask in his darkness. "Welcome home, Satana. Did you have fun in Chicago?"

"Not nearly as much as I would have liked, my lord," Satana sighed. "One of Mephisto's new Ghost Riders showed up and ruined all my fun. I would have added her to my collection, but sadly those creatures… Ah, what were they called again? The ones obsessed with acts of heroism?"

"Parahumans," one of the members supplied.

Satana nodded at them. "Yes, those ingrates. Between them and that rowdy Vengeance lout, I decided to move on." She sighed again, this time in disappointment. "And I was so close to claiming that girl's soul, too."

"You and your obsession with Ghost Riders," another member of the Hellfire Club sneered scornfully. "If you just picked the ones with our brethren, I could tolerate your hobby. But no, you insist on collecting those feather-rats as well."

"It's not my fault I like new toys."

The master chuckled. "Do not disparage her, Blackout. Satana's hobby is quite useful for us. Still, I'm surprised by how interested you were in this new Ghost Rider. Was she truly that interesting?"

"Oh, yes. It's the one from Brockton Bay, the hound who was running around with a leash."

The master's smile disappeared, replaced by a thoughtful frown. He grew strangely quiet, much to Satana's confusion. "My lord?"

"I wasn't aware Mephisto bound her," he muttered, ignoring her words. "Strange he chose to do so now."

"What's got you so worried, boss?" Satana scowled and glared at the member sitting in the furthest corner of the room. The ingrate had the gall, the nerve to speak so candidly to the master as if they were equals. Of all the members within the Hellfire Club, he was the one she wished to kill the most. It was only because of the master's rules that she stayed her hand. "She's just a Ghost Rider. We've dealt with her kind before. Which is she, anyway? Does she have one of the troublemakers or one of God's little birdies?"

"Neither. Taylor Hebert is Zarathos' newest host."

Silence fell upon the room. Satana's eyes widened considerably. Every demon and sinner from the deepest Circles of Hell knew the name 'Zarathos'. It was the name of the most revered Spirit of Vengeance, the greatest and most dangerous one of them all. Of all the Spirits of Vengeance, Zarathos had the fewest hosts due to the magnitude of his power. The master once told them of how Zarathos and Mephisto clashed, of how their battle not only shattered the Nine Hells, but even caused ripples throughout the realms of reality. The being would have killed the devil of contracts were it not for the actions of the King of Hell. After his defeat, Zarathos was subjugated and bound, tortured for eons until he was just compliant enough to serve Hell's interests.

The last known host of Zarathos had been a human by the name of Robbie Reyes. Satana never encountered him, but her master was highly wary of him. He'd been their most dangerous enemy once, having killed at least three of their number before the human decided he wanted out of his contractual obligations. Evidently, he succeeded.

Satana pouted, now even more disappointed with this revelation. Had she known that girl was Zarathos' newest host, she would have dealt with her herself and claimed her soul.

"Taylor Hebert spent three years without the binding seal," the master said. "To my knowledge, the last person to ever manage such a feat was Mephisto's favorite dog." The master's smile returned with amusement and curiosity. "It makes me wonder, did the old man fear her potential, or did he see another Johnny Blaze?" He shook his head. "No matter. Whatever Mephisto's plans for that girl, he's acted far too late. Our goal is within reach. Azazel and Hoth's plans are coming along nicely. If all goes well, we'll breach the seal within a few months."

Many of the master's servants nodded their heads in agreement, including Satana. That said, not all shared in his optimism. "Forgive me speaking out of turn, my lord, but is it wise to let such a dangerous element roam freely? Even with a binding seal, any host of Zarathos poses a threat. Should we not deal with her before she complicates matters?"

Satana bared her teeth. "You dare question the master?"

"Enough, Satana." The Devil's Daughter bowed her head in acquiescence. "He bears a point. Unlike Mephisto and Satan, I am not one to leave things to chance. Truth be told, I'm quite curious to see how she measures up."

He turned to the member seated on the sofa on the left side of the room. In comparison to Satana's elegant garbs and perfect form, he looked positively bland and uninspiring. The only noteworthy thing about him was his pale-white skin, blank eyes, and tainted veins that throbbed with the master's darkness.

"Blackout, will you go?"

The pale man smiled, standing up and tipping his tophat. "With pleasure, Lord Blackheart. With pleasure."



"So, let me get this straight." Sophia pointed a finger at Eric. "Your benefactor, or whatever the fuck he is, says Hebert would have saved the world at some point if she didn't get involved in the car accident that led her to get saddled with some fiery motherfucker with a hateboner. And that he wants her to save the world from whatever the fuck the Hellfire Club is cooking up. That about sum it up?"

Eric sighed. "You kiss your mother with that mouth? Seriously, what is it with you Brockton civvies and screaming the word 'fuck' every five seconds?" He shook his head in exasperation, ignoring the annoyed look Sophia threw his way before answering. "Yeah, that's the gist. Personally, I think the quack has a few screws loose, but he seems pretty adamant that your friend has a role to play, Her and Zarathos."

"I am not letting him out," I hissed. While I was under no illusion that I was weak, I refused to ever consider the idea, much less the possibility, that I would unleash Zarathos upon the world ever again. To my surprise, the bastard didn't seem offended or offer words of rebuke. He was silent.

"What exactly is the Hellfire Club planning, anyhow?" Emma asked. "If the guy in charge is Mephisto's son, why doesn't he just go and deal with it himself?"

"Honestly? I got no goddamn clue," Eric confessed. He sounded frustrated, if not annoyed like the rest of us. "Maybe his son's stronger than him? Maybe he can't be bothered to get up off his ass and deal with it himself? Or maybe he just likes having others clean up his mess. Who knows what goes through a devil's mind, especially one as old as Mephisto. As for what the Hellfire Club is planning, my employer thinks they're gathering souls to fuel a ritual of some kind."

I frowned. "A ritual?"

"Way I understand it, sorceries from Hell require souls. The scope and power of the ritual is determined by the number of souls." Eric dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a cigarette box and lighter. He popped open the box and took a cancer stick in his mouth, his other hand igniting the lighter to light up the cigarette. As he took a drag from his cigarette, his face grew grave. "And according to the quack… The ritual the Hellfire Club is planning? It's gonna take a lot of souls to pull off."

A cold pit formed in my stomach. Emma looked queasy, her expression echoing my own thoughts. Sophia scowled and asked the question I didn't want an answer to. "How many?"

"Best guess? 10.5 million."

Ten million. Ten million souls to start a ritual of unknown purpose, one that could potentially end the world.

The thought chilled me to the bone. There were no words to describe the horror or the images flashing through my head. Emma's hands went to her mouth, eyes wide in horror. Sophia's face rapidly drained of color, practically sinking into the Sophia. The weight of the number Eric provided shook us all.

"…what do we do."

It was not a question.

Eric's face soured as he spoke in a reluctant tone. "I…have a friend. A former Ghost Rider. He managed to shake out of his contract a few years back and backed out. 'course, depending on who you ask, you don't exactly leave the Spirits of Vengeance. Last I heard, he can still use hellfire, but nowhere near as well as he used to. You want someone to teach you the ropes? Show how a real Ghost Rider fights? He's your man."

"This friend have a name?"

"Robbie Reyes. Works at an auto shop over in New York."

Sophia sputtered. "New York? Are you fucking kidding me?! Of all the fucking places, your friend set up shop near fucking Legend and the goddamn Teeth?!"

The former needed no introductions. I doubted there was a soul who hadn't heard of Legend, a founding member of the Protectorate and member of the Triumvirate. They were the three strongest capes in the world next to Scion, each considered the best in their respective fields. As such, criminal activity in New York was abysmal, but still present. There were some who wanted to test Legend, and chief among them was the Butcher, a cape who's powers would transfer to another after their death. Any who inherits their powers takes on the Butcher mantle and is driven insane by the voices of the previous holders. At least two former heroes fell from grace after inheriting the Butcher Mantle.

I shuddered at the possibility that there might one day be a Ghost Rider who would inherit the Butcher's powers, and what it would mean. Would they still be sane? Would they be driven or insane? Or would it be the Butchers who broke before the Spirit of Vengeance's own corrupting force?

Either way, I did not like what I was hearing. Dealing with the local PRT is one thing, but dealing with the Butcher and Triumvirate is another. One small misstep is all it would take, one wrong move, and I was fucked six ways from Sunday.

"Hey, I ain't happy about this, either," Eric snapped. "Were it up to me, Robbie wouldn't have to put up with anymore bullshit, but as things stand, none of us got much choice." His expression softened slightly, sighing once again and taking another drag from his cigarette, then turned to me. "So, kid… What are you gonna do?"

I looked at Emma and Sophia. They looked at each other, then back at me. The three of us shared an unseen, unspoken conversation.

This is gonna be dangerous, you know.

Hebert, please. We're already neck-deep in shit, and it's only gonna get worse from here on.

We don't have any other option.

I looked down at the floor in contemplation. There really was no other option, was there?

"…well," I said, forcing a tight smile. "At least we can cross seeing the Empire State Building off our bucket list."

It was obvious that Eric wasn't happy about this. Whoever Robbie was, Eric cared for them deeply. I understood where he was coming from, having some understanding of the difficulties involved with becoming a Ghost Rider. I was not keen on the lifestyle myself, so the sooner I got Zarathos out of my head, the better.

With our next destination clear, we started packing. I was glad my parents weren't here, certain they would have a few choice words with me stealing a car. Not that anybody would miss it. It was pretty beat up, though it was not so serious that I couldn't give it a "tune up" so to speak. While Emma packed our things, I went down to get the car.

"Hebert," Sophia said, pulling my shoulder. "We gotta talk." I looked at Sophia with a frown. Her expression and tone implied it was something serious. I glanced at Emma, oblivious to our exchange, then nodded at Sophia.

She pulled me outside the room and near the stairwell. The girl looked conflicted about something. I could practically feel her anxiety.

"Something wrong?"

Sophia said nothing. Instead, she pulled out a small business card from her pocket and handed it to me. Warning bells went off in my head as I took the card from her. It smelled of smoke and brimstone. Branded on the card was a pentagram, and on the back was a phone number.

Zarathos growled demonically. His reaction told me all I needed to know.

"You didn't." I glared at Sophia, ignoring her discomfort, how she squirmed. "Tell me you didn't. Tell me you didn't make a deal with Mephisto."



I wish I knew then what I know now, how I would regret going to New York. Both for what was waiting for us down the road…and what we found waiting for us, in the heart of the Big Apple.

TO BE CONTINUED in
Arc IV:
HEAVEN'S GRIEF
​

"They say nothing burns quite like hellfire… But they're wrong, Zadkiel. Neither the flames of hell nor the holy flames burn like mine. What's the matter, you old fuck? Come on out. STEP INTO THE LIGHT."

Click to shrink...

"Country roads, take me home
To the place I belong
West Virginia, mountain mama
Take me home, country roads"

 

[TheStranger]

View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JtPNH6VBBWg

"A lonesome star in a bitter sky
I hear the hungry ghosts calling out in the night
Just a couple victims of this brutal reprise
Am I strong enough to let things just die?"
​

Dying in the rain. What a goddamn cliché.

That was Frank Castle's first thought as he regained consciousness, feeling the pitter-patter raindrops falling over his face. His back ached in pain, both from having smashed through a brick wall and from falling through no less than two stories. An ordinary man would have died from such a fall. Unfortunately, Castle was no ordinary man.

He pulled himself from the rubble, tearing off any chunks of debris or wooden panels keeping him pinned to the floor. He looked up, staring at the hole in the roof and the dark cloudy sky up above. It'd been cloudy all day, but the forecast never mentioned the possibility of rain.

He hated the rain. Not for what it represented or that he'd be drenched, but because it reminded him of that day.



It was raining that day, too.

It was Lisa's birthday. His beautiful baby girl was turning seven. He and Maria spent weeks planning out what would no doubt be the best birthday party Lisa would ever have, yet it seemed Mother Nature was determined to ensure such plans would never happen.

"So much for a nice outing in the park," Lieutenant Francis Castiglione muttered to himself as he stepped out of his car, shielding the bouquet and Bugs Bunny Rabbit plushie with his coat. "Guess we'll be having a nice picnic indoors today."

Their home was rather modest, a single-story with white walls, a red-tiled roof, and rose bushes circling the front yard. It'd been Frank's home for years, inherited from his mother after she passed. By then, he'd already married Maria and had Lisa. They only recent renovated it after little Frank Junior was born. It still felt surreal to him how he was a father of two children. His only regret was that he couldn't spend more time with them. He thought leaving military service for the less stressful life of the police force would have given him more time with his family. Instead, he was forced to deal with more bureaucratic red tape involving parahumans than he thought possible.

While he was uncertain what sort of relationship the PRT had with other police departments, the NYPD had a tense 'friendship' with the New York Protectorate. Frank didn't care much for it, but he understood his colleagues' frustrations whenever they had to deal with something beyond their weight class and pay grade, much less whenever PRT jurisdiction superseded the police force's. The latter happened more often than he thought, especially where the Teeth was involved.

At any rate, Frank didn't want his job getting in the way of Lisa's celebration, so he put in for some time off. Nothing was getting in the way of making his daughter the happiest girl on this earth.

A small smile flittered across Frank's face as he reached for the handle on the front door, only for the smile to disappear.

The door was open.

Dread rushed through his veins as he pushed it open, his other hand reaching for the gun in his holster. Slowly, carefully, he stepped inside his house and kept his gun raised. He kept his footsteps light, trying to make as little noise as possible. As he walked down the corridor connecting the entrance to the living room, Frank's mind raced through the list of possible suspects; known criminals on the run, gangbangers active in the area, people he personally put away. There were too many names to list.

Frank pressed himself against the wall, peering around the corner. He found nothing out of place, no signs of intruders or…

The gun slipped from his hand.

"No…"

Frank staggered into the living room, staring at the bodies lying in the middle of the floor. One was a blonde-haired little girl no older than seven, and the other a woman wearing a t-shirt and jeans. Under them was a large pool of blood. Cradled in the woman's arms was a bundled cloth stained crimson.

"No. No!"

Tears poured down his face. He fell to his knees, kneeling before the corpses of his children and wife. With trembling hands, he took Lisa into his arms and buried her face in his shoulder.

Frank screamed. He screamed and screamed until his voice ran hoarse, and screamed until he they were no more than wheezes. When his neighbors came to check on the noise, all they found was a grieving father, clutching his daughter's lifeless body for dear life.



"Kazaan, your friends are fucking assholes," Frank said as he leaped up to the rooftop in a single bound. His flesh peeled away to expose orange-red flames and ivory bone. His clothes, already tattered and roughed up from his earlier encounter, grew singed in infernal flame.

A soft voice echoed in his ears. "They are not my friends," the fallen angel said with disdain.

There was certainly no lost love between them, it seemed. The apparent angels, all wearing meat suits of civilians, all rushed him with blades of pure silver. One rushed him from behind, intending to run him through. It was amateurish, something Frank saw a mile away; he whirled around, striking at the extended limb and diverting the path of the blade before seizing the angel by the throat. He tossed them aside, throwing them into another angel and knocking them to the ground. A third spread their wings, shimmering shapes of white light spreading out from their back like strands, and attempted to attack him from above.

Frank rolled out of the way, evading the angel who stabbed their sword into the ground. Before they had time to recover, their head was blown clean off by a point-blank blast from a hellfire-infused shotgun shell. In comparison to other Ghost Riders, Frank saw no need to morph his weapons. He didn't see the point; why change the shape of a weapon when it is as good as it is? He sensed another approaching from behind and flipped his shotgun over his shoulder, pulling the trigger without turning around. The angel fell to the ground, choking on their own blood with a large hole where their stomach should be.

Two more angels attempted to attack him from either side in a pincer maneuver. In response, Frank summoned a second shotgun into his free hand and opened fire. The opening salvos missed on account of the angels diving into the air to evade him. They flocked around in random paths, ensuring he could not simply shoot them out of the sky. When they saw a potential opening, they seized it and went straight for him, one going at him from above and the other attacking from the side. Frank frowned, realizing he would not be able to evade both attacks. He gritted his teeth and dug his heels into the ground.

The angel attacking from the side drove their blade into his shoulder. They smirked victoriously until they felt the barrel of his shotgun pressed against their stomach while the other shotgun was thrown up into the air at high velocity. The angel attacking from above gasped, but could not dodge the thrown gun in time. It smacked into their face and broke their nose, causing them to stop mid-air and clutch their face, blood leaking between their fingers.

Frank pulled the trigger. The angel did not die immediately. They stared at him in disbelief, opening and closing their mouth, unable to say a word as they slid off his body and joined their dismembered lower half on the ground next to his feet. He then turned his attention to the angel above and summoned a new weapon, a Desert Eagle. He took aim and opened fire.

A single round pierced through the angel's skull and destroyed a large chunk of their head in the process. Like a bird sniped out of the air, they fell down to Earth and into the hole he emerged out of earlier.

Frank turned his attention to the remaining angels, all looking on with mixed expressions of anger, wariness, and confusion. Some stared at the sword lodged in his shoulder. He looked down at it with a frown, dismissing his shotgun and yanking it out. The blade shivered at his touch, feeling the infernal touch of his flames and raging against them. He felt a light tingle in his hand, the result of touching holy-imbued weaponry. It was only thanks to Kazaan that he could wield it safely.

"It would seem my suspicions were correct after all," the one who sent Frank smashing through several floors said, standing at the front of the group. The angel wore the skin of a black man with a black crew-cut hairstyle and a neatly-shaven beard, wearing a simple white t-shirt, brown coat, black dress pants and loafers. "You have one of our brethren in you."

By that point, Frank's transformation was complete. The Ghost Rider wreathed in dark-violet flames glowered at the angels. "I have no brethren," Kazaan snarled.

"Once upon a time, you did," the angel said, face wrought with grief. "It's time to come home, brother."

"So that you may tear the flesh from my bones?"

"To free you from your prison. To make you whole again. What Zadkiel did to you was wrong. What Hell has done to you is abhorrent. Please, brother. I do not wish to fight you."

Frank/Kazaan summoned an RPG into his hands. "Fuck off."

He opened fire.



"You wanted to see me, sergeant?"

Even before Sgt. Forrest spoke, Frank knew what this was about. He'd been through at least four disciplinary meetings about his behavior as of late, with warnings of a discharge if a fifth was called. Maybe the higher-ups decided enough was enough after the most recent incident. Two days ago, someone called in about possible gang activity over in Queens. A protection racket took things a step too far and assaulted someone by the name of Parker. The victim was sent to the ICU ward after paramedics came and picked them up.

It hadn't taken them long to find the stupid punk. He was practically flaunting in the streets, taunting them to arrest his sorry ass. It brought Frank great satisfaction when he bashed in his nose and broke his leg.

Sgt. Forrest didn't look up from his newspaper. "Take a seat, Castle." The lieutenant nodded and sat down on the leather seat across from the sergeant. Silence reigned for a minute before Sgt. Forrest sighed heavily and folded his newspaper, throwing it onto his desk.

On the front page was the arrest from the other day, with a photograph on full display. It showed Frank rudely throwing the gangbanger into the backseat of the cruiser, said gangbanger sporting a bloody broken nose and a black eye.

"Do you have any idea how many times I've had to cover your ass, Lt. Castle?" Forrest questioned. "Fifteen. Fifteen times in the last month. Let me clarify to you, lieutenant, that I admire your zeal and passion for the job. Hell, I respect it, even. I wish half the force had your level of commitment. What I don't respect is the amount of times I've had to justify your actions to the higher-ups." The sergeant rapped his knuckles against the newspaper. "This was pushing the envelope, but this last stunt of yours with Novikov? You crossed the line."

Frank frowned. "With all due respect, sergeant, he had it coming."

Forrest's face turned red. "You broke his arm, Frank!" he yelled. "And four of his ribs! We had to call in the medics when we realized one of them pierced his lung! He could have died!"

"You should have let him. The world would have been better off."

"And we would have had a damn PR disaster on our hands!" Forrest pointed out to him. "The kind of shit we cannot afford right now! The NYPD's reputation is already in tatters thanks to Marcus' stupidity at the rally last week, and we do not need this crap right now."

The rally in question was a protest movement against Patterson Brown, a wash-out politician from New Jersey steeped in corruption and the subject of numerous scandals. The man was attempting a comeback by taking the vacant mayor seat after the unexpected death of Mayor Bloomberg. His attempts didn't go over well with the public, who rose up in arms against him and made their opinions known. Brown requested the police's help in supervising the rally and ensure there was no violence, an act that backfired when Lt. Marcus Burns attempted to subdue the rally when one of the protestors yelled something that warranted him being knocked to the ground, pinned, and handcuffed.

Exactly what the protestor had said was unclear, with too many people giving out conflicting accounts. In the end, it didn't matter. What started off as a rally-turned-protest became a nightmare that ended with seventeen people arrested and two dead, among which was a sixteen-year-old student at Beacon High School.

Three days later, Marcus was discharged. Last Frank heard he spent his days at the bottom of a bottle.

Forrest and Frank stared each other down, one furious and the other indifferent. It was a match between indomitable and stubborn wills, and neither was willing to back down. After a minute of tense silence, from Sgt. Forrest looking a hair's width away from reaching over his desk to strangle Frank's neck, the balding man sighed and slumped in his seat. He looked older, almost exhausted. Very rarely had Frank ever seen him in such a state.

"…it's been a year, Frank," Forrest Carson said somberly. "You need to let it go. The Novikov family and its head are under lock and key, each and every one facing a life sentence or death row. The people who killed your family are gone forever. You have to let this go. This… This isn't healthy."

Frank glared coldly at his friend. "And you expect me to let scum like Dimitri Andreeva just go about the rest of their days, knocking back whiskey and shooting the shit with his friends?"

"Frank…"

"When I put Dimitri in the ground, I knew it wasn't going to bring me peace. I knew it wasn't going to bring my family back. I know it wasn't what Maria or my kids would have wanted. None of that changed the fact I wanted that fucking brat dead, or that scum like him is still out there on the street." A bitter smile spread across his face. "In a sick way, I'm almost grateful. Dimitri made me realize… This department isn't doing enough."

Forrest grimaced. "That's a dangerous line of thinking, Frank. It's that kind of thinking that the higher-ups want you out." He leaned on his elbow, giving his friend a pleading look. "If you pull another stunt like this again, that's it. No more chances. They're willing to give me a little more leeway if you take time off. For both our sakes, tick off some PTO. Take a few months away from the force. Clear your mind. Because, if you keep this up…"

"You're wasting your breath and you know it, Carson," Frank said. He stood up from his seat and reached for his holster, setting both it and his badge on the desk. Forrest looked pitifully at the items before looking up at Frank. There was no hesitation in the man's eyes. Only a cold resolve. "We both know how this story ends."

"Don't do this, Frank."

"…see you around, old friend."

With that, Frank Castle left the room and the New York Police Department.



Frank flew through the air, feeling the rushing wind as he came crashing down into the city streets below and bouncing off the pavement. With a final bounce, he landed atop the front of a car, causing it to crumple and its front wheels to pop from the pressure. He heard people screaming in panic around him, but he paid them no mind. He jumped off the car with a grunt and rolled his soldiers as Kazaan's "friend" descended. In comparison to the other angels, his wings shined with a brilliant golden luster. The halo above his head glowed silver, almost resembling an elegant wreath.

"Kazaan, my brother," Uriel spoke in dismay. "How far you've fallen indeed… Have you forgotten your dignity, your pride? Has Hell tainted you so thoroughly that you threw away everything Father gave you?"

Kazaan growled indignantly, but didn't respond to his brother's provocations. They were well past the point of talking, and frankly, Frank wanted this asshole dead.

Sensing their intent, Uriel stared regretfully at the Ghost Rider. "Do not make do this, brother."

Frank/Kazaan replied with a ball of hellfire. Uriel slashed through it with a sword made of shining silver light. The halves of the fireball exploded behind him, destroying chunks of asphalt and concrete in the process. The two leaped at each other, sword clashing with a machete bearing jagged edges. Sparks flew between them, devil glaring hatefully at angel and angel staring mournfully at devil. The Ghost Rider kicked Uriel away, immediately summoning his Desert Eagle into his hand and firing a full clip.

Uriel deflected each bullet with masterful skill, like a swordsman in his prime. With the same practiced ease, Uriel closed the distance in the blink of an eye and swung his blade upward, slashing at Frank/Kazaan's arm and slicing it clean off. The Ghost Rider growled in pain, but responded in kind by swinging at Uriel's exposed side. To his chagrin and annoyance, the angel blocked it, angling his arm behind his neck, over his shoulder, and the glowing sword blocking his exposed flank. The angel twirled on his heel, gliding his blade over the machete and cutting Frank/Kazaan across the chest, then followed up with a forward thrust, driving the sword hilt-deep into his right shoulder.

He stumbled, hissing through clenched teeth in pain. Even with Kazaan's help, he felt the excruciating pain of the angel's holy weaponry. Were Kazaan still an angel, even a fallen one, perhaps he could have outright negated the damage and give his host an advantage. Sadly, in his current state, such abilities were beyond him, and his former heavenly powers diluted to the point Frank could barely imbue his weapons with trace amounts of holy energy. Not that it would do him much good against his current opponents.

The angel conjured another glowing sword into his free hand, flipping it into a reverse grip and raising it overhead. Frank/Kazaan responded by breathing hellfire in Uriel's face. The angel backed off immediately, leaping away from the flaming being as far as possible. Taking advantage of that moment, Frank/Kazaan regenerated his missing limb, clutching a grenade launcher in his newly-grown arm and opened fire. Three grenades came flying at Uriel. The angel stood his ground and shielded himself with his golden wings.

An explosion of hellfire erupted all around him. The ground was ripped apart, sending chunks of debris scattering through the air. The larger pieces smashed into the nearby buildings. The force of the blast created a shockwave powerful enough to knock over nearby cars onto their sides. Whatever hadn't been destroyed in the blast radius started to melt into black gooey tar.

A cloud of smoke and putrid flame stood where Uriel once did. For a moment, the Ghost Rider believed he won.

Then he saw glints of light within the smoke. Seconds later, three swords of light flew out from the cloud and sunk into his body like daggers.



Frank found him at the bar, just like the last time he saw him. He sat in the same stool bar, knocking back the same drink as he looked over a document of some kind. What it was, Frank didn't know or care. All he cared about was what the man had to offer.

It'd been just shortly after Frank left the force when he met the man. He was unassuming at first, just a stool neighbor focused on his work and drink than anyone else. It was only after Frank finished his drink and prepared to head back to his apartment that the man suddenly grabbed his attention.

He thought the man was crazy at first, then realized he wasn't normal. "The eyes are windows of the soul", he remembered reading in a book once upon a time. He never believed it until then, when he saw those bloody-red orbs stare at him with such fascination and naked malevolence that Frank knew this man, whoever he was, was not human. He was something else, something dangerous.

And he had the offer of a lifetime.

The red-haired gentleman looked up from his document, flashing Frank a charming smile. "I knew you'd be back, Mr. Castiglione." It irked Frank that the red-eyed man addressed him by that fucking name, much less the smug look he shamelessly had on his face.

Frank regarded him for a moment, wondering whether he should slug him and wipe that look off his face before shrugging. He sat on the barstool next to him and motioned for the bartender to make him a drink. Old Maurice knew what he wanted by now, having been coming to this bar since his family passed away.

"That job offer. Is it still open?"

"But of course. Do be aware, however, that—"

"I'll be damned to hell the second I take it. I know how this goes." The red-eyed man blinked in surprise. Frank didn't spare him so much as a glance, more focused on his drink as Maurice handed it to him.

The man he saw in the reflection was a far cry from the man Maria married so many years ago. His hair was an unkempt mess, thick dark rings under his eyes from countless sleepless nights, and a thick beard covering the lower half of his face. There was not an ounce of warmth in those dark eyes. It'd been snuffed out, replaced by a dark flame emboldened by anger and hate. Hate at the unfairness and injustice of what happened to him, and anger that his story was uncommon. How many families, how many children suffered as he did? The thought kept him up at night.

"You'll never see your family again, you know," the red-eyed man told him. "You will forever be barred from Heaven's pearly gates."

Frank downed his bourbon in a single gulp. He slammed the empty glass down and turned to the red-eyed man with a cold look.

"Where do I sign?"

The devil's words were pointless. Frank Castle was a soldier with blood on his hands. Enemy combatants, terrorist, militia, even civilians unfortunate enough to be caught in the crossfire. Innocent blood was on his hands.

There was never a chance he'd see his family again to begin with. He was damned to Hell as it stood.

So why not jump over the edge and take the plunge?



Frank fell to his knee, panting heavily. Half his face returned to being flesh, caked in sweat and blood running down the left side. He could feel Kazaan's power fading, not from overuse but out of exhaustion. He did not know how long he'd been fighting, only that the neighborhood block now looked like a warzone. All around him stood the burnt, collapsed remains of what used to be someone's home. A burning couch was up against the wall, a family portrait was in the process of turning into firewood, a TV laid broken on the ground. Near his feet was a scorched stuffed Bugs Bunny Rabbit toy.

The former soldier wearily looked up. Hovering in the air was a cadre of angels, at least twice as many as when Uriel fell upon him. Unlike the ones possessing meatsuits, however, these ones had no use for mortal coils. Their bodies were made of pure light, possessing a vague humanoid physique and strand-like wings. The only one still made of flesh was Uriel, who stood over him.

Much like Frank, the angel had been bloodied significantly. He was missing a chunk of his left side, his right arm was gone, and half his face was scarred, the flesh having melted off the bone. It was only because the meatsuit was inhabited by an angel that it could still keep going.

Frank paid no attention to Uriel. Instead, he looked at the angel leading the cadre. He couldn't see much of their face as they were clad in black armor from head to toe, but he could make out glaring red eyes through the thin visor of the helm. Unlike the cadre's white wings and Uriel's golden, the armored angel's wings were black, flowing like liquid smoke.

"End him, Uriel."

The angel stiffened. Kazaan chuckled darkly. "Zadkiel… Well, I guess this is it, then."

No chance of winning? Frank inquired.

He imagined the fallen angel shaking his head. "Sorry, buddy… But he's out of our league."

The former soldier smiled weakly. So, that's it, then…

This was almost exactly how Frank imagined he would die; not a noble sacrifice befitting the man Maria fell in love with, not the coward's way out, but at the hands of someone much stronger than him. He always assumed he'd die at the hands of a cape or another Ghost Rider, not a bunch of feathery assholes.

Uriel looked at Zadkiel pleadingly. "Zadkiel, that is—! This is our brother. Surely he can still be—"

"Kazaan is tainted. He is no longer one of us," the black-winged angel sneered. "There is no trace of him in that disgusting vessel anymore."

"But, Zadkiel…"

"Do not defy me, Uriel."

The gold-winged angel wanted to argue, opening his mouth to protest the order still, but Zadkiel's glare cowed him into submission. Uriel slowly turned back to Frank. He looked the soldier in the eye.

"…forgive me."

Frank knew he was being sincere. The apology was meant for Kazaan, and for him.

Pity from an angel. What a fucking joke.

Uriel raised his sword. The soldier raised his gun in one last act of defiance.

Francis Castiglione pulled the trigger.

Uriel brought his sword down.

BANG.

"Why can't I leave well enough alone, and go to the light?"

 

[TheStranger]

The following chapter you are about to see a side-story similar to Come Hell or High Water. While not directly tied to the main story like Alec's story, it is nonetheless part of Saints and Sinners.

 

[TheStranger]

View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZEcqHA7dbwM

David Martinez was no stranger to alcohol.

He never drank the hardcore stuff, mind you. His mother would never let him so much as have a taste of Vodka or Whiskey. It was casual stuff, cheap shit like beer. He rarely drank beer on account of the fizz. The bubbly stuff just never sat well with him. As one could imagine, his tolerance was practically dismal, hence why he and his mother rarely drank when there was something to celebrate.

Which raised the question: Why did David feel like he was hung over six ways from Sunday?

"Fffffuuuuck me…"

David groaned, sinking further into the beanbag cushion he splurged on after scoring a bonus from Doc. He felt nauseaus as hell, the world was spinning, and he was half-sure the world was in twelve different colors. Worse, every inch of his body felt like it went through ten rounds of nail-biting torture. Even when still, his body lurched in agony. His head felt no better. Something in the back of his head felt as if it were on fire.

What the hell happened, David thought groggily. God, I can barely hear myself think. Shiiit…

For the life of him, he could not remember how he got back to his and his mom's apartment, much less when he crashed. He remembered going to school, getting into another bitching match with that stuck-up Corpo cunt Katsuo, but…what happened after that? He tried to think, to focus, but the haze on his mind increased tenfold when he did.

The worst part was how hungry he felt. His stomach made noises, worse than normal. He felt like he could eat a horse and still starve.

Maybe if I just lay here awhile, give it a couple minutes, the throbbing will stop, David thought. With that in mind, he let his body sink further into the beanbag. He hoped it would swallow him whole.

Then a vid-call screeched in his ears and formed in front of his eyes. In response, his brain screeched.

"God dammit…" David hissed between clenched teeth. "Who the hell is calling me?" When he read the ID, he blinked and felt the haze over his mind clear up some. "Hospital… What? Why are they calling?"

Curious, he let the call go through. A man in medical scrubs appeared in the tiny box on the upper corner of his vision.

"David Martinez?"

"That's me," he groaned out. "What'cha want, choom?"

"Er…are you alright?"

"Ask me that in like an hour… A-anyway, what do you want?"

The doctor's voice took on the same professional, clinical 'I don't care about you except your money' tone he was used to hearing at school and from Doc on occasion. "I'm calling you to give you an update on your mother. Gloria Martinez, yes?"

"Mom?"

As if speaking the magic words, David found the pain completely shafted off to the side. He sat up straight, eyes wide.

"Yes, she's fine now. She's actually being prepped for release as we speak," the doctor told him. "Honestly, I think she has the devil's luck. A car crash plus gang violence? She's lucky to have made it out with only a concussion and minor injuries."

A million questions went through David's head. Car crash? Gang violence? He wanted to press the doctor for answers, find out what happened, but they were the furthest thing from his mind. All he could think, focus on was that his mother was in a car crash when some gun-toting assholes decided to pop off.

The doctor said something else, but he didn't hear him. The whole world was a blur for David as he all but leaped off the beanbag and sprint right out the door.

He did not notice the scorch marks around the room or overturned furniture, much less the fact that the door was torn off the track and crumbled, the handles bearing hand-shaped print half-melted into it.



David arrived at the hospital in record time. He skidded to a stop right as the doors opened and the world finally came into focus for him. His mother came out in a wheelchair with her yellow EMT jacket and medical garbs, looking none the worse for wear besides having a few scars.

"Mom!" He threw himself at her, wrapping his arms tightly around her as if afraid she would disappear.

Gloria laughed weakly as she hugged her son back. "Hey, easy there, Dee. I'm still fragile here!"

"S-sorry!" He pulled away from Gloria, unable to keep the goofy smile off his face. "I'm just glad you're okay, mom."

"Honey, I'm a Martinez. We don't break that easily," she retorted with a similar smile, though it quickly changed into one of relief. "I'm glad you're okay, honey. It must have been awful."

"Awful? What are you talkin' about?"

"Don't try and downplay what happened, David. The doctors told me everything," Gloria said. "You carried me all the way here looking like complete and total crap and told the nearest doctor to fix me or you'd turn him into bloody paste on the wall." She glared in disapproval, albeit mockingly and more amused than anything. "I thought I raised you better than that, boy."

David blinked. "I…did?"

Now it was Gloria's turn to blink. "You don't remember?"

"No, I was crashing back home and hurting like hell. Felt like I drank like ten bottles of Vodka back-to-back nonstop." David shook his head. "Nevermind that, are you sure you okay? The docs said you got into a car crash."

For some reason, Gloria was staring at him in concern. "…Dee," she began slowly. "What's the last thing you remember from yesterday?"

"I, uh, don't remember much," he admitted bashfully. "I was at school, and… I think I was going home?"

"We were. You were in the car when shit hit the fan." She leaned over and held David's hands. The young man winced at the painful reminder of how thin his mother looked. "You really don't remember what happened?"

"I… N-no. I don't."

For some reason, that scared him.



David and his mother's conversation was animated, mainly her fretting and worrying over him because of a lapse in memory. It seemed that most of David's memories that day were intact, at least up until his mother came to pick him up. Were it not for the outstanding bills, Gloria would have pawned him off to the doctors to see if he was alright. For the time being, they pushed the topic off to the side, though David expected her to lay into him when they got home. While his chrome was minimal, he had the implants needed for day-to-day life in Night City and what was required for school. Gloria would give him a check-up and see if there was a problem with his hardware.

At least, that was the plan.

"What the fuck is this?!" David yelled as he took notice of the damage to their apartment. The damage was not too severe, but the place looked thrashed to hell with scorch marks everywhere. The crumpled door off to the side was especially egregious, though he did not notice the hand imprint on the door's edge.

Gloria swore just as fiercely as she looked about the room. She made to stand up, somewhat wobbly and unsteady. David was there to catch here when it looked as though she would fall. "God dammit," she growled. "As if what happened yesterday wasn't enough." She looked at her son. "You didn't notice any of this?"

"When the docs told me you were in the hospital, I just zoned out and booked it." A thought passed through his head and face turned pale. "Y-you don't think I did this, do you?"

"I doubt that, honey. Last I checked, you can't rip doors off," Gloria assured him. "Not unless you went on got yourself some new cyberware without telling me." She gently pulled away from her son's arms. "I'd like to know what jokester thought pulling this shit was going to be funny."

Despite David's protests, Gloria insisted they work to fix their apartment. Furniture was mended to the best of their ability and returned to their proper places. During this time, Gloria was making numerous calls. She first made a report to the management about their apartment's vandalization, though they both knew it wouldn't matter much in the long run. The management were scum-sucking bastards who would listen to complaints with one ear then let it go out in the other. After that was calling work to let her know she would be taking a few days off to recover via PTO.

She went to make another phone call, stepping out to do so. David nearly went after her to make sure she didn't get hurt or worse, only stopping when he thought about how it would annoy her. He was scared for her after what happened, but he knew his mom. She was running on fumes, but even then, she was fighting. She was not frail or weak. He chose to leave her be, though it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

On the plus side, at least his mom hadn't found his stash of BDs. That was a conversation he was not looking forward to.

Speaking of BDs, I still need to get my cut from Doc, David thought wryly. Made plenty of scratch the other day.

Absent-mindedly, he made a mental note to ask Doc for any new recommendations, if only to help take the edge off.



In a more secluded part of the megabuilding, Gloria initiated a vid-call with an associate.

"Hey, Gloria!" a grizzled old face greeted her with a wide grin. "Was gettin' worried when you didn't answer my call yesterday."

"Sorry, Maine," Gloria told him. "I got involved in a fucking shitshow involving the Animals and wound up in the hospital. That's why I couldn't make the drop-off in time. Actually, that's why I'm calling." Her face grew severe. "I have some bad news."

Maine raised an eyebrow. "Somethin' happen?"

"My apartment got wrecked." The merc's eyes narrowed dangerously. "There are burn marks all over the place, and someone tore the door right out of the track. The metal's crumpled, too. For the most part, it seems like nothing was touched except…"

"…for fuck's sake. They took the Sandevistan?"

Gloria grimaced. "I'm afraid so."

"God dammit," Maine swore angrily. "I paid good money for that."

"I know, I know. I'll reimburse you for it. Full price."

"What? Fuck that shit, Gloria. You and I both know there ain't no one you can make that kinda scratch. Don't you gotta take care of your kid, first?"

"I do, but half his tuition comes from you," she insisted. "You did good by me when we ran together. The least I can do is pay you back with interest."

Maine shook his head. "You don't owe me anythin'. But, I know how goddamn stubborn you are. If you're serious 'bout paying me back, fine. But you're paying me 15,000 like we agreed. No more, no less. Got that?"

"So long as you cut back on your chrome addiction," Gloria shot back playfully. "I'm pretty sure Dorio would be pissed if her Input went crazy because he was compensating."

"You too? Seriously, what is it with the women in my life giving me shit?"

Gloria smiled.

Maine was a mercenary from her younger years, back when she was David's age. He had been in the game for a decade or two by then, with way less chrome than he had now and less hot-headed. With no home to go to and no one to rely for support, the life of an Edgerunner was the only life she had. It was dangerous, frightfully so, but she endured and survived.

It was just her and Maine at first. He was a Solo initially and let her join him because he thought she could be useful. Dorio joined a year later, having impressed Maine after clocking his lights out during their first meeting. Little did either of them know that, in doing so, Maine found the woman he'd been waiting for all his life. It did not take long for the two of them to hook up, though that was also around the time Gloria earned enough to make a new start for herself. She stayed on with Maine and Dorio for about another year before leaving on good terms.

The crew changed significantly since then. Maine now had two Netrunners under his wing, a techie with a questionable fixation on Lizzy Wizzy and his younger sister who Maine described as a gun-crazed goblin. Though nowhere near acclaimed as some other reputable Edgerunners, Maine's crew was well-known enough that some fixers requested him by name.

During that time, Gloria spent her days working to eke out the normal life she was deprived. She got a job as an EMT, working double shifts and the occasional graveyard shift. There was a time when she longed for romance and got her wish in the form of a dashing young man by the name of Carlos Martinez. He was a former Valentino, recognizable by the colorful skull tattoo on his shoulderblades and the gold cross dangling from his wrist. He never told why he left the Valentinos, save that it had something to do with a fixer by the name of Padre.

It wasn't love at first sight or anything like that. It took at least two years before they started dating. Their romance was a short one, sadly. One day, Carlos disappeared and never came back to the apartment. A detective by the name of River Ward contacted her some weeks later and informed her of Carlos' death, apparently left to rot in the badlands with a bullet lodged in the back of his head. Who killed him and why, she did not know. It hurt not knowing, and worse still when the NCPD declared Carlos' murder a cold case.

Nine months later, David was born. Her last living link to Carlos.

"If we ever have a child, I want them to have a good life," Gloria remembered her gonk saying. Back then, she never dreamed of having a child. That life seemed far off.

Wanting to honor Carlos' wishes, and genuinely wanting her son to have a better life—and never experience what she did—she worked herself to the bone to provide for the both of them. When David got accepted into Arasaka Academy, she was over the moon. She was similarly ecstatic to see him doing well in spite of the apparent trouble between him and his classmates. She was worried at first, thinking she might be pressuring him too much, but David took more after his father and was stubborn as hell. He endured and worked his way to the very top of his class.

Unfortunately, that was also around the time things started getting rough. A series of incidents forced them to move to Santo Domingo, and a transfer to the EMT branch there saw her getting scathing treatment from pretty much everyone, including the bastards paying her. She worked long hours, but the pay was almost insulting. Not helping was that the management of Megabuilding H4 being total and complete douchebags who she sorely wanted to kill. They were less human and more credit-sucking bastards. It hadn't been until around David's tenth birthday when Gloria decided to contact Maine.

She had no plans to return to her Edgerunning days. Mercs had short lifespans, and she planned to live long enough to see David enter the Arasaka workforce. It also happened that Maine was looking to get his hands on new tech as a means to strengthen himself. He was getting on in the years, and the more dangerous criminals of Night City were getting some serious chrome. Thus they sparked a deal; Maine would pay for any cyberware she klept from any poor bastard who wound up dead before the meatwagons reached them.

Her most recent acquisition was a military-grade Sandevistan she ripped from the corpse of a cyberpsycho. It was in primo condition with little damage, and any scuffs she did found could easily be fixed with a visit to a ripperdoc.

15000 credits was not much, but it was more than Gloria could ask for. She initially planned to use it for David and maybe the occasional splurge, but the car crash and its unexpected theft derailed her plans. She owed Maine a great deal, and a Martinez never went back on their word.

Still, Gloria thought as the call ended. She glanced out the window, watching the sun set with a troubled frown. How the hell did they find out about the Sandevistan?



The next day, David decided to skip school. Part of it was to look after his mom, part of it had to deal with an obnoxious call from that gonkhead Katsuo Tanaka, and the rest involved a visit to the local ripperdoc.

It took about ten seconds before David wished he had gone to school.

"Fuckin' Christ, Doc!" David yelled in disgust.

The reason for said disgust was Doc being most naked and a mechanical apparatus attached to his groin, which was in the process of making some disturbing noises. The young man had a decent idea what he walked into when he saw the BD wreath discarded nearby.

"Aw, come on," Doc cackled. "You've seen worse!"

"Not the point." David took a breath and shook his head. "I'm here about my cut for the other day."

"What, you couldn't have just called and get the eddies that way?" The ripperdoc (thankfully) turned around and removed the apparatus and pulled up his pants. "But yeah, fine. Actually, you came just in time! Got some nova XBDs yesterday."

Despite what his name implied, Doc was no ripper. Not a licensed one, anyway. There was no shortage of clients who complained of his practices, but people desperate for chrome always found their way to him. The first time David came here, he saw a woman wearing Sixth Street colors screaming as Doc ripped open her back and flayed her flesh. It was grizzly and bloody, yet the young man could not help but watch with twisted fascination and disgust.

Aside from installing cyberware, Doc also peddled in other ventures such as drugs, selling illegal cyberware to the black market, and XBDs. David was an avid fan of the latter, creating a rapport between the two. In exchange for helping sell off the XBDs, Doc would offer him a small cut. Not large sums like David hoped, but enough to go a long way in helping his mother out.

At the mention of XBDs, David felt his skin grow hot. Memories of the day before, memories of Arasaka Academy, resurfaced. Anger burned in his chest.

"That reminds me, what the hell kind of shit did you pawn off me?" David demanded. "That wreath you gave me was total shit! I nearly got expelled when I tried to interface with the new system at school!"

To David's chagrin, the ripperdoc laughed. "What did you expect? It's cheap, off-brand shit barely worth a hundred eddies. Only a moron would try and use it with Arasaka tech!"

Fingers curled into his palms. Nails threatened to break skin. David was sorely tempted to bash Doc's face in and see what color he bled.

This goddamn…

"Don't get your panties in a twist, kid," Doc snickered. "Look, I'll make it up to you. You been doin' some preem work, so I'll throw a nice bonus your way. Consider it an apology, yeah?"

"…tch. Fine, whatever. What XBD did you wanna show me, anyway?"

"Hehe~ Wait 'till you see it. It's gonna blow your fuckin' mind!" David raised an eyebrow at Doc's giddy reaction. "Your classmates at 'Saka are gonna love it. You will too, I think. It's nova and freaky."

As much as the young man wanted to deck the ripperdoc, bonus or no, he couldn't help but feel intrigued. While Doc was no connoisseur or genius when it came to XBDs, he rarely took delight in them. If he was talking it up this fiercely, it must be good.

Or fucking sick and twisted like he is, David added in the privacy and safety of his thoughts. After a moment of consideration, he shrugged. What did he have to lose besides a few minutes of his time? "Alright, fuck it. Let's see this crazy XBD."



[XBDs were something of a sick and twisted pleasure.

BD, or 'Brain Dance', was a recreational video in which a person experienced the moments of another person in real time. Every thought, every emotion, every sensation; the user felt it all as if they were there and not just experiencing something someone else felt. For the most part, BDs were used primarily for entertainment and educational purposes.

XBDs, on the other hand, were used purely for pleasure, adrenaline, and to experience what it felt like to die. 'Extreme Brain Dances', as the name implied, were illicit recordings involving explicit and inappropriate content. A gonk getting his brains blown out, a joytoy getting reamed doggystyle while cold as ice, some poor shmuck getting stripped and shredded by Scavs, and everything in between.

David, in particular, was a fan of the ones featuring death. More accurately, he enjoyed the sensation of pumpling adrenaline, experiencing the fight-or-flight instincts of someone staring death down. His personal favorites were the ones when they were looking forward to dying in a blaze of glory or piss off the guys aiming guns down their faces.

He was only five seconds into the XBD and he could already tell this one was going to the top of his list. He had no idea who it was, only that they were scared out of their fucking minds and running as fast as their legs could take them. Better yet, the poor shmuck was an Animal; one of the sons of bitches responsible for the car crash.

"What the actual fuck is that motherfucker?!" David heard one of their choombas scream.

That was the moment when something whipped across the air and snatched said choomba by the neck, yanking them hard into the air before being dragged off kicking and screaming. They heard the screams, the cries and pleas. Then came a sickening 'crunch' and something wet splatters. They did not stop, they could not afford to. If they did, whoever was chasing them would kill them.

They rounded the corner and ducked behind a nearby garbage bin. It was almost comical as David imagined the scene; a muscular, beefy gonk hiding behind a green metal trash collector, no doubt pissing themselves.

No, wait. They were pissing themselves.

The XBD became ten times as better.

More screams and shrill cries for mercy filled the air, accompanied by gunfire. The noises were quickly silenced. They clamped a hand over their mouth, daring not to let out so much as a gasp out of fear of being found. Seconds went by, dragging on for what felt like minutes. Their heart thumped loudly in their chest, racing and beating like a drum at a rockerboy's funeral performance.

They dared to poke their head out, looking to find whoever was slaughtering their chooms. There was no one and nothing there. For a moment, hope blossomed and they stepped out into the open.

Then a thick metal chain snatched them by the ankle and pulled them deeper into the alley.

"Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!" the Animal swore repeatedly and frightfully, scrambling for something to stop them for even just a second. When they found nothing, they reached for their gun, only for another chain to snatch their wrist. Finally, they were dragged before their assailant and met them face-to-face.

David felt both his and the Animal's heart synch and beat so hard he swore it would jump right out his chest. The fear intensified to the point he felt light-headed. The Animal whimpered like some frightened child, staring at the monster in front of them. He had half a mind to believe they were a cyberpsycho or going full-borg; no sane person would strip off their flesh or reshape their body to look like a flaming skeleton.

On second thought, David had to hand it to that scary bastard's ripperdoc. They did a scary good job, quickly noticing that the bone was bleached and chipped, suffering from minor scars and cracks. Bits of metal decorated the skull, which he recognized as implants. Scorching hot waves poured off his skull, courtesy of the flames surrounding it. Within the sockets were glowing red orbs, lit up like the dots on the mechanical eye replacements for certain Edgerunners and lesser mercs.

"Any last words, piggy?" the cyberpsycho growled, voice raspy and echoing across the alley.

The Animal sobbed. "M-mercy…"

David swore the jaw curved, almost as if mimicking a savage smile. A bony hand reached out and grabbed the Animal by the face. They felt the sharp, bony pricks of the fingertips sink into their skull, cutting through metal seams of synth-flesh, breaking past the skull and—]

The last sensation David felt before he lurched forward with a gasp and caked in sweat was the feeling of his brain becoming mulch.

"H-holy fuck," David panted. He clawed at his chest, gripping his shirt as if trying to stop his heart from beating out his chest. The sensations lingered like an infection. The adrenaline wasn't dying down. "That was… That was…"

"Preem shit, right?" Doc sneered across from him, taking a puff from an inhaler. He saw the lights on his optic helmet flicker for a moment before settling back into their dull blue glow. "It's unedited, too. Pure and clean."

David swallowed a lump of saliva stuck in his throat. "What kind of cyberware did that creepy asshole have? H-how do you survive scraping off all that skin and muscle?"

"Dunno. Whoever that sick fuck is, he's gotta have one hell of a ripperdoc. I'm thinking 'Saka grade shit. Top shelf, the best money can buy," Doc chuckled. "This beauty came in hot couple two days ago."

Two days ago? Wasn't that when… No, it couldn't be. It was just coincidence.

"Whaddya say, Davey?" Despite knowing his answer, Doc leaned in with that same slimy smile. "Feel up for spreading the love? If you break even, I'll give ya another bonus. From one twisted fuck to another, yeah?"

"…throw in a better wreath, and we'll talk."

"Tch. You're lucky I like you, kid. But fine…"



David returned home to find Gloria arguing with someone.

"I already told you, I'll get you the money! I always pay on time, don't I? What? Wait, what? Are you kidding me? You can't expect me to pay that! This is fucking extortion, you son of a bitch!"

Management, David guessed with a frown. From his mother's words alone, he could tell they were trying to fleece her for more money.

"You know what, motherfuckers? You want to kick us out that bad? Why don'tcha come down here and drag us out yourselves! I'll glady pay the money then—with fucking lead!" The glow faded, indicating the call ended. Gloria scowled furiously, shoulders shaking in rage. "Eddie-sucking cunts…"

"You, uh, okay, mom?" David asked out of concern. This was hardly the first time he saw her so angry, but it was the first time he saw her shaking. He could not tell if it was her injuries or a testament to how badly management pissed her off so badly.

Gloria didn't respond at first. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then exhaled. The tension bled away. "I'm fine, Dee," she told him with a strained smile. "Don't worry about it, alright?"

"I'm your son. I can't help but worry." A thought came to mind. It was unpleasant and hardly the first time it passed by his brain, but David considered it one more than one occasion. Now more than ever. "If it gets too bad, I could always drop out and…"

Gloria shut him down almost immediately. "No way," she said firmly. "David, you've worked way too hard to stop here."

"I know, but you've been workin' yourself to the bone." Meanwhile, here I am, selling XBDs to those stuck up Corpo assholes and doin' nothing else with my life, David thought bitterly. He wisely kept such words in his thoughts rather than speak them in front of his mother. "Some days, I see you coming home stumbling in looking like a corpse. I can't help but worry, you know?"

"I know, sweetie. I'm fine, don't you worry. Remember what I said?"

He nodded. "We're Martinez. We don't break easily."

"Bingo," Gloria grinned. "I'm tougher than I look, Dee. I appreciate you looking out for me, though. Whoever marries you is going to be one lucky girl."

"Wha—mom!" Heat rushed to David's cheeks. This, of course, made Gloria laugh. In spite of his embarrassment, David knew his mother was deflecting. She was taking time off work, but he was no idiot. She was going to work herself into an early grave at this right.

And it'll be my fault.

A steel resolve began to form in David. No, he would not let that happen. He nearly lost his mother once, and he would be damned if he lost her again. He wouldn't drop out of the academy, not yet. If circumstances demanded it, he would do just that. It was fine if his mother was disappointed with him, just so long as he could help her in any way. Selling XBDs to rich snobs wasn't going to cut it anymore.

He needed something else, something that would earn him lots of eddies.

Looks like I'll be hitting the streets, he thought to himself as he helped Gloria make dinner. I'm pretty quick on my feet. There's gotta be at least a gonk or two carrying around some iron worth somethin'…



"Hey, Lucy. Come check this out."

The pale-haired girl blinked, her focus broken by Rebecca's voice. She had been scrolling through the shard she got from Kiwi—a data packet regarding their next gig—though it was light reading more than anything. She looked over, finding the shotgun-loving girl on the couch with her gonk brother watching TV. Plastered all over the screen was the latest news.

"Hot damn, look at that," Pilar marveled as the news showed off what looked like the most expensive and outlandish bioscuplt project she saw laid waste to a gang of Animals prowling the streets of Santo Domingo. "Gonk's got some crazy sense, but I'd sure love to meet his ripperdoc. What'cha thinkin', sis? 'Saka grade shit?"

"I'm more interested in where the hell he got those chains," Rebecca answered. There was no mistaking the sheer awe in her eyes. "And what kind of software he's runnin'. Ooh, fuck! Did you fucking see that! Hahaha! That poor shmuck's head popped like a grape! This asshole's amazing!"

Lucy rolled her eyes. What a bunch of gonks, she thought to herself. The cyberpsycho wreaking havoc was interesting, sure, but only because of their appearance. They must have cost a fortune to get that appearance right, much less whatever cyberware they had installed. As it stood, though, they weren't anything special so she paid it no mind.

She idly noted her throat was dry and went to the fridge to grab a bottle of NiCola. Just then, Dorio entered the room with her iron slung over her shoulder. "Yo," the beefy woman greeted with a nod. Lucy nodded back. "Kiwi back yet?"

"Nope, still running errands with Falco," she shrugged. "What's up? Is it about the gig?"

Dorio shook her head. "Maine has a favor to ask her. You know Gloria Martinez, right?"

"The one who was supposed to drop off the Sandevistan Maine paid for up front, right?" Lucy recalled. "You and Maine mentioned her a few times. She Maine's supplier for chrome?"

"Eh, sort of. She used to run with us years ago," Dorio explained. "Used the eddies she earned to start a new life for herself. Now she's a single mom working her ass off to provide for her kid, hence the chrome deal." The woman grimaced. "Which is why I'm asking for Kiwi. Turns out somebody broke into the Martinez's apartment and klept the Sandy while Gloria was in the hospital."

Lucy understood what Dorio was asking. "You want her to see if she can find out who stole it?" She nodded. Lucy hummed. "I'll give her a call and let her know."

"Thanks a bunch." Dorio smiled in gratitude, then went to join Pilar and Rebecca by the sofa. "Whoa, holy shit! What's up with the freakshow?"

"I know, right?! He looks like he came straight out of a Samurai album!"

Might as well head out for the day, Lucy thought. Nothing better to do around here anyway. Should be plenty of gonks to nick some credits in NCART this time of day.



Despite David's initial hopes, Arasaka Academy hadn't changed in the slightest. Teachers were still assholes watching him like a hawk because of what happened a few days ago, corpo brats were taking potshots at his expense, and Katsuo…

Well, thankfully, David hadn't seen Katsuo at all today. Small miracles, he supposed.

Classes were still boring as ever. Honestly, he wished he was anywhere but here. The corpo brats he could deal with, the teachers less so right now. Even so, being in school gave him time to think and rationalize. Namely, the stupidity of his plan to klept from people out on the street.

In any other place, his plan would've been fine. And that was the problem. He was in Night City, a shithole of epic proportions where scum and criminals of the worst kinds ruled. There was no telling who was carrying hardcore chrome until you were face-down in the dirt with a boot on your neck or there were Mantis Blades poking out through your back. Anyone walking in the street could be an Edgerunner or some kind of nutjob packing serious heat. If he tried to nick something off them, odds were he'd be dead before he realized it. Not unless he had some chrome himself.

In Night City, chrome was everything. Mantis Blades and Monowire could cut through anyone unlucky enough to be on the receiving end, Gorilla Arms could turn someone's head into bloody paste, Sandevistan made you into a speedy superhuman, and so on. It was a necessity, an advantage everyone wanted when dealing with the day-to-day crimes and affairs.

Last thing I want is to get zeroed by a cyberpsycho walkin' the streets, David thought to himself as he went to the washroom. But I still need lots of eddies. Maybe do some odd jobs? Courier shit? Agh, I really should look this stuff up.

A quick motion of his hand and the sink flowed with water. David leaned down, cupping the stream in his hands and forming a pool before splashing it across his face. He repeated this four times until he felt trickles dripping onto the collar of his shirt. He pulled away and—

David leaped away from the sink and stared at his reflection in shock and horror.

A skull marked with chrome and fire stared back. The same skeletal borg he saw in the XBD. It mimicked his every motions, from leaping away from the sink to looking on in horror.

"What…in the hell…?"

W A K E

U P

David hissed, nearly falling to his knees as his whole body suddenly erupted with pain. Every morsel, every pour, every single cell in his body was screaming. Traces of red static outlined his vision. A dull, aching throb formed in the back of his head. His body felt hot. His stomach churned, threatening to flip over and expel its contents across the floor. Hate, so much hate, so thick and vile it bombarded his nostrils to the point the throbbing grew worse. The world was spinning. His vision flickered and swam, the static growing worse.

He—

"Well, look what the trash dragged in! How are you doing, Martinez?"

The feeling passed as quickly as it happened. David blinked, staring at a Latino wearing his face in his reflection, the world as it should be before turning to see the absolute last person he wanted to see. Katsuo Tanaka stood there with that stupid smug grin, hands in his pockets. His hanger-ons were nowhere to be found.

David stared at Katsuo, still blinking in confusion. He looked back at the mirror, only to find that it dulled and shut down as it was no longer in use. He could still feel the searing heat from before, just below the surface of his skin. The throbbing pain in his head dulled, though it was no less agonizing. Looking at Katsuo stirred up feelings of anger, far more potent than usual. David often dreamed of scenarios where he put the smug brat in his place, but it was all mere fantasy.

It took some serious self-restraint to resist the urge to beat his face bloody.

David clenched his teeth, reigning his temper. "The hell you want, choom?" he asked tersely.

"What, I can't say hello?" Katsuo sneered before laughing. "No, you're right. That was a bad joke. I heard what happened to your mom. Must have been really fucked up, getting caught up with the Animals, am I right?"

Where the hell did he hear about that? David gritted his teeth. There was no way what happened on the street made the news. Did one of his classmates see what happened?

"I'm surprised you had the eddies to afford getting her actual treatment in this shithole," Katsuo continued, his tone growing more and more mocking. "I mean, considering you're just gutter trash and all. You've been coasting by because dear old mom has been working herself to the bone, yeah? Honestly, I don't really see the point why you should have bothered. Way I heard it, she's already a foot in the grave. So many hours, slaving away in a dead end job…"

His heart hammered in his ears. "The fuck are you getting at, Tanaka?"

Katsuo's smile was full of teeth as he leaned in. "I'm saying…she was better off dead. So would you, for that matter. You don't belong here, Martinez." He patted David in the shoulder and walked past, his hands moving toward his belt.

Something in David snapped. His vision turned red.

He whirled around, seized Katsuo by the shoulder, and rammed his fist into his face. The blow threw the corpo brat to the floor, colliding with the wall. Blood spewed from his mouth and nose. "Yhou mothfhuk—"

David punched him again, throwing him face-down into the tiled floor. He grabbed Katsuo by the collar of his shirt, pulling him back up, and punched him again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again…



Lucy hummed to herself, feet tapping along to the beat of the music playing onboard the NCART. It was one of Kerry Eurodyne's older songs, all the way from his days with Samurai and Johnny Silverhand. She was never a big fan of his music, but even she could admit he made something that brightened her day if only for a while.

Got the chrome in my bloodstream
Got a hardwired metal soul
I'm craving serious action
That smack, drag drunken roll

Chips are bashin' in my top
Ridin' high, my slots are shot
Metal burnin' beneath my skin
I'm chippin' in, chippin' in

"Tch," someone in the compartment snorted distastefully. "Silverhand sung it better. Fuckin' corpo sellout."

"The fuck you say?" another growled, reaching for his iron.

Lucy rolled her eyes. "Men," she muttered under her breath.

Her haul was fairly average, which was mildly disappointing. While she wasn't strapping for eddies at the moment, she would never say no to more money. Money made the world go around, it paid the bills, and it went a long way for her dream. Like her mentor, Lucy did not care for Night City and made plans to leave it behind once she made enough scratch. People came to this city for the opportunity of making a better life, not realizing the muck and death that swallowed everyone the moment they set foot on its streets. She had no fond memories to this place, much less happy memories. Lucy could not recall the last time she had a happy memory.

Most people in her position would save up money to ditch town, go elsewhere, or join up with a Nomad clan. Lucy had somewhat grander ambitions. She wanted to go to a place where few people could follow her. A place she longed to reach since her days in Arasaka. Some would call her hopeless or foolish for wanting to go to the moon, but that was fine. She did not care what people thought of her dream. All that mattered was getting there.

There was no telling what sort of life waited for her on the moon, but it was better than Night City. Anything was better than Night City.

We keep this up, and I'll make enough to leave by next year, Lucy thought to herself. One more year. Just one more year…

She wasn't optimistic, of course. Being realistic made you live longer, and in a city as vile and corrupt as Night City, it was downright crucial. Anything could go wrong; one misstep, and that was all she wrote. Another major hurdle, and perhaps the most annoying of all, was their Fixer. It did not take a genius to realize Faraday was bad news, not to mention the worst kind of scum. She looked him up after it was clear how he viewed Maine and the others. He had a mid-collar background with connections to Militech, fancied himself as someone destined for bigger things. He wanted to join the ranks of the social elite, of the corporations.

The jobs were atrocious, and somehow the bastard always found ways to deny them a worthwhile bonus, even when they did the job down to the letter. Maine despised him, that was no secret, and it was also no secret that he was looking to branch out to other fixers and get better jobs for them. Lucy hoped he'd follow through when she saw the writing on the wall. If they continued to work with Faraday, bad things were going to happen.

Speaking of Maine…

Lucy frowned as her thoughts drifted to her boss. While she did not have a high opinion of Maine, he was at the very least competent and looked after his own. He made sure everyone got their fair cut, which she was grateful for since it helped her as well. He wasn't without problems, however. She saw him skimping out on taking meds, adding on new chrome when he was just getting used to the ones he had installed not long ago, occasionally blew a gasket every now and then. She saw the signs, and it worried her.

She did not want to deal with a cyberpsycho, and if she were honest, she didn't want to see what it would do to Dorio. Their relationship was one of the best things Lucy saw, and she didn't want to see it ruined because of Maine's stupidity. On the subject of chrome, Lucy recalled Dorio's words about the missing Sandevistan he purchased. Out of idle curiosity, she looked up Gloria Martinez to see if she was trustworthy despite what Dorio said about her. So far, everything seemed clean. She worked as a medtech officer, was a single mom, and her kid was enrolled at Arasaka Academy. She briefly glanced through his records just to cover her bases, but found nothing out of the ordinary. She did like how some Santo Domingo kid from the streets outperformed the Arasaka dimwits, though.

Justice called heavy violence
Gonna boost and hit the street
Corporate getting' violent droves
Made of greed and packin' heat

Cold chrome, spent molten lead
Can't be killed 'cause I'm already dead
Stand, don't feed the ghost within
I'm chippin' in, chippin' in

The NCART rattled as another train shot past. Lucy glanced at the two gonks arguing about who sung Chippin' In better, both men looking ready to blow each others' brains out and decorate the NCART in red. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted something interesting.

It was a kid, maybe sixteen or seventeen. He looked Latino judging by his features, a little on the cute and adorable side if not for the blood splatters along his cheek, chin, and neck. He was an Arasaka kid by the looks of it, recognizing the uniform anywhere. Like his face, it was also covered in blood. His left hand was stained with the stuff, albeit long dried by then.

What the hell happened to him? Lucy stared a while longer, noticing the defeated, almost dismayed expression on the kid's face. He was wringing his hands, rubbing his thumb against his blood-crusted hand as if trying to remove the stains. His hand was so raw she saw scratches and drips of blood each time he rubbed. Must have gotten into one hell of a fight.

It was hardly surprising. Arasaka Academy put the kids through their paces, weeding out the fit from the weak and all that crap. They primarily employed stress tests, pressuring their students to perform at their absolute best. It was not unheard of for the weak-minded to snap and go apeshit, though that usually resulted in expulsion or a visit from Arasaka Academy security. At that point, you were either dead in a ditch or wished you were dead.

Ordinarily, Lucy would consider him an easy mark. With how he was, he wouldn't notice if someone klept him. Something about him made her pause, however. It was the look in his eyes. They reminded her of…darker times. Of faces she swore never to forget.

Her legs started moving before her brain caught up with her. "Hey, kid. You okay?"

Oh, what the hell are you doing, Lucy, she chided herself for her stupidity. The damage was done, however, as the kid looked up. He blinked a few times, staring at her in surprise. He stared a while longer before finally answering, sounding completely and utterly subdued.

"…does it look like I'm okay?"

"Frankly, you look like shit," Lucy said. "Let me guess, washed out hardcore?"

"How can you tell?"

"You're wearing an Arasaka Academy uniform, and you got blood on you. Usually that means you snapped at school," she pointed out to him.

The kid smiled mirthlessly, staring at the metal floor. "I didn't mean to kill him."

Lucy winced. This kid was fucked six ways from Sunday, and that was if he was lucky. Beating the shit out of a fellow student was one thing, especially if they were a corpo kid, but killing them? On school grounds no less? It would not surprise her in the least if media outlets started talking about how some streetkid in Arasaka Academy went cyberpsycho at school.

"I don't know what happened. One moment I feel like I'm going to throw up, the next I felt…angry. At everything. Like I wanted to burn down the whole fucking world a la Silverhand style. Then that fucking gonk showed up and starting shit and…" His face scrunched up. She saw tears in the corner of his eyes. "I'm a fucking gonk. God dammit. I screwed everything up."

"You're still alive," Lucy pointed out to him. "I'd say you still have a chance."

"The hell I do," the kid retorted angrily. "I promised mom I'd go all the way to the top. I promised, dammit." He gritted his teeth, his anger building up to the point where he was struggling to get coherent words out. Shaky hands balled into fists, no longer caring of the dried blood.

Lucy wouldn't care all that much were it not for the fact she felt something else from the kid's breakdown. His anger was…broiling. Intense, primal almost. It rolled off him in waves. The NCART felt warmer.

After a minute, the kid calmed down. His anger abated, but now sported the most miserable-looking face Lucy ever saw. He looked like a kicked puppy. "…mom is going to be so fucking pissed."

"You care a lot about her, don't you?" Lucy noted somberly, thinking about how her life could have been if she had parents. She knew next to nothing about them and the people in charge of looking after her flat out said they couldn't care less who they were. In that respect, part of her felt envious of the kid.

His smile became a smidge brighter. "She's all I've got. Worked her ass to the bone to get me into school." His smile died and turned bitter. "And thanks to my fucking dumb ass, all that hard work's gone down the drain." The kid sighed, reclining back in his seat while dragging his clean hand down his face. He looked tired, older even. He looked at her wryly. "Sorry. I didn't mean to bitch at you, er…"

"It's fine," Lucy shrugged. "The name's Lucy. You got a name, kid?"

"David," the boy answered. "David Martinez."

Lucy froze. A single thought came to her mind, just as she heard a commotion erupt from the train car behind them.

Fuck.



Yorinobu Arasaka stared at his reflection. In it, he saw a well-groomed man well into his years. Not an aging fossil like Saburo Arasaka, his father and Arasaka family patriarch, but he was getting old nonetheless. Youth treatments and supplements slowed the process, but he saw the beginnings of wrinkles along his skin, tiny strands of silver-gray in his swept-back hair. He appeared respectable, wore a countenance that demanded respect from lesser-born people around him, and had a wealthy upbringing.

This was the face Yorinobu despised with all his heart. The face of a hypocrite, of a man who damned his own soul to achieve his goal—no, his mission. Every day, Yorinobu would look at this face and glare at it, imagine the ways he could be rid of it, kill it even. He loathed the man in his reflection, for it reminded him of what he had done and what he would have to do to see this mission through. There had been a time when the man in the mirror had been a genuinely good man. A man who could change the world by fighting back against the silver dragon who birthed him.

In another world, Yorinobu thought, he would have been that man. A world where cybernetics were a daydream and corporations had no power. That was not his world. Worse, the genuinely good man fought and bled in the Red. The Red was a hellish time. Even now, when he closed his eyes, he could remember the crimson-tinged sky and the repugnant smell that tainted the air. Those were the years Yorinobu of the Steel Dragons fought against Arasaka, fighting together with Rockerboys, Solos, and even Netrunners who all had a bone to pick with the Japanese multi-national juggernaut. Yorinobu of the Steel Dragons gave up all that he was to fight. He abandoned the Arasaka name, his blood ties, all that his precious okaa-san gave him to kill the silver dragon.

It was during the Red and those days that Yorinobu of the Steel Dragons met a man who wore charisma and perfected the art of being a fucking asshole. Johnny fucking Silverhand. He was not just a Rockerboy; he was the Rockerboy. Samurai was the name on everyone's lips, and Silverhand was always front and center. His every word was vitrol and curses against Arasaka, at the corporations who had their boots on people's necks. His every action was treason and heresy of corporate gods. By the end of his career, Johnny Silverhand was the posterboy of rebellion.

And look where that ended, Yorinobu thought bitterly.

People still adored Silverhand and his teachings, his music, but that was it. They had long since forgotten his gospel and message. Instead, they saw the silver-armed monster who destroyed Night City fifty years ago. A nuke leveled the whole city, brought it down to its knees and then some. Yorinobu of the Steel Dragons wept when he heard what happened, saw images of the devastation Silverhand left behind in his dogged vendetta against Arasaka. The corporation took his output; a talented netrunner by the name of Cunningham. He did not know the specifics, but the poor girl died. Silverhand wanted payback. More than that, he wanted blood.

Yorinobu of the Steel Dragons loathed and despised the silver-armed demon then. There were lines people could not cross, and Silverhand jumped over it laughing. He could not fathom how he could waste so many lives. It would not be until he heard of his brother's passing that the charismatic prodigal son stared at the horizon, saw the silver dragon for what it was, and made a decision.

Yorinobu Arasaka killed Yorinobu of the Steel Dragons, snapping his neck and burying him in a shallow grave. He returned to the family he abandoned, bowed his head and exposed his neck for a blade to pass judgment, and kneeled before his patriarch. He half-expected Saburo Arasaka to kill him for his betrayal and for Hanako to condemn him. Instead, Saburo stayed his hand. Hanako still loved him despite his past. The prodigal son returned with a new outlook.

The wayward son closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose. He let the tension bleed from his shoulders, relaxing his white-knuckled grip on the sink before stepping away. The mirror dulled and faded, no longer in use. He stepped out of the bathroom and entered his penthouse suite, intending to dull the nerves with a bottle of wine. The "good shit" as Silverhand proclaimed it was hard to find, but not for an Arasaka. Credits and a feared reputation could get you places, something his younger self failed to realize. The bottle waited for him atop the kitchen table, begging to be opened and consumed.

Once more, Yorinobu thought about Silverhand. Before, he thought him a deranged madman out to set the world on fire if it meant it would destroy Arasaka. Now, he wondered if his associate may have had a point. Regular methods wouldn't work against his family. Nothing short of total warfare would so much as make a dent. While he still couldn't bring himself to fully approve of what he did to Night City, Yorinobu found a new level of respect for Silverhand. Even if he was a raging asshole. It was that very same respect that led Yorinobu to his latest endeavor.

The "Secure Your Soul" program was to be Saburo Arasaka's magnum opus. With Soulkiller, he found a way to capture the heart and soul, digitize it, and turn it into an engram. In a way, it was a form of immortality. The project was far from completion as there were two things still yet to be studied before it could go forward; the engram itself and the compatibility of its prospective body. The engram required a body with a matching genetic phenotype, otherwise it would simply reject it. Arasaka had no shortage of test subjects, but their preferred guinea pig was patient zero. The origin.

Johnny Silverhand.

Contrary to what the public believed, Silverhand did not die in his blaze of glory. It would have been a far kinder fate than what Arasaka subjected him to. They used Soulkiller on him, dragged his soul kicking and screaming out of his body, and dumped his lifeless corpse somewhere in the oil fields outside the ruined remains of Night City. Despite how he felt about his associate, Yorinobu pitied Silverhand. No man should have suffered such indignities. He should have died like a man.

Anders Hellman, some cowardly fool who folded under pressure, was quite forthcoming in the details. They were very close to completing a prototype chip containing an engram, meant to be used as a testing run. The prototype was to contain Silverhand's engram, as if to kill him hundreds of times for their own benefit. Once more, Yorinobu pitied what became of his associate. With subtle blackmail and pressure, Yorinobu joined the project was a beneficiary, although the truth was that he was going to give the prototype chip to a NetWatch Operations Manager by the name of Ronald Cheever, a co-conspirator to an extent.

It was Yorinobu's hope that giving the prototype to NetWatch would benefit him in the long run, and the hope that, by some small chance, Silverhand could assist him. They got along like oil and water even during the best of times, but rage and revenge were powerful motivators. Yorinobu had no doubt Silverhand was chomping at the bit for a chance to strike back against Arasaka. If anyone would be willing to help him succeed in this endeavor, it was him. Of course, there was also the possibility that Silverhand would not be so cooperative.

What would you say if you saw me now, Silverhand? Would you see a comrade? A traitor to the cause?

Yorinobu snorted as he unscrewed the wine bottle's cork, already imagining the vulgarity Silverhand might spew at him were they to meet now. Just as he removed the cork and poured himself a glass, he received a holo-call. The caller ID made him tense.

Reluctantly and dreadfully, he answered the call.

"What do you want, old man?" Yorinobu spoke calmly and evenly in spite of his words, ignoring the blood dripping from his fingers as he dug his fingernails into his palms. "I thought you made it explicitly clear we were to never speak again unless Hanako hosted a dinner party."

The silver dragon's expression was as cold as it was impassive. The fossil, as always, spoke in their native language. "That you ask what this call is about is proof your ignorance, my son," he chided, making Yorinobu frown. It was rare for the patriarch to speak in such a manner, as was the look in his eyes. There was apprehension. Fear, almost. "Counter-Intelligence contacted me regarding a certain…development, in Night City. A ghost from the past has sent us a message."

"What kind of message?"

Saburo Arasaka did not answer with words. Instead, the Emperor showed his prodigal son an image. As he said, it was a message. Not just any message, either. It was taken from within the Net itself, showing the ever-changing structure of the Blackwall.

Few things could terrify Yorinobu. What he saw did not instill fear or dread.

It terrified him.

A vivid memory came to him, of when Yorinobu of the Steel Dragons met a man more vicious and destructive than even Silverhand until Night City. Of the gashadokuro as he left behind a trail of fire, destruction, and screaming men. Of the Yama who descended upon the Earth to judge humanity and cast them into the fiery pits of Hell. He remembered the Night City Pyre.

"Not possible," Yorinobu hissed fearfully, digging his nails further into his palms. His knuckles bathed in his blood. "Not possible…"

Seared into the Blackwall with black-and-red fire was nothing short of a declaration of war.

I


R I D E


A G A I N​

 

[TheStranger]

Friendly reminder that this story has a TV Tropes page. For some ungodly reason.

https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Fanfic/SaintsAndSinners

 

[ChaosStar0]

Lot of updates in rapid succession. Nice.

 

[Yoyomir]

that was alot to read in so short a time thank you for posting