Disclaimer
I do not lay claim to any of the characters portrayed in this fanfic which are not of my own design, Ghost Rider, Spawn, John Constantine and The Punisher and all related characters are the exclusive property of their registered owners, any original character however is my sole property and should not be reproduced without permission.
Okay then, here we are again readers, this, as you may well have guessed is my vision of the Marvel team The Midnight Sons, this fic is set in a hybrid universe where the characters from Marvel, DC and Image all exist within the same universe, if you've ever read an Amalgam comic its kinda like that with no character blending
I'm probably going to get slated for this, but on the other hand someones probably going to comment on how awesome it is to have Ghost Rider and Spawn in the same room (But that'll have to wait for a chapter or two, sorry sports fans :P) possibly going at each other's throats with chains. Anyway I envisioned this plot after watching the GR movie and teh Spawn series far too much, yes there is a plot, but you have to wait to Chap 2 for a taste of it.
I've rated this R for the inherent and brutal violence lent to this fic by having four of the biggest badasses in the world as lead characters.
The Midnight Sons
Part One : Act One
The Rider
The Texan highway was quiet, in the darkness only the sound of a single engine could be heard, a single gleaming silver sports car zipped down the highways. "I didn't mean to." A voice muttered inside, a young man sat in the driver's seat, he wore an expensive suit and many signet rings on both hands, a diamond encrusted watch flashed in the dim light winking back at him from the headlights every time he shifted his grip on the wheel. "It was an accident." Next to him sat a young woman, black, scantily clad, wearing an assortment of jewellery and with a stab wound just above her left kidney. "I didn't... I didn't..."
The young woman's head lolled weakly this way and that, she groaned in pain, her eyes roved aimlessly. She spoke weakly, in little more than a whisper as life ebbed away from her, "Jimmy... Hospital..." Death was snapping at her heels, tailing just behind the silver sports car.
"N-- no." The young man, 'Jimmy' responded, "Can't-- no one can find out." His eyes zipped constantly from the woman and back to the road, "Oh God, there's blood everywhere. Oh shit!" Ahead he spotted a single headlight, "Oh God, oh God!" He drove onward, it seemed as if the bike had been abandoned. Just left out there, then a figure strode into the road, clad all in biker leathers, his face pale and his features sunken, he simply stared as the car swept forward, his hand outstretched, pointing a finger right at Jimmy. The young man put his foot down, ramming into the other man and sending him sprawling over the top of the car, knocking the bike over as he passed. Screeching to a stop, his hand's still soaked in blood he exited the car and looked backward, nothing, the man, the bike, both gone, his finger scrambled in his pocket for the blood soaked corkscrew, the stainless steel winking at him in the dark.
A scream sounded, seemingly in the distance, but not a human scream, a hellish, depraved howling which heralded the coming of something fundamentally... unnatural. The howling rose into a vicious laugh, one that delighted in reaping judgement on the worst of humanity. Footsteps sounded on the road, slow and steady, with a continuous beat, like a metronome and then, striding out of the darkness, it came. A flame burst into existence, framing a pale white skull, who's hollow eyes were fixed hard on their prey. The creature raised it arm which was swathed in biker leathers, "You." It growled deep from the throat, though truly it had none. It's finger outstretched and fixed on Jimmy with a finality which resounded throughout that barren wasteland. "Guilty."
The youth rushed forward, stabbing wildly at the leather clad chest of his pursuer, but as he finally stepped back after what seemed like an eternity of fevered attack his 'victim' was still standing. The youth looked at his weapon which had melted almost entirely, the molten steel dripped slowly down his hand, scolding it horribly, he threw the offending weapon away and stumbled backward landing on his backside. He could not understand, other people wouldn't stand such and attack, other people fell and bled and died, but perhaps this thing, this demon, was not a person at all. The creature stooped low, grabbing Jimmy by the collar and hoisting him up so they stared each other face to face. "Look into my eyes." He growled.
Suddenly Jimmy was lying down, in a soft bed, a face slid into view, it was his own, grinning sickeningly and holding a fluffed feather pillow, he raised his hands to defend himself from this apparition, but his hands were not his own, but his Grandfather's, the pillow came down, plunging him into darkness, restricting his breath, he screamed and thrashed his legs but soon, he was dead. Then again just as quick he sat across from himself at a poker table, his other self yelled something inaudible and pushed the table aside, brandishing a firearm and slugging Jimmy thrice in the chest, he fell in a pool of his own blood, which was as before, not his own.
Bewildered he saw the monster's face through the darkness which descended upon him, "You're soul is stained by the blood of the innocent. Feel their pain." Finally he stood not three feet from himself on that same fateful night, the 'other him' brandished the stainless steel weapon and thrust it at his furiously, stabbing just above his kidney, he felt chains all around him, dragging him down, down, down, finally he saw his own face, which mocked him and laughed at him and as the skin melted away he saw his true enemy, he saw the Ghost Rider.
Ghost Rider flung the now shell shocked and tortured soul he held aloft away toward the car, he slammed hard into it's back end, his spine curving agonisingly backward on itself as he lay sprawled across the roof and boot. Chains sprang toward him, wrapping around his wrists, pinning his in place, pinning him as if he were crucified upon his own car. The Ghost Rider strode past, toward his hellish motorcycle which waited for him like an obedient pet. Stopping suddenly as he passed he wheeled around, tearing the passenger door clear off and jabbing his finger toward the dying woman. "You... Innocent." A flash of fire ran from his fingertip, scorching the wound shut as the unfortunate victim descended into the depths of unconsciousness. Leaning forward he took the woman up in his arms and carried her over to his waiting cycle and then departed.
Next Morning
09:15am
Johnny Blaze, the hell spawned Spirit of Vengeance on Earth was at present leaning over a kitchen counter and waiting somewhat impatiently for his coffee pot to boil. A high pitched whistle alerted him that all was ready and also awakened the young woman lying on his couch, she stirred groggily at first and then opened her eyes. "Easy." Johnny said in his thick Texan accent, "You had yourself a rough night." The curtains were only half open and the lights were off but he could see her eyes clearly, squinting at him in the half light, "How does a little flower end up in the middle of the Desert, next to a highway no less?"
The woman sat up, propping herself against the couch's arm rest, "Uh, I-- don't... know."
"Can you at least gimmie a name to go with that face them Ma'am?" Johnny asked, his back turned on her as he poured two cups of coffee out, walking swiftly over and offering her one, "Just a little somethin' to brighten you up." He told her. She took the cup in both hands and Johnny sat sown against the wall nearby, taking a mouthful he continued.
After a long pause the woman took a small sip of her own coffee before speaking, "I'm Angie." She answered.
"Nice to meet you Angie," The Rider replied, taking another gulp of coffee, "I'm Johnny."
Act Two
The Hellspawn
The alleyways hide many faces, the faces which humanity does not like to see, the faces we do not acknowledge, those we do not dignify by accepting their existence. One such man is not only homeless, but arguably soulless. Sometimes he feels nothing, with his crimson cloak shrouding him from the rest of the world he is often content to let the river of humans which form his home's vast populace to simply pass him by. His name was once Al Simmons, now he is known by many names, but most simply call him Spawn. These alleyways, these dead ends are all his, he doesn't appreciate visitors. Tonight was one night in which he did not concede to wallow in his own misery, if he would have done he had miseries aplenty to brood over. He clutched the edge of the roof, crouched low, his cape billowing about him like a great crimson cloud, the shroud hung over the street like the hand of death.
A boy had been taken from Rat City, by a deranged pair of men who had seen fit to uptake some 'cleansing.' What Spawn had arrived to see was a massacre, twelve of those faceless, nameless people who he felt so akin to, blown away by these decadent fanatics. Spawn was not best pleased, needless to say. But it is important to note that when Spawn got angry, people tended to vanish. He could feel them, they were close, the boy's fear shone out at him like a Sun in the abyss, beneath his cloak his chains clanked noisily together, they were hungry it seemed, hungry for blood.
He saw his prey crossing the street, breaking cover from an alley in order to slink into another, like frightened sheep, as though they knew what was hunting them. They rushed into the alley, the boy in tow, stopping just beyond the threshold to catch their breaths. "Let's just do the little punk now and get the hell out of here!" One of them suggested, taking this as his cue, Spawn leapt from the building's edge, landing in a crouch in the alley's threshold and cracking the pavement around him. Straightening up he was silhouetted in the rising sun, looking like a modern day Count Dracula, his cloak cast about him, hiding the horror beneath. Only his eyes showed, every other detail, hidden by the darkness.
One of the killers lifted a gun from his coat, letting off three shots in quick succession which didn't even cause Spawn to flinch, seeing this he decided to break and run, but as the man was fast, Spawn's chain was faster, it shot straight through the man's back, just to the side of his spine, burst through his chest, taking half of two ribs with it and wrapping around his throat. The hellish weapon picked him up and turned him around to face Spawn, only a few inches away he starred into the face of doom. "Who made you God?" Spawn demanded, in his usual eerily level tone, "Who goes up, who goes down, who decides?" He continued, the man's only answer was a bubbling sigh through the blood which was thick in his windpipe, "Not you." The Hellspawn finished, reaching forward and shoving the man's head roughly backward, breaking his neck.
The bloodstained chain receded, disappearing beneath the cloak, Spawn observed the second man cowering, his head between his knees beside an open dumpster, he was crying softly and muttering to himself repeatedly about how much he didn't want to die. The child merely starred at Spawn with the innocence of youth, probably wondering if this thing was his guardian angel. "Go home." Spawn instructed before grabbing the man by the back of the collar and dragging him off into the night.
Later
The closed down church which overlooked Rat City was Spawn's refuge from the world, no one ever went in and Spawn was the only one who ever walked out. Dragging his prisoner behind him, Spawn ascended another flight of stairs. "They're just freakin' bums man! Why do you care!?" The man complained from behind him, "God put 'em all here nice and pretty so we could sweep 'em off into Hell." This prompted Spawn to bring the man up to face him and growl in his face.
"You know nothing about Hell." Throwing him back to the ground Spawn continued to drag him roughly higher and higher, a coil of rope wrapped 'round Spawn's shoulder made it more than clear what his intent was. Coming to a window, Spawn removed what glass was left and leapt out with his prisoner in tow.
By this time the fanatic had realised what was about to happen and had changed his tune considerably, remaining quite silent unless spoken to, finally they came to the tower which Spawn was looking for, it looked out across most of Rat City, giving a clear view of the beehive of activity below. In one leap they were at it's summit, the man was thrust roughly against the cross which stood there and Spawn set about tying his hands in place. "P-please..." The thug stammered, "I w... I won't do it again."
Al was in the middle of securing his second hand and growled back at him for shaking his concentration, "I know you're not going to do it again." having secured him so that he hung by his wrists Spawn stepped to the tower's edge and gestured to the alleys below. "Now stay there and rot. You can look down on those you deem less worthy every day and every day you'll pray for death and every day your God wont answer."
As Spawn turned to leave the thug yelled one last jeer at him, "You're gonna burn in hell for this you freak!"
"Been to Hell, now I'm back."