There will be multiple POV switches in later chapters! Please enjoy :)
Honestly, this had had to be my most unique errand yet, followed closely next to the Big-Bad-Batman. You could say a man approximately within his early 30s running around in a bat suit and actually coming off as swear to Hell intimidating by FAR would have to be the weirdest thing you've ever encountered- And hey, so did I- But heck, try Mystifying-Ghost-Rider. Of course, he wasn't actually a ghost (duh), just a chemical junky who likes to pretend he's a ghost, and throughly flaunt it. I didn't even have a problem with it, other than that those were my Master's chemicals he's flaunting, and the big guy wants 'em back.
Staring down at the elliptically shaped cage of steel and adrenaline, I could only slightly conjure up some excitement that the testosterone and nacho cheesed audience seemed to literally spit. I wanted to be just as exhilarated to be here- I really did! Maybe just as much as the front row belly-beer coated in red paint man, but really, spending most of your childhood as a circus kid, jumping off every height imaginable and then a next part of your life spent trained stone hard to steal and beat other's to their near afterlife (all the while having been shot at a round total of who knows how many times), really took the fun out of all the necessity barbaric ways of entertainment. At least laying on the high beam, wind nice and cool, flipping my cape about, was nice.
The already hyped crowd roared to an even higher pitch, the death metal music chiming in with their rumpus as cooly striped neon vehicles entered from a black tent that blended right into the beautiful night sky onto the dusty gravel, their riders waving enthusiastically to the crowd, some even doing a couple tricks and kicking up more dust into the air, which was appreciated with much more shrill cries.
Their numbers as well as names were called overly-hyped up through a comically addicting to listen to voice on speakers placed throughout the make-shift stadium, and I made due with crouching up to standing on the metal bars as the wind picked up my cape more frantically, pushing at the soles of my black-clad feet and sending a smooth chill up my spine and I knew tonight'd be fun, grin already catching on.
The motorcycles zipped off, and from the stands came stage steam, bright spotlights spinning erratically around as the sound of the motors outplayed the already deafening shouts and music, but the sheer overture of my senses only made me grin more as adrenaline coursed through my body, thoughts of 'I'm going to lose focus of my footing' and 'I might fall' came through my head. The bars shook and vibrated under my feet but I kept perfect balance, waiting patiently for our ghost man to show.
It'd been a spreading rumor for this famous biker to crash into shows like this one and take the crowd for his own tricks, and to top it off, he was a ghost. You could see the appeal. These rumors had become so popular, in fact, that before they'd let people into the bleachers, I'd heard most of the conversations in the crowd revolving mostly around (if not the unbearable heat, that is) this ghost and not the actual show they were seeing.
They wouldn't be disappointed.
Before the riders could enter the obnoxiously named 'Death Pit' (a real 'Death Pit' is a 2 foot room with no visible exit and a whole lot of arsine gas waiting on a timer, thank you very much), an even more obnoxiously loud 'zroom!' and resounding 'screech!' exceeded all other noises, the speakers squealing into static as the fog cleared, and a bright white light shun from one corner of the outdoor stadium. All the drivers stopped in the faint remains of the stage mist, looking over at the silhouette rolling dauntingly, glowing in a strange unnatural way.
"It's the Ghost Rider!" a girl too old for the pig tails she was sporting shrieked, throwing her limbs around as if to draw more attention to herself even though she was literally the only one talking now.
Many shouts and chatter and even more hyperactive-excitement than before was the result as the audience was once again lively, and as if it were his cue, the silhouette biker slammed the gas of his rumbling motor and he wen't flying through the stadium, gliding along just out of reach of the bleachers in a glowing blue light. He cackled harmoniously, and the other drivers were trapped within his cycles as management began streaming out, calling out into their ear pieces as some even screamed obscenities at the unexpected guest.
A series of harsh clangs could be once again heard as the mysterious rider pulled out a thick chain, repeatedly slamming it along the ground, taunting the other drivers as he made his loops. The dust was building in the air as the events on the ground become less and less visible, and I began thinking it may be time to intervene.
The buzz of his motorcycle could no longer be heard, and the audience fell quieter as they tried to spot him within the dust before finally his ghostly glow could be seen atop the Death Pit, and his face became visible.
He was deathly pale- almost grey but still glowing unnaturally. His eyes were lined in artificial and natural darkness where his stark white irises blared out from his skull. His hair, on the contrary, was jet black and long and absolutely ridiculous- his outfit just the same with no armor; just leathers and peeks at his deathly skin. His bike, however, was a different monster entirely with huge engines, loud speakers, fire spouting from its pipes, spikes, and that same glow that Mr. Ghost was previously mentioned to have had.
He'd clearly loaded up on whatever Slade's chemical was, and from what I can guess, used it to perhaps fuel his bike or maybe used it as material in the bike. Though the later was less likely.
"Are you ready for a real show!" he broadcasted in a raspy, electrical voice which I also guessed was the aftermath of Slade's drug. Boldly atop his fortress, he lifted his hands and began swinging his corroded chains manically.
A woman (heavily donned in her chest area, I couldn't help but notice as she jiggled uncontrollably) screamed widely, "Yes! Yes!" as the audience screamed with her in delight.
He smirked, spreading his arms out like some Jesus symbol, basking in his glory before I took it upon me to end the fest with the release of two expertly aimed shruikens to only nick both his arms. From this height the force I'd have to throw into them to even get close to him would surely rip his arm off or come damn near close if I wen't for the actual limb, so getting his attention would have to come first, kicking butt later.
Jumping from the high beam, grapple hook as my back up, I made it to the crunchy ground, slowly making my way to the sphere cage where atop he looked about in confusion.
His (insanely more creepy now that I was down to his level) white eyes looked franticly around the stadium revealing, now that his smugness was out of the way, his aggressive and unstable self. Most chemical druggies were such underneath it all.
"Ha! You missed, loser." His cocky (if a little shaky now) grin returned.
As if.
"Who-?!" he began to shout before I reached once again into my black (and very crowded looking) utility belt, flicking my wrist with much more ease up to his seat upon the throne. His eyes widened in shock as the bola wrapped quickly around his middle, pinning his arms to his sides before the balls attached to the string hit him hard in the gut, securing their place tightly around him.
The audience gasped as he lost his balance, falling from the metal sphere along with his motorcycle that was hooked in with his legs. A gruesome snap came after his short fall, the motorcycle trapping one of his legs under its cruel weight, most likely breaking it like a twig, if his painful howls indicated me right.
The formerly screaming-of-joy-woman now began screams of terror, the whole stadium following her like before. The rushed paddling and crunching sounds indicated the leave of their lively crowd, and roars from the other drivers showed that they, too, were making their escape. A shame, really. I hadn't had an audience for my lifework in such a long time.
His painful wails softened to quiet mumblings as he began wiggling in his restraints. There was no need for worry, because if his own vehicle hadn't done the job with his leg, the bola still strapped him tight from the use of his arms, and with his leg in its current state, standing wasn't high on the list of possibilities.
"Who-Who are you?! Show yourself you coward! When I get my hands on you-you no good piece of-"
"Hey, watch the language," I commented out of instinct, laughing a bit as his squirming body stiffened.
Believe it or not, but the one and only Slade Wilson, mercenary and killer of thousands, and my mentor, could not stand curse words, and I have the bruises to prove it. If I've ever seen a more whacked up moral compass...
His (still creepy) irises stared blindly at me, and I now noticed their slight red tint, magnified by his searing agitation, and it honestly was hard to not rub at my own eyes, itchy at the sight. They flickered uneasily into the darkness, unseeing of me in my camouflage.
I smiled. Black really was the best attire for this type of stuff, and I was covered in it. Black and red were my primary colors with a full body suit of black with only minimal amounts of armor that were barely visible and under my suit (slows me down, and for one who relishes so much on speed, it's a no-no), and then accessories such as my belt, gloves, the inside of my cape (the outside's black), and 'S' symbol across my chest a rich blood color. Even my hair was black! That wasn't as intentional though; I'm a natural raven-head.
This was something only one vigilante seemed to catch onto (two guesses who), the rest much more preferred their bright colored undies. Maybe it was a thing? I didn't feel much like trying it out, though... Not that Slade would ever allow it. Maybe I'll ask the next one I run into, and being the thief I was, that confrontation'd come soon enough.
"Get out here! Face me like a man you FREAK!" his struggles were getting increasingly louder, aggressive, and annoying so I finally stepped out from my comfy spot in the dark.
"Ok, ok, chill it, and lay off the cigarettes while you're at, k electrolarynx?" I quipped, and his eyes were on my domino mask's, immediately in rage.
"What do you want?! Let me go- get this THING off me!" he quickly demanded in a desperate need to find his dominance and intimidate me.
I rolled my eyes and walked forward to his crippling body that now grew silent as I approached, bending down to grip his greasy black hair in my gloved palms (they'd definitely need some washing later), wrenching his head up. I smiled sickly into his fearful pupils.
"I'm here for the material you stole from Slade," I hissed, eyes he couldn't even see piercing his.
"Material?" he gasped, and my eyes grew to slits as I wrenched his head higher before slamming his head into the prickly ground.
"You know what I'm talking about. Y'know, you're whole 'I am Ghost-Man' trick? I know what's behind the scenes..." He stayed quiet a moment too long after I said this, and I grinded his scalp further into the crushed rock. "Where is it?"
"The bike. O-On the bike- Oh God, please get it off me," he choked, squeezing his eyes shut as his body shook uncontrollably now under the weight.
I removed my palm from his head, glancing slowly to the bike before looking back to the body beneath me. "I know that, Doofus. I mean on you."
"I don't have any on me, I swear! Please-PLEASE get it off!" His trembling had shredded down to mere instinctual quivers by now, his eyes still scrunched shut, and I knew he was going to pass out from the pain any moment now if I didn't relieve him from the heaviness.
I could just let him pass out and find the synthetic through scavenging around his stuff, but I liked things fast so I stood, uprighting the motorcycle from his crushed body easily. He heaved loudly, wheezing and convulsing and I made damn sure not to look down at his mutilated leg as I kicked open the thick leather part of the motorcycle, looking in to see a normal operating engine with a normal power source, meaning... The guy had built the acidic into the vehicle? I mean, I'd pondered it but I hadn't actually thought it was even possible. Looks like I'm taking a ride home.
"Damn, who'd you buy this bad boy from? You're not telling me you made this, are ya?" I laughed, inspecting the parts in interest. Now that I examined it, the glow was radiating off everything besides the leather and the obvious entertainment condiments, and even some of those were lit by a source that was not the chemical. Was this even safe? It might just be letting off some sort of radiation...
"Hell yeah I did; born and bred by ME, and you should really look after your captives, KID!"
I flipped backwards lazily as a heavy chain slammed the surface of the vehicle or what would have been me if I hadn't moved. Not a dent was left though on the miraculous bike as the Ghost-Man rose, holding the handles for support.
I crossed my arms and pouted at the sight of his other arm reaching over to the other that was supporting him, touching some weird pad within his leather vest that what I guessed was the trigger for the pulses of glowing energy now rippling through his skin. His eyes were now aflame in viciousness and something very, very unnatural.
"Awe, you said you had none on you," I grumbled through a mocking frown, arms still crossed as he slung himself into the seat.
"Tough luck!" he growled and charged forward at my small body.
Unmoving until he was mere inches from me, I placed my hand on top of the steering head, legs swinging over the vehicle and straight to his head. His shock, however, quickly shifted and he ducked his head in a record time so I only scraped his ear. I slid onto the ground on the opposite side of where I started. I slipped out a small box from my belt which I casually spun out to a full length metal staff, and waited for his next move.
He came speeding back, this time a few feet to the side of my body with his chain ready to clobber my head in. This time, I didn't wait. Pelting full force to the oncoming vehicle, I waited until I was close enough and then leapt up into the air into a front flip, clashing my staff into his chain, which from the impact and helpful physics, swung around the pole, rendering both our weapons useless and connected in our hands as I planted both feet onto the neck of the bike, crouched onto his still moving motorcycle.
He growled, glare fixed on me as he shook his hand holding the chain, trying to get loose. I only grinned and swept a foot out from under me to throw at least his midsection off balance, but he deflected with the very arm he was holding the chain with, but I'd kicked hard and he struggled to hold my leg off him which was quickly replaced with a punch coming the other way. He slid back and once again deflected with his arm.
I smirked before swiftly receding my staff back to its cube, the chain dropped free, and I busied my hands once again on his shoulders before hoisting the rest of my body up and crashed my feet straight into his face, meanwhile throwing my hands off his shoulders and back behind me to the now empty handles.
Ghost-Man flew back from the force (flipping, actually), almost falling off completely before in a desperate reach he caught on to the end of the motorcycle going at a speed so fast the world past as a blur- Oh, that reminds me! Driving.
I quickly spun off my back to face the front, and just in time to steer us hastily out of the way of a mean looking bolder. We were no longer within the stadium and now out into the open desert-like land. I glanced behind me to see Ghosty still hanging on there, making slow progress up the backside of the bike and I cackled, pulling a sharp left which nearly had him flying. He lashed like a rag doll (yeah, that leg wasn't looking too good) in the air, my cape letting off whipping cracks as it fluttered.
Slade had only let me drive a motorcycle a couple times (he made sure I had experience driving nearly every operable vehicle in history), and I soon had a new taste for why exactly I'd always been so insistent on driving them. We whisked timelessly over endless land and sky, and if not for the only slightly observable changes in the land and the smothering pressure of the wind, I could have swore we hadn't even been moving at all. The sky was pecked with myriad stars that were unrecognizable in Gotham's mask of polluted atmosphere, and I took full advantage of the fact that this was probably one of the few times I'll ever in my life time see a night sky so bright.
When I was younger, with my parents, I lived in a traveling circus. I was young and rash, so I rarely found the patience to watch the skies, but at particular places like the National something-something in Utah or that one time at Valantia Island my Ma would pin me down on top of our trailer, saying, "Look at the sky.", and then we'd watch the bright creases of light all night until I fell asleep, or Dad would let me look through his telescope to see Jupiter or Mars while he mapped the constellations and pointed them out to me. He'd say, "Y'know, bud, my Dad, and your Grandfather, was an astronomer.", and I'd happily reply back that I was gonna be an astronaut.
"Help! HELP!" a shrill voice came from the corner of my conscious, and I glimpsed leisurely over my shoulder to a screaming lunatic just a strand away from a plummet not kindly minded.
"Ah, shush up already, I'm almost done," I reprimanded, turning back to view the glistening night a longing moment longer.
"You're-you're CRAZY!" he puffed, clawing at the loose amount of leather he'd gotten his hands on.
"A bit," I respired gently.