With every gunshot, every explosion, and every swing, a burst of fire lit up the dim laboratory, casting shadows on the wall that danced like ghosts. If one relied not on sight but on ears, nose, skin, and primal instinct, it would feel like that crackling halberd charged with electricity and heat was constantly sweeping just inches above one's head. Fitz and Mike hunched low, ducking as they ran toward the lab exit, trying to ignore the eardrum-piercing screeches of blades slicing through the air, the acrid scent of propellant and burning bone, and the suffocating sulfur reek of the flames—all of it a fear that dug into the base of the spine.
Even when they had crawled to the lab's exit, the chill along the back of their necks refused to fade. It felt like something buried deep in the human genome—an ancient terror—was screaming at them to curl into a ball and stay down. It took all of their will to keep their limbs moving. They couldn't even make out the movements of the golden-armored giant—he seemed as surreal as his Baroque-styled armor, a dreamlike presence too brilliant and too unreal. As ordinary humans, Fitz and Mike could only see the results: Ghost Rider being blasted apart in bursts of fire with every strike, and the lab walls crumbling under the barrage of kinetic-explosive rounds. Reinforced concrete and radiation-shielding coatings shattered like brittle biscuits.
This was not a battle humans were meant to be part of.
Mike cursed under his breath, wondering if he should call for backup.
That thought was immediately extinguished. He would later admit it was a foolish idea—one that would have only gotten others killed. Especially considering who might be behind this. S.H.I.E.L.D. had already suffered enough at the hands of that maniac who dropped a nuke like it was nothing. Even if Mike understood the nuclear strike had been to contain an alien parasite outbreak, the sheer cold-blooded nature of it made his blood freeze. And the armed forces under his command were just as terrifying.
Later, when they had narrowly escaped the lab, Fitz would swear to Mike that he had never seen fireworks so beautiful in his life—but that's a story for another time. In the nightmares that would plague Fitz for years, the Royal Guard stood cloaked in a strange glow amidst a pitch-black swamp. It wasn't sunlight, firelight, or anything from a halberd's arc—it was a light that radiated from within, an aura of unknown energy swirling around that armor, banishing the malevolent intentions hiding in the shadows.
Fitz had read Lovecraft and once dismissed it as fantasy horror. Now, he was glad he had, especially for that one quote: "I think the most merciful thing in the world… is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents." He didn't want to think about what he had seen, about what lurked in the shadows. He was simply grateful that those horrors were far away—and that, even if their protectors weren't particularly kind, they had been protected.
"That place was as dark as a rabbit's warren full of rotting mud," Fitz would later say, exaggerating the scene during a casual conversation with Jemma Simmons after they were married, trying to downplay it so she wouldn't worry too much.
Constantine drove his halberd's blade into the flaming body of Ghost Rider, and pressed the massive-caliber launcher up against him, firing point-blank. The kinetic-explosive rounds pounded Ghost Rider's form like a war hammer, punching through and shattering it effortlessly. Flaming bone fragments scattered across the floor. Constantine didn't feel this fight was especially difficult. Had the Spirit of Vengeance possessed a genetically enhanced warrior like him, it might have been a real challenge. But Robbie Reyes was just an ordinary man.
The Royal Guard were engineered—perfect humans forged by their lord through black science and genetic alchemy. Even empowered by the Spirit of Vengeance, Robbie's every move looked like slow motion to Constantine.
He had once considered whether the hellfire from Ghost Rider would affect him. Based on available data, the transformative nature of that power was astounding—it could homogenize inorganic matter quickly. But oddly enough, when Robbie unleashed that hellfire from his hollow eyes, it didn't even reach Constantine. The flames simply fizzled out before touching the ornate golden armor, vanishing as if they never existed.
Maybe Robbie hadn't fully embraced the Spirit of Vengeance yet? Constantine shook his head after pulling the trigger. There wasn't enough data. Wanda Maximoff had submitted the initial battle records under his urging, and they had been compared against the first Ghost Rider, Johnny Blaze.
The only real problem was Robbie's regeneration speed. It was clearly increasing. With every defeat (not death, but immobilization), Ghost Rider grew stronger. The first takedown took half a second. The second, 1.3 seconds. The third, 2.1 seconds. By the fourth and fifth, the rate of his regeneration—and thus resistance—was accelerating. Constantine maintained his assault at high intensity, but even a perfect human had to metabolize lactic acid and process the high-energy nutrient injections his armor's life-support system provided.
So he took his first breath since the battle began.
Constantine exhaled slowly. The armor's oxygen system pumped a rush of air into his lungs. His enhanced lungs exchanged gases with superhuman efficiency, hemoglobin in his blood greedily absorbing oxygen while his mitochondria worked overtime, spiking his body temperature by two degrees Celsius. He rejected the armor's suggestion to inject a combat stimulant—he didn't need it. He spun his halberd and used the barbed butt end to pierce Ghost Rider's skull, nailing him into the concrete before stomping on it with his armored boot, grinding it to dust. The hellfire flickered weakly, nearly extinguished.
Even without fully understanding the situation, he had no problem massacring Ghost Rider.
"Come on, Mike!" Fitz shouted as he ran down the corridor, ignoring the expensive equipment salvaged from S.H.I.E.L.D. installations. He was a mess—his light-colored suit was pockmarked with scorch holes from the infernal fire Constantine had scattered across the lab. His brown hair was singed, his lungs burned with the taste of sulfur, and it felt like the fires of hell were licking his throat. Swallowing his iron-flavored spit, he rasped, "We have to reach the Quinjet! We need backup!"
"Careful, monkey boy!" Mike caught up quickly.
He didn't object to Fitz's plan, but he wasn't sure a Quinjet could do anything to stop either of those two—especially one wearing that massive armor. The sounds of shattered concrete were still audible through the thick corridor walls. Mike had to listen carefully, always ready to grab Fitz, because both the armored giant and Ghost Rider had already smashed through the hallway walls multiple times during the fight. Mike wasn't about to bet on either of them watching out for civilians. If Fitz got in their way, it'd be like getting hit by a semi at full speed.
Luckily, the Quinjet was parked nearby—they had moved it there earlier to unload gear.
Fitz and Mike burst out of the corridor into sunlight, which poured over them like a blessing, as if they had finally escaped the nightmare (even though Mike could still hear the crashing behind them). "Hurry!" Mike pointed at the Quinjet. "We'd better check with HQ before making a move!"
"Yeah, I—whatwaaaa—!"
Fitz's shout was cut off mid-sentence as Mike stood frozen in shock—watching the Quinjet slowly lift off the ground… without anyone piloting it.
______
(≧◡≦) ♡ Support me and read 20 chapters ahead – patreon.com/Mutter
For every 50 Power Stones, one extra chapter will be released on Saturday.