GOTHAM CITY - CRIME ALLEY - 11:47 PM
Jason Todd had died once.
It was the kind of experience that fundamentally altered a person's perspective on mortality, pain, and the general unfairness of the universe. One moment he had been Robin, the Boy Wonder, the scrappy street kid who had clawed his way from the gutters of Gotham to fight alongside the goddamn Batman. The next moment, he had been a smear of blood and bone in an Ethiopian warehouse, beaten to death by a clown with a crowbar while a timer counted down to an explosion that would scatter what remained of him across three city blocks.
He had felt every blow. Every crack of metal against flesh. Every moment of his ribs splintering, his skull fracturing, his hope dying long before his body gave up the ghost.
And then he had woken up in a Lazarus Pit, screaming, clawing his way back to a life that no longer fit him like it used to, wearing his resurrection like a suit of armor made of broken glass and burning rage.
So when Jason heard that some flaming skeleton had done to the Joker what he himself had fantasized about for YEARS—had looked into those mad eyes and burned the clown's soul until there was nothing left but a cooling corpse—his reaction was... complicated.
Part of him wanted to find the Ghost Rider and shake his bony hand. Buy him a beer. Maybe ask for an autograph on the crowbar Jason kept mounted on his wall as a reminder of what he had survived and what he had become.
Another part of him—the part that had never stopped being angry, never stopped feeling CHEATED—wanted to find the Ghost Rider and demand to know why the universe had sent HIM to finish the job instead of letting Jason do it himself.
And a third part, the part that had been trained by Batman and the League of Assassins and the cold hard streets of Gotham, wanted to assess the threat. To understand what this creature was, what it wanted, and whether it was going to be a problem.
Tonight, he was going to satisfy all three parts.
Jason crouched on the rooftop overlooking Crime Alley—his alley, the place where Thomas and Martha Wayne had died and set the whole ridiculous bat-themed domino chain in motion—and waited. His sources had told him that the Ghost Rider seemed drawn to this part of the city, that he had been spotted multiple times riding through the Narrows like a hell-bound patrol officer, leaving terrified criminals and occasional corpses in his wake.
The Red Hood was patient. He could wait.
He didn't have to wait long.
The first sign was the temperature. Jason had grown up in Gotham winters, had slept in unheated squats and frozen alleyways, and he knew cold. But this wasn't cold. This was the ABSENCE of cold, a bubble of warmth expanding through the night air like the city itself was developing a fever.
The second sign was the sound. Not the roar of a motorcycle engine—that came later—but something beneath it, a subsonic rumble that Jason felt in his chest more than heard with his ears. It was the sound of something WRONG approaching, something that didn't belong in the natural order of things.
And then the Ghost Rider turned onto Crime Alley, and Jason got his first real look at the thing that had killed his murderer.
It was... more than he had expected.
The news footage hadn't done it justice. Grainy security cameras and shaky cell phone videos couldn't capture the sheer PRESENCE of the creature, the way reality seemed to bend slightly around it like light around a black hole. The flames weren't just fire—they were something else, something that burned in colors that Jason's eyes couldn't quite process, shifting from orange to blue to white to colors that didn't have names. The skull beneath was bleached bone, yes, but it was also somehow EXPRESSIVE, conveying emotion through the set of its jaw and the angle of its tilt and the intensity of the fire that blazed in its empty sockets.
The motorcycle was equally impossible. It looked like someone had taken a standard cruiser and dipped it in hellfire, chrome and steel transformed into something organic and hungry. The wheels left trails of flame on the asphalt that faded slowly, like the street itself was reluctant to let go of the heat.
Jason stood up from his crouch and stepped to the edge of the rooftop, making himself visible.
The Ghost Rider stopped.
For a long moment, they just looked at each other—the dead man who had come back wrong and the burning specter of vengeance—and Jason felt something he hadn't felt in years.
Recognition.
Not that they had met before. They hadn't. But there was something in those blazing eyes that saw the same thing in Jason that Jason saw in himself: rage given form. Pain transformed into purpose. The refusal to let death have the last word.
"Hey," Jason called down, his voice modulator making the word a mechanical growl. "We need to talk."
The Ghost Rider tilted its skull, flames flickering in what might have been curiosity.
"RED HOOD. THE DEAD BOY WHO RETURNED."
Jason's hands twitched toward his guns, an automatic response to being so thoroughly KNOWN by something he had never met. "You've done your homework."
"I SEE SOULS. YOURS IS... INTERESTING." The Rider dismounted from the bike, which continued to idle with a rumbling purr, and walked toward the building. And then, impossibly, it began to CLIMB—not scaling the wall, but simply walking up it as if gravity was a suggestion rather than a law, flames licking at the brick and leaving scorch marks in its wake. "YOU DIED. YOU CAME BACK. AND YOU HAVE BEEN ANGRY EVER SINCE."
"Gee, thanks for the therapy session." Jason didn't back up as the Ghost Rider crested the rooftop, even though every instinct he had was screaming that he was standing too close to something that could end him permanently. "I didn't come here for a psych evaluation. I came here because you did something I've wanted to do for years."
"THE CLOWN."
"The Joker." Jason's voice cracked slightly on the name, despite the modulator. "You killed him. Actually, permanently, no-coming-back killed him. And I want to know why."
The Ghost Rider stood before him now, close enough that Jason could feel the heat radiating from its bones, close enough to see the individual flames dancing in those empty eye sockets. It was taller than him by at least six inches, and it carried itself with the absolute confidence of something that knew it could not be harmed.
"HE WAS GUILTY," the Rider said simply. "HIS SINS WERE LEGION. HIS SOUL COULD NOT BEAR THE WEIGHT OF JUDGMENT. HE BURNED, AND THE WORLD IS BETTER FOR HIS ABSENCE."
"Just like that?" Jason laughed, a harsh sound without humor. "You show up out of nowhere, look at him funny, and he drops dead? No monologue, no dramatic confrontation, no giving him a chance to escape AGAIN?"
"THAT IS THE BATMAN'S WAY. NOT MINE."
"No shit." Jason reached up and pulled off his helmet, revealing the domino mask beneath, the scarred face of a man who had been beaten to death and put back together wrong. "Bruce has been dancing with that psycho for YEARS. Every time he catches him, Joker breaks out. Every time Joker breaks out, people die. And Bruce just... keeps doing the same thing. Over and over. Like Einstein's definition of insanity."
"YOU DISAGREE WITH HIS METHODS."
"I think his methods got me killed." Jason's voice was flat, controlled, but his eyes burned with something that matched the Rider's flames. "I think his 'no killing' rule is a luxury that other people pay for with their lives. I think he's so afraid of becoming a monster that he lets the real monsters run free."
The Ghost Rider was silent for a long moment, flames crackling softly in the night air.
"YOU ARE NOT WRONG," it said finally. "BUT YOU ARE ALSO NOT ENTIRELY RIGHT. THE BATMAN'S CODE PROTECTS HIS SOUL. WITHOUT IT, HE WOULD BECOME SOMETHING FAR WORSE THAN THE CRIMINALS HE FIGHTS. HIS RESTRAINT IS NOT WEAKNESS. IT IS THE ONLY THING STANDING BETWEEN THE MAN HE IS AND THE MONSTER HE COULD BECOME."
"And what about the people who die while he's protecting his precious soul?" Jason demanded. "What about the victims of every villain he's let live? Don't THEY matter?"
"THEY MATTER." The Rider's voice carried weight, certainty, the absolute conviction of a cosmic force that had been judging souls since before humanity learned to write. "THAT IS WHY I AM HERE. THE BATMAN CANNOT DO WHAT MUST BE DONE. SO I DO IT FOR HIM. THE BALANCE MUST BE MAINTAINED."
Jason stared at the burning skull, processing this information, trying to fit it into his worldview.
"So what, you're just going to... clean up his mess? Kill the ones he won't?"
"WHEN NECESSARY. WHEN THE SINS DEMAND IT. I AM NOT A MURDERER, RED HOOD. I AM JUDGMENT. THERE IS A DIFFERENCE."
"What's the difference?"
"MURDERERS CHOOSE THEIR VICTIMS. I SIMPLY... REVEAL THEM." The Rider raised one skeletal hand, flames dancing between the fingers. "THE PENANCE STARE DOES NOT KILL THE INNOCENT. IT CANNOT. IT ONLY DESTROYS THOSE WHOSE SOULS ARE TOO CORRUPT TO SURVIVE THE WEIGHT OF THEIR OWN SINS. IF A MAN LOOKS INTO MY EYES AND DIES, IT IS BECAUSE HE EARNED THAT DEATH A THOUSAND TIMES OVER."
Jason was quiet for a long moment, turning this over in his mind.
"The Joker," he said finally. "When you... did what you did. When you killed him. What did he see?"
The Ghost Rider's flames flickered, and something that might have been sorrow crossed its skull.
"EVERYTHING. HE SAW EVERY LIFE HE TOOK. EVERY MIND HE BROKE. EVERY CHILD HE ORPHANED. EVERY DREAM HE DESTROYED. HE FELT THEIR PAIN, THEIR TERROR, THEIR DESPAIR. ALL OF IT, COMPRESSED INTO A SINGLE MOMENT OF ABSOLUTE CLARITY." The flames flared brighter. "AND THEN HIS SOUL COLLAPSED UNDER THE WEIGHT."
Jason closed his eyes, imagining it. The Joker, that grinning monster, finally—FINALLY—understanding what he had done. Feeling the fear he had inflicted on others. Knowing, in his last moments, that he was not the comedian but the punchline.
It was the most beautiful thing Jason had ever heard.
"Good," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "GOOD. He deserved worse, but... good."
The Ghost Rider tilted its skull, studying him with those burning eyes.
"YOU WANTED TO KILL HIM YOURSELF."
"More than anything." Jason's hands clenched at his sides. "I had plans. So many plans. I was going to make it LAST. Make him feel everything he did to me, everything he did to everyone. And then I was going to put a bullet in his brain and watch the light go out of his eyes."
"AND NOW?"
"Now?" Jason laughed again, but this time there was something almost like relief in it. "Now I feel like I missed my own birthday party. Someone else blew out the candles, and I'm standing here with a piece of cake I didn't get to cut."
"VENGEANCE IS NOT A GIFT, RED HOOD. IT IS A BURDEN. YOU SHOULD BE GRATEFUL THAT SOMEONE ELSE CARRIED IT FOR YOU."
"Should I?" Jason met the Rider's gaze, unflinching despite the heat, despite the supernatural WEIGHT of that stare. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you got the satisfaction that should have been mine. You got to be the one who ended it. And I'm left with... what? A lifetime of anger with nowhere to go?"
The Ghost Rider was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, it reached out and placed one burning hand on Jason's shoulder.
The heat was intense, but not painful. It felt like standing too close to a bonfire on a cold night—uncomfortable but not dangerous. Jason held his ground, refusing to flinch.
"YOUR ANGER WILL ALWAYS HAVE SOMEWHERE TO GO," the Rider said, its voice softer now, almost gentle. "GOTHAM IS FULL OF MONSTERS. THE JOKER WAS THE WORST, BUT HE WAS NOT THE ONLY ONE. IF YOU WANT TO HONOR YOUR PAIN, USE IT. PROTECT THE INNOCENT. PUNISH THE GUILTY. BUT DO NOT LET THE RAGE CONSUME YOU." The flames in its eyes flickered. "I HAVE SEEN WHAT HAPPENS TO THOSE WHO LET VENGEANCE BECOME THEIR ONLY PURPOSE. THEY BECOME HOLLOW. THEY BECOME THE THING THEY HATE. AND EVENTUALLY, THEY BECOME MY PREY."
Jason swallowed hard, feeling the truth of those words settle into his bones.
"Is that a threat?"
"IT IS A WARNING. AND A HOPE." The Rider removed its hand, and the cold rushed back in to fill the space it had occupied. "YOU HAVE POTENTIAL, JASON TODD. THE DARKNESS IN YOU COULD DESTROY YOU... OR IT COULD MAKE YOU SOMETHING GREATER. THE CHOICE IS YOURS."
Before Jason could respond, the Ghost Rider turned and walked to the edge of the rooftop. Its motorcycle roared below, flames flaring brighter as if eager to be reunited with its master.
"Wait," Jason called out. "I still have questions. Who ARE you? Where did you come from? How do I know you're not just going to start killing everyone who jaywalks?"
The Ghost Rider paused at the edge, looking back over its shoulder.
"I AM THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE. I HAVE ALWAYS EXISTED, IN ONE FORM OR ANOTHER. AND AS FOR YOUR LAST QUESTION..." The skull turned forward again. "THE STARE CANNOT HARM THE INNOCENT. IF YOU DO NOT BELIEVE ME, LOOK INTO MY EYES AND SEE FOR YOURSELF."
"I'll pass," Jason said quickly.
"WISE."
And then the Ghost Rider stepped off the rooftop and fell five stories, landing on the motorcycle with the grace of something that had never known the fear of heights. The engine roared, flames erupted, and in seconds the specter was gone, disappearing into the Gotham night like a fever dream fading with the dawn.
Jason stood alone on the rooftop for a long time, staring at the spot where the Rider had vanished.
"Well," he said finally, to no one in particular, "that was the weirdest therapy session I've ever had."
He put his helmet back on and prepared to leave. But before he did, he looked down at his shoulder, at the spot where the Ghost Rider's hand had rested.
The fabric of his jacket was unmarked. Unburned. Completely undamaged.
Jason smiled beneath his helmet.
Maybe the universe wasn't entirely against him after all.
SOMEWHERE IN THE MOUNTAINS OF EASTERN EUROPE - THE SAME NIGHT
Ra's al Ghul had lived for over six hundred years.
In that time, he had seen empires rise and fall, watched civilizations bloom and wither, guided the course of human history from the shadows like a gardener tending to a particularly stubborn crop. He had died and been reborn more times than he could count, his consciousness transferred from body to body through the miracle of the Lazarus Pits, each resurrection refining his purpose and sharpening his will.
He had fought Batman countless times—his greatest adversary, his chosen heir, the only man in the modern age worthy of the legacy Ra's wished to leave behind—and each defeat had taught him something new about the Detective's methods, his weaknesses, his infuriating moral code.
But this... this was something outside his considerable experience.
Ra's stood in the command center of his current stronghold, a fortress carved into the heart of a mountain that had been old when Rome was young, surrounded by screens displaying intelligence reports from his network of assassins and informants across the globe. The reports all said the same thing, painted in the cold language of espionage and observation:
The Ghost Rider was real. The Ghost Rider was powerful. And the Ghost Rider was operating in Gotham City with impunity.
"Fascinating," Ra's murmured, his fingers steepled before his face as he studied the compiled footage—the confrontation with the Joker, the destruction at the museum, the brief interaction with the Batman. "Truly fascinating."
"Father." Talia al Ghul emerged from the shadows behind him, her movements silent and precise, her face as unreadable as ever. "Our operatives in Gotham have confirmed the reports. The creature appears to be genuinely supernatural in origin. It cannot be harmed by conventional weapons, and its... abilities... are unlike anything in our archives."
"The Penance Stare," Ra's said, tasting the words. "A judgment of sins. A weapon that targets the soul rather than the body." He smiled, thin and cold. "How elegant. How EFFICIENT."
"You find this... admirable?" Talia raised an elegant eyebrow.
"I find it USEFUL." Ra's turned to face his daughter, his green eyes glittering with the predatory intelligence that had kept him alive for centuries. "Consider, Talia: for years, I have sought to cleanse this world of the human plague that infests it. To cull the population to sustainable levels, to eliminate the corrupt and the destructive, to create a new Eden from the ashes of the old order. And now, a being appears that does the same thing—judges the guilty, destroys the corrupt, cleanses the unworthy."
"You think the Ghost Rider could be an ally?"
"I think the Ghost Rider could be a TOOL." Ra's waved a hand, dismissing the screens with a gesture. "Imagine it, Talia. A weapon that cannot be stopped by conventional means. A judge that cannot be corrupted or bribed. A force of destruction that targets only the guilty and leaves the innocent unharmed." His smile widened. "If I could harness such a creature, bend it to my will... the Great Cleansing would be complete within a decade."
Talia's expression flickered with something that might have been concern. "Father, this creature destroyed the Joker—a being that even the Detective could not permanently stop. And our intelligence suggests that it easily overpowered Bane, a man enhanced far beyond human limits. Are you certain it is wise to attempt to... control such a force?"
"Wisdom is knowing when to take calculated risks, daughter." Ra's moved toward the door, his robes flowing behind him. "And I have calculated that the potential reward far outweighs the danger. Prepare a strike team. We leave for Gotham within the hour."
"What is your plan?"
Ra's paused at the doorway, looking back with the serene confidence of a man who had outmaneuvered death itself countless times.
"The Ghost Rider responds to sin. It judges the guilty. It punishes the corrupt." His eyes gleamed. "I intend to present myself as a kindred spirit. A fellow judge of humanity's failings. And if that fails..." He shrugged elegantly. "I have other methods of persuasion."
"And if those fail as well?"
"Then I will have learned something valuable about our new friend's capabilities." Ra's smiled, showing teeth. "Either way, I win."
He swept out of the room, leaving Talia alone with her doubts and the flickering screens.
She looked at the frozen image of the Ghost Rider—that burning skull, those empty eyes, the flames that seemed to dance with malevolent intelligence—and felt something she had not felt in decades.
Premonition.
Her father was making a mistake. She knew it in her bones, in her blood, in the ancient instincts that had been honed by centuries of al Ghul breeding and training.
But Ra's al Ghul did not accept counsel when his mind was set. He had not lived six hundred years by doubting himself.
Talia reached for her communicator and began making her own preparations.
If her father was going to poke a supernatural hornet's nest, she would ensure that the al Ghul legacy survived the resulting sting.
GOTHAM CITY - THE NARROWS - THE FOLLOWING NIGHT
Damian Wayne was having what he would later describe as "an educational experience" and what everyone else would describe as "getting his ass handed to him by a flaming skeleton while his father watched in horror."
It had started, as so many of Damian's misadventures did, with an excess of confidence and a deficit of patience.
The boy had been Robin for several years now, had trained with the League of Assassins since birth, had fought alongside and against some of the most dangerous beings on the planet. He was the blood son of Batman and the heir to the Demon's Head, a combination of pedigrees that would have given anyone an inflated sense of their own capabilities.
But Damian's ego was in a class of its own.
"This creature is clearly supernatural in origin," Damian had announced at the dinner table that evening, in the tone of someone explaining basic arithmetic to a particularly slow child. "Its powers derive from some infernal source, likely demonic or quasi-demonic in nature. The logical response is to identify and exploit its weaknesses before it becomes a larger threat."
Bruce had set down his fork with the careful precision of a man trying very hard not to lose his temper. "Damian. We've discussed this. The Ghost Rider is not to be engaged without extensive preparation and—"
"You DISCUSSED it, Father. I listened, evaluated your arguments, and found them wanting." Damian had crossed his arms with the supreme confidence of a thirteen-year-old who had never been wrong about anything in his entire life (in his own estimation, anyway). "Your approach is too cautious. The creature caught you off-guard because you underestimated it. I will not make the same mistake."
"The creature handed me my ass," Bruce had said flatly. "It ignored everything I threw at it and then showed me things that—" He stopped, his jaw tightening. "You're not going anywhere near it. That's final."
"With respect, Father, you cannot stop me."
"Damian—"
But the boy was already gone, having executed a perfect backflip out of his chair and through the dining room window in a single fluid motion, because Damian Wayne had never simply LEFT a room when he could dramatically ESCAPE from it.
Now, approximately four hours later, Damian was discovering that there was, in fact, a significant difference between "fighting a supernatural entity with the proper preparation" and "attacking a burning skeleton because your daddy told you not to."
The difference was currently manifesting as the Ghost Rider holding Damian three feet off the ground by the front of his Robin costume, examining him with the detached curiosity of a scientist studying a particularly belligerent lab rat.
"UNHAND ME, CREATURE!" Damian snarled, his legs kicking uselessly in the air, his escrima sticks having already been melted into slag by the Rider's flames. "I AM DAMIAN WAYNE, SON OF THE BAT, HEIR TO THE DEMON! I WILL NOT BE MANHANDLED BY SOME SUPERNATURAL—"
"YOU TALK TOO MUCH," the Ghost Rider observed.
"I AM SIMPLY ESTABLISHING MY CREDENTIALS SO THAT YOU UNDERSTAND THE MAGNITUDE OF YOUR—"
"STILL TALKING."
"FATHER WILL DESTROY YOU FOR THIS INDIGNITY! THE LEAGUE OF ASSASSINS WILL HUNT YOU TO THE ENDS OF THE—"
"DO YOU EVER STOP?"
Damian paused, genuinely thrown by the question. "I... am COMMUNICATING. This is how CIVILIZED beings interact. Perhaps you are unfamiliar with the concept, given your apparent DEMONIC—"
The Ghost Rider sighed, a sound like steam escaping from a volcano, and turned to face the shadows where Batman had been watching the confrontation unfold with an expression of mingled horror and resignation.
"IS HE ALWAYS LIKE THIS?"
"Yes," Batman said flatly. "Put him down."
"I AM CONSIDERING IT."
"Father!" Damian twisted in the Rider's grip, his face flushed with exertion and indignation. "Do not negotiate with this MONSTER! Strike while it is distracted! I have provided you with the perfect—"
"YOU HAVE PROVIDED NOTHING EXCEPT A HEADACHE," the Ghost Rider interrupted. It lowered Damian until the boy's feet touched the ground, but didn't release him. "YOU ATTACKED ME WITHOUT PROVOCATION. YOU ANNOUNCED YOUR PRESENCE BY THROWING EXPLOSIVES AT MY HEAD. YOU CALLED ME—" The flames flickered as if the Rider was consulting a mental list. "—'A DISCOUNT HALLOWEEN DECORATION,' 'A WALKING FIRE HAZARD,' AND 'CLEARLY INFERIOR TO THE LEAGUE'S SUPERNATURAL ASSETS.'"
"All accurate assessments," Damian sniffed.
"YOU ALSO STABBED ME. SEVENTEEN TIMES."
"Your defensive reactions were UNACCEPTABLY slow. I was testing your capabilities."
"WITH A SWORD."
"It was a WAKIZASHI. The distinction is IMPORTANT."
Batman pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his cowl, a gesture he had performed so often in Damian's presence that it was practically a nervous tic at this point.
"BATMAN," the Ghost Rider said, still holding the squirming Robin at arm's length, "I AM GOING TO RELEASE YOUR CHILD. WHEN I DO, HE IS GOING TO WANT TO ATTACK ME AGAIN. IF HE DOES, I WILL NOT HARM HIM—" Damian scoffed loudly. "—BUT I WILL RETURN HIM TO YOU IN A STATE THAT WILL REQUIRE EXTENSIVE PSYCHOLOGICAL COUNSELING."
"What is THAT supposed to mean?" Damian demanded.
"IT MEANS I WILL SHOW YOU WHAT TRUE HELPLESSNESS FEELS LIKE, LITTLE WARRIOR. AND YOU WILL NOT ENJOY THE LESSON."
For the first time, something flickered in Damian's eyes that might have been uncertainty. He had been trained to face death without fear, to confront opponents who outclassed him in every physical metric, to never show weakness.
But the Ghost Rider wasn't threatening death. It was threatening something worse.
Understanding.
"YOUR SINS ARE SMALL," the Rider continued, its voice dropping to a register that made Damian's bones vibrate. "YOU ARE YOUNG. YOUR CRUELTIES ARE THE CRUELTIES OF A CHILD RAISED BY MONSTERS, TAUGHT THAT COMPASSION IS WEAKNESS AND EMPATHY IS A FLAW. BUT THE PENANCE STARE DOES NOT CARE ABOUT INTENT. IT ONLY SEES RESULTS."
"I have done nothing wrong," Damian said, but his voice was quieter now, less certain.
"YOU HAVE KILLED. EVEN UNDER YOUR FATHER'S GUIDANCE, YOU HAVE KILLED. THE BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS MAY BE 'JUSTIFIED' BY THE CODE YOU WERE RAISED WITH, BUT IT IS STILL BLOOD. AND IF YOU LOOK INTO MY EYES..." The flames flared brighter. "YOU WILL FEEL EVERY DEATH. EVERY CUT. EVERY MOMENT OF TERROR IN YOUR VICTIMS' FINAL BREATHS. YOU WILL KNOW THEIR PAIN AS YOUR OWN."
Damian's face had gone pale beneath his mask.
"IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT, LITTLE ROBIN? TO UNDERSTAND THE WEIGHT OF YOUR LEGACY?"
"...No," Damian whispered, and the word seemed to cost him something.
"THEN LEARN HUMILITY." The Ghost Rider released him, and Damian stumbled back, catching himself with a grace that was only slightly undermined by the fact that his hands were shaking. "LEARN THAT THERE ARE FORCES IN THIS UNIVERSE THAT DO NOT CARE ABOUT YOUR BLOODLINE, YOUR TRAINING, OR YOUR FATHER'S NAME. LEARN THAT TRUE STRENGTH IS NOT IN THE SWORD, BUT IN THE WISDOM TO KNOW WHEN NOT TO DRAW IT."
The Rider turned to Batman, who had been watching the exchange with an expression of profound discomfort.
"YOUR SON HAS POTENTIAL. BUT HIS ARROGANCE WILL DESTROY HIM IF IT IS NOT CHECKED. TONIGHT, I CHECKED IT. YOU ARE WELCOME."
"I didn't ask for your help," Batman said, his voice tight.
"NO. YOU ASKED FOR NOTHING. YOU SIMPLY WATCHED WHILE YOUR CHILD THREW HIMSELF AT A FORCE HE COULD NOT COMPREHEND." The Ghost Rider's skull tilted. "IS THAT YOUR IDEA OF PARENTING, DARK KNIGHT? LETTING YOUR CHILDREN LEARN THROUGH FAILURE?"
"He needed to see—"
"HE NEEDED TO BE STOPPED. BUT YOU WERE TOO PROUD TO DO IT YOURSELF, SO YOU LET ME DO IT FOR YOU." The flames flickered with something like contempt. "FOR A MAN WHO REFUSES TO KILL, YOU HAVE A REMARKABLE TALENT FOR LETTING OTHERS DO YOUR DIFFICULT WORK."
Batman's fists clenched, but he said nothing.
"WE WILL MEET AGAIN, BATMAN. AND WHEN WE DO, I HOPE YOU WILL HAVE FOUND SOME ANSWERS TO THE QUESTIONS I KNOW ARE PLAGUING YOU." The Ghost Rider turned away, walking toward the motorcycle that waited at the end of the alley. "UNTIL THEN... TAKE CARE OF YOUR CHILDREN. ALL OF THEM. THEY DESERVE BETTER THAN A FATHER WHO IS TOO AFRAID OF HIS OWN DARKNESS TO GUIDE THEM THROUGH THEIRS."
The motorcycle roared to life, and the Ghost Rider mounted it in a single fluid motion.
And then, just before it rode off into the night, it paused and looked back at Damian.
"ONE MORE THING, LITTLE ROBIN. YOUR GRANDFATHER IS COMING TO GOTHAM. HE BELIEVES HE CAN CONTROL ME." The flames danced with something that might have been amusement. "HE IS WRONG. WARN HIM, IF YOU CAN. OR DON'T. EITHER WAY, THE OUTCOME WILL BE... EDUCATIONAL."
The Ghost Rider rode away, leaving father and son standing in the alley, surrounded by the fading heat and the lingering smell of brimstone.
Damian was the first to speak.
"Father. I... may have miscalculated."
"You THINK?"
"It was a tactical error. I underestimated the creature's—"
"Damian." Batman's voice was like iron wrapped in exhaustion. "Stop talking. We're going home. And then we're going to have a VERY long conversation about following orders, respecting boundaries, and not attacking supernatural entities because your ego got bruised."
"My ego is PERFECTLY healthy—"
"Damian."
"...Yes, Father."
They disappeared into the shadows, leaving the alley empty except for the scorch marks on the pavement and the faint echo of Damian's wounded pride.
GOTHAM CITY - UPPER EAST SIDE - ONE HOUR LATER
John Constantine was having a drink.
This was not unusual. John Constantine was frequently having a drink. It was his default state, his coping mechanism, his way of dealing with a universe that seemed specifically designed to make his life as complicated and horrifying as possible.
What WAS unusual was the fact that he was having this particular drink in Gotham City, a place he had sworn never to return to after the Incident with the Possessed Gargoyles and the Really Angry Ghost of a Gilded Age Robber Baron. But the Batman had called in a favor—and when the Batman called in favors, you answered, because the alternative was having the world's most determined detective make your life even MORE complicated than the demons already had.
So here he was, sitting in an upscale bar that served whiskey that cost more than his monthly rent, waiting for his contact to arrive with information about the Ghost Rider that Constantine had spent the last two days trying to compile through more... esoteric means.
The door opened, and a woman walked in.
She was beautiful, in that dangerous way that suggested she could kill you with a dessert fork if the mood struck her, with short dark hair and green eyes that seemed to glow slightly in the dim bar light. She moved like a cat—no, not like a cat, like THE Cat, because Constantine had done his homework and he knew exactly who he was meeting.
"Selina Kyle," he said, not getting up. "Thanks for coming."
"Constantine." Catwoman—because she was clearly still in work mode, despite the civilian clothes—slid into the seat across from him with predatory grace. "Batman said you needed information about the skull thing."
"The Ghost Rider," Constantine corrected, signaling for another drink. "And yes. You had a close encounter, according to the reports. I need to know everything you experienced. Sights, sounds, smells, feelings. Everything."
Selina's expression flickered, and for just a moment, Constantine saw something beneath the confident mask.
Fear.
Genuine, soul-deep fear.
"It was..." She stopped, swallowed, started again. "I've fought a lot of scary things in this city. Killer Croc. Clayface. The Joker, back when he was still breathing. I've looked death in the face and laughed at it because I always knew I could find a way out." Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "This was different."
"Different how?"
"It KNEW things." Selina's hands wrapped around her drink, knuckles white. "When it looked at me... it was like being naked. Not physically—worse than that. It could see everything I'd ever done. Every sin, every mistake, every moment I'm not proud of. And it JUDGED me. Not out loud, not with words, just... I could FEEL it deciding whether I was worth killing."
Constantine leaned forward, interested despite himself. "And what did it decide?"
"That I wasn't worth the effort." Selina laughed, but there was no humor in it. "It called my crimes 'petty.' Said I steal from the rich and the corrupt, so my sins are 'venial, not mortal.' Like it was grading my homework." She took a long drink, emptying half her glass in one swallow. "And then it gave me a message for Batman."
"What message?"
"That his mercy is cruelty. That his code costs lives. That if he interferes again, it'll show him..." She shuddered. "It said something about showing him what his mercy has cost. Every victim."
Constantine sat back, processing this information, fitting it into the framework of supernatural knowledge he had accumulated over decades of dealing with forces that most people didn't believe existed.
"The Penance Stare," he muttered. "It's real. Actually real. I thought it was just a myth, something the old grimoires made up to scare apprentice demonologists, but..."
"You know what it is?" Selina leaned forward eagerly. "You know how to stop it?"
Constantine laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "Stop it? Love, I'm not even sure I can UNDERSTAND it. The Spirit of Vengeance is... it's old. Older than demons, older than angels, older than most of the things I usually deal with. It's like a force of nature given form—not good or evil, just... JUDGMENT. Pure, absolute judgment."
"That's not helpful."
"No, it's not." Constantine drained his whiskey and signaled for another. "But here's the thing that's been bothering me. The Spirit of Vengeance exists, right? It's been around since the dawn of creation, in one form or another. But it doesn't just... APPEAR. It needs a host. A human soul to anchor it to the physical world." He met Selina's eyes. "So the question isn't what the Ghost Rider is. The question is WHO the Ghost Rider is."
"You mean there's a person inside that thing?"
"There has to be. The Spirit can't operate without a vessel. Somewhere in Gotham, there's a poor bastard who got chosen—or cursed—to be the Rider's host. And if we can find out who they are..." Constantine smiled, thin and cold. "Well, everyone has weaknesses. Even if the Rider itself is invulnerable, the host might not be."
"So we find the host and... what? Kill them?"
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves." Constantine stood, throwing some bills on the table. "First, I need to do some more research. And then I need to actually TALK to this thing, see if I can figure out what we're dealing with."
Selina stared at him like he had just announced his intention to juggle live grenades while riding a unicycle through traffic.
"You want to TALK to it? The thing that killed the Joker by LOOKING at him?"
"I've talked to worse." Constantine shrugged into his trenchcoat. "Besides, I'm technically innocent. Mostly. The Penance Stare shouldn't affect me too badly."
"'Shouldn't.'"
"Well, there's only one way to find out, isn't there?"
Constantine walked out of the bar, leaving Selina alone with her drink and her fear and the growing certainty that everyone in Gotham had lost their goddamn minds.
THE NARROWS - MIDNIGHT
John Constantine found the Ghost Rider exactly where he expected to find it: riding through the darkest, most crime-infested part of the city, leaving trails of hellfire and traumatized criminals in its wake.
He stepped into the middle of the street, lit a cigarette, and waited.
The motorcycle slowed, then stopped. The Ghost Rider dismounted, flames flickering with what might have been curiosity.
"JOHN CONSTANTINE. THE HELLBLAZER."
"You've heard of me." Constantine took a drag of his cigarette, projecting a confidence he didn't entirely feel. "I'm flattered."
"YOU ARE INFAMOUS IN CERTAIN CIRCLES." The Rider tilted its skull. "YOU HAVE DAMNED MORE SOULS THAN MOST DEMONS. YOU HAVE TRICKED LORDS OF HELL AND BARGAINED WITH POWERS THAT SHOULD NOT BE BARGAINED WITH. AND YET..." The flames flickered. "YOUR SOUL REMAINS STUBBORNLY ATTACHED TO YOUR BODY."
"I'm hard to kill." Constantine shrugged. "It's a gift. Speaking of which, I came here to talk to you about—"
"ABOUT HOW TO DESTROY ME? ABOUT HOW TO FIND MY HOST AND EXPLOIT THEIR WEAKNESSES? ABOUT HOW TO PROTECT GOTHAM FROM THE MONSTER THAT HAS COME TO CLEAN ITS STREETS?"
Constantine paused. "Well, when you put it like that, it sounds rather rude."
"IT IS." The Ghost Rider took a step forward, and Constantine held his ground, even though every instinct he had was screaming at him to run. "BUT I RESPECT HONESTY, HELLBLAZER. YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT I AM. YOU WANT TO KNOW IF I CAN BE STOPPED. YOU WANT TO KNOW IF YOU SHOULD BE AFRAID."
"And what are the answers?"
"I AM VENGEANCE INCARNATE. I CAN BE STOPPED, BUT NOT BY YOU. AND YES..." The Rider leaned in close, close enough that Constantine could feel the heat singing his eyebrows. "...YOU SHOULD BE VERY, VERY AFRAID."
Constantine swallowed hard, his cigarette trembling slightly between his fingers.
"BUT NOT TONIGHT." The Rider straightened. "YOUR SINS ARE MANY, JOHN CONSTANTINE, BUT THEY ARE COMPLICATED. YOU HAVE DAMNED SOULS, YES, BUT YOU HAVE ALSO SAVED THEM. YOU HAVE TRUCK WITH DEMONS, BUT YOU HAVE ALSO DEFEATED THEM. YOUR LEDGER IS... MESSY." The flames flickered with something like amusement. "I DO NOT JUDGE THE MESSY. ONLY THE CLEAR."
"So I'm safe? From the Stare?"
"FOR NOW. BUT DO NOT MISTAKE MERCY FOR WEAKNESS, HELLBLAZER." The Rider turned back to its motorcycle. "IF YOU CONTINUE TO SEEK WAYS TO DESTROY ME, I WILL TAKE THAT AS A DECLARATION OF INTENT. AND THEN YOUR LEDGER WILL BECOME MUCH SIMPLER."
"Is that a threat?"
"IT IS A PROMISE." The Ghost Rider mounted the bike, flames roaring to life around the frame. "GO HOME, JOHN CONSTANTINE. GO BACK TO LONDON, TO YOUR PUBS AND YOUR DEMONS AND YOUR COMFORTABLE COMPLICATIONS. GOTHAM IS NOT YOUR PROBLEM."
"And if I don't?"
The Ghost Rider looked back, and its eye sockets flared with an intensity that made Constantine's blood run cold.
"THEN I WILL MAKE IT YOUR PROBLEM. AND I PROMISE YOU, HELLBLAZER... YOU DO NOT WANT THAT."
The motorcycle roared, and the Ghost Rider was gone, disappearing into the night like a nightmare fading with the dawn.
Constantine stood in the empty street, his cigarette burned down to the filter, his hands shaking, and his mind racing with the certain knowledge that he was in WAY over his head.
"Bollocks," he muttered, throwing down the cigarette butt and immediately lighting another. "Absolute bloody bollocks."
He pulled out his phone and dialed a number he had memorized years ago.
"Bruce? It's John. Yeah, I talked to it. No, I don't have good news. In fact, I have the opposite of good news. I have news so bad it makes my usual bad news look like a bloody holiday card." He took a long drag of his cigarette. "We need to talk. And you need to tell me everything you know about Ra's al Ghul's movements, because I have a very bad feeling that things are about to get MUCH worse."
GOTHAM CITY - PARK ROW - 2:47 AM
Selina Kyle couldn't sleep.
This was not unusual. She was a creature of the night, a predator who did her best work when the rest of the city was unconscious and vulnerable. Insomnia was practically a job requirement.
But tonight's sleeplessness was different. Tonight, she was lying in her apartment, staring at the ceiling, unable to close her eyes because every time she did, she saw THEM.
The flames. The skull. The empty, burning eye sockets that had looked into her soul and found her... wanting.
Petty, the creature had called her. Venial, not mortal. Like she was a minor footnote in the grand ledger of Gotham's sins, barely worth the effort of judgment.
It should have been a relief. It WAS a relief—she was alive, after all, which was more than could be said for the Joker or half of Bane's crew. But there was something about the dismissal that stung, that burrowed under her skin and festered.
She had built her entire identity around being dangerous. Around being a threat. Around being the kind of woman that powerful men feared and desired in equal measure. And the Ghost Rider had looked at all of that and shrugged.
Not worth the effort.
"Damn it," Selina muttered, throwing off her covers and stalking to the window. The city glittered below, a million lights hiding a million sins, and somewhere out there, a flaming skeleton was riding through the streets, judging souls and burning away the guilty.
And she was just... a thief. A petty criminal. A footnote.
The worst part was, she couldn't even argue with it. She had spent years telling herself that she was different from the other rogues, that she had a code, that she only stole from those who could afford to lose it. And the Ghost Rider had looked into her soul and confirmed it.
She wasn't evil. She was just... small.
Selina pressed her forehead against the cool glass and tried to remember the last time she had felt truly, genuinely afraid.
It had been years. Maybe decades. She had faced death so many times that it had lost its sting. But the Ghost Rider hadn't threatened death. It had threatened something worse.
Understanding.
The creature knew her. REALLY knew her, in a way that no one else ever had. It had seen every theft, every lie, every moment of selfishness and greed. And it had weighed all of it and found her... acceptable. Barely.
She should be relieved. She WAS relieved.
So why couldn't she stop shaking?
Selina turned away from the window and reached for the bottle of whiskey she kept for emergencies. Tonight definitely qualified.
"To the Ghost Rider," she muttered, pouring herself three fingers and raising the glass in a mock toast. "Thanks for not killing me. I think."
She drained the glass and poured another.
It was going to be a long night.
SOMEWHERE OVER THE ATLANTIC - THE SAME TIME
Ra's al Ghul's private jet cut through the darkness, carrying him and his strike team toward Gotham City and what he was certain would be his greatest triumph.
He had spent the flight reviewing every piece of intelligence his network had gathered on the Ghost Rider, analyzing its patterns, its powers, its apparent motivations. He had consulted ancient texts and modern sensors, mystical advisors and scientific analysts. He had prepared for every contingency he could imagine.
And yet, as the American coastline appeared on the horizon, Ra's felt something he had not felt in centuries.
Doubt.
The Ghost Rider was not like other threats he had faced. It was not a man to be manipulated, not a system to be corrupted, not a force to be turned to his purposes through guile and patience. It was something older. Something purer. Something that judged not by political calculation or personal advantage, but by the absolute weight of sin.
Ra's had lived for over six hundred years. He had done... many things in that time. Necessary things, he told himself. Things that served the greater good, that advanced his vision of a cleaner, better world.
But they were still things. Still actions. Still sins, by certain definitions.
And the Ghost Rider, by all accounts, did not care about definitions.
"Father." Talia appeared beside him, her face lit by the glow of her tablet. "We've received confirmation from our Gotham operatives. The Ghost Rider was sighted in the Narrows approximately one hour ago. It appears to be following its usual pattern—targeting criminals, judging the guilty, avoiding civilians."
"Good." Ra's straightened in his seat, pushing down his doubts with the iron will that had sustained him through centuries. "Then we know where to find it. Prepare the team. We land in two hours."
"Father..." Talia hesitated, which was unusual. She rarely hesitated. "Are you certain this is wise? The creature has demonstrated abilities that exceed anything in our archives. If it cannot be reasoned with—"
"Everything can be reasoned with, daughter." Ra's smiled, thin and confident. "It is simply a matter of finding the right argument. And I have six hundred years of experience making arguments."
Talia nodded, but her eyes remained troubled as she turned away.
Ra's looked out the window at the darkness below, at the vast expanse of ocean that separated him from his destiny.
I have planned for everything, he told himself. I have accounted for every variable. The Ghost Rider will see the wisdom of my vision, or it will learn the cost of opposing me.
It was a comforting thought. A confident thought.
It was also, as he would discover very soon, a catastrophically wrong thought.
END OF CHAPTER THREE