GOTHAM CITY - THE DIAMOND DISTRICT - 10:47 PM
The demon Etrigan had walked the Earth for over a thousand years.
In that time, he had witnessed the fall of empires, the rise of nations, and the endless, cyclical stupidity of humanity repeating the same mistakes generation after generation. He had been bound to the mortal Jason Blood by Merlin himself, cursed to share a body with a man who despised him, forced to emerge only when danger called and to retreat when the crisis passed.
It was, to put it mildly, a frustrating existence.
But tonight—tonight was INTERESTING.
Etrigan stood on the rooftop of Gotham's First National Bank, his yellow skin gleaming in the moonlight, his pointed ears twitching as he surveyed the chaos below. A gang of heavily armed thieves had taken hostages inside the bank, and the GCPD had established a perimeter that was doing absolutely nothing to resolve the situation.
Normally, Etrigan would have simply crashed through a window and begun the delightful process of eviscerating criminals. It was therapeutic, and it gave Jason Blood headaches, which was always a bonus.
But he had sensed something else in the city tonight. Something that burned with a familiar hunger. Something that spoke of judgment and hellfire and the eternal dance of sin and punishment.
The Ghost Rider.
Etrigan had heard the rumors, of course. Even in the supernatural community, news traveled fast, and the stories coming out of Gotham were... unprecedented. A Spirit of Vengeance, operating openly, burning through the city's criminal element like a wildfire through dry brush. The Joker destroyed. Ra's al Ghul broken. Half of Gotham's underworld either dead, catatonic, or frantically converting to various religions in hopes of escaping judgment.
It was BEAUTIFUL.
And now, as Etrigan watched, a trail of fire appeared on the street below—a motorcycle burning with hellfire, carrying a rider whose skull blazed with the light of divine retribution.
"At last, a kindred soul arrives," Etrigan murmured, his voice a gravelly rumble that rhymed out of sheer demonic habit. "One who burns with purpose, one who thrives. The Spirit of Vengeance, fierce and bright—perhaps tonight, we'll share the fight!"
The Ghost Rider's motorcycle skidded to a stop in front of the bank, flames trailing behind it like a comet's tail. The rider dismounted, chains already materializing in its skeletal hands, and turned to face the building where the hostage situation was unfolding.
Etrigan dropped from the rooftop, landing in a crouch beside the Ghost Rider with enough force to crack the pavement.
"DEMON," the Ghost Rider acknowledged, its voice the sound of grinding stone and burning souls.
"Spirit of Vengeance, blazing true!" Etrigan straightened to his full height, grinning with teeth that could bite through steel. "I've heard much tale of what you do. The Joker burned, the Demon's Head undone—it seems your reign of fire has just begun!"
The Ghost Rider tilted its skull, flames flickering with what might have been curiosity.
"YOU SPEAK IN RHYME."
"A curse from Merlin, old and dire. But let us not dwell on what transpires!" Etrigan gestured toward the bank. "There are sinners within, armed to the teeth. Shall we show them what lurks beneath?"
For a long moment, the Ghost Rider simply stared at the demon—this yellow-skinned creature with pointed ears and a perpetual grin, speaking in couplets like a particularly violent Dr. Seuss character.
"...YOU ARE STRANGE," the Rider said finally.
"And you are fire and bone and chain! Together, we shall cause much pain!" Etrigan's grin widened. "To the guilty, of course. The innocent shall not suffer—we are professionals, not some amateur duffer!"
The Ghost Rider made a sound that might have been a laugh—a low, rumbling thing like tectonic plates shifting.
"I FIND MYSELF... AMUSED."
"Then let amusement guide our way! The criminals inside shall rue this day!" Etrigan cracked his knuckles, flames beginning to dance around his fists. "I'll take the left, you take the right. Together, we'll end this fight tonight!"
"AGREED."
The two supernatural entities moved toward the bank—the demon and the Spirit, fire and hellfire, rhyming violence and burning judgment—and the criminals inside had approximately thirty seconds to realize that their night was about to get SIGNIFICANTLY worse.
INSIDE THE BANK - MOMENTS LATER
Vincent "Two-Face" Marconi was having second thoughts about this whole robbery thing.
It had seemed like such a good idea when the boss—Harvey Dent, the former District Attorney turned coin-flipping crime lord—had laid out the plan. Hit the First National during the late shift, grab the contents of the high-security vault, use the hostages as leverage if things went south. Simple. Clean. Professional.
What the plan had NOT accounted for was the front doors of the bank EXPLODING inward in a shower of burning splinters, followed by two creatures that Vincent's brain absolutely refused to process as real.
On the left: a yellow-skinned demon with pointed ears, burning fists, and a grin that suggested he was having the time of his very long life.
On the right: a skeleton. On fire. Holding chains that writhed like living things. With eye sockets that blazed with a light that made Vincent's soul want to curl up and die.
"Oh, little sinners, trapped like rats!" the demon announced, his voice echoing through the marble lobby. "With guns and masks and silly hats! Did you think your crimes would go unseen? The night belongs to things far more mean!"
"YOUR SINS ARE VISIBLE," the skeleton added, its voice somehow worse than the demon's rhymes. "YOUR GUILT IS WRITTEN IN FIRE ACROSS YOUR SOULS. TONIGHT, YOU FACE JUDGMENT."
Vincent's gun was shaking in his hands. He had been working for Two-Face for three years. He had done... things. Bad things. Things he tried not to think about when he was sober. Things that had seemed justified at the time, or at least profitable enough to ignore the moral implications.
Looking into those burning eye sockets, he suddenly remembered EVERY SINGLE ONE of those things.
"S-stay back!" one of his fellow goons shouted—Mickey, the new guy, the one who was always bragging about how tough he was. Mickey raised his automatic weapon and opened fire, the sound deafening in the enclosed space.
The bullets hit the skeleton.
The bullets passed THROUGH the skeleton.
The skeleton did not appear to notice.
"Oh, little man with little gun!" the demon laughed. "Your resistance has just begun! But know that bullets, lead and steel, cannot match what we make you feel!"
"ENOUGH TALKING," the Ghost Rider said, and its chains MOVED.
Vincent had seen violence before. He had participated in violence, had inflicted it and witnessed it and grown numb to it over years of criminal activity. But this—THIS—was something else entirely.
The chains lashed out, wrapping around Mickey's torso before the man could even react. For a moment, Mickey hung suspended, his eyes wide with terror, his mouth open in a scream that never quite emerged.
Then the chains TIGHTENED.
And Mickey... ceased to exist.
There was no body. No blood. No evidence that a human being named Mickey had ever stood in this spot. Just a brief flare of hellfire, a puff of ash that scattered on the marble floor, and the lingering echo of a scream that might have been a soul departing for wherever souls went when they had too much sin to survive judgment.
The remaining goons—there had been twelve of them at the start of this robbery, there were now eleven—stood frozen in absolute, primal terror.
"WHO'S NEXT?" the Ghost Rider asked, almost conversationally.
Three of the goons dropped their weapons immediately, fell to their knees, and began reciting prayers they hadn't said since childhood.
Two others simply fainted, their nervous systems shutting down rather than process what they had just witnessed.
The remaining six made a break for the back exit—which was precisely where Etrigan was waiting.
"Running away? How very droll!" The demon's fists connected with criminal flesh, sending bodies flying. "But you cannot escape your toll! The price of sin is always paid—whether now or in the shade!"
He wasn't killing them—not directly, anyway. Just... disabling. With extreme prejudice. Bones cracked. Teeth flew. Grown men wept and begged for mercy.
Etrigan found it deeply satisfying.
Meanwhile, the Ghost Rider moved through the lobby with methodical precision, its chains seeking out the worst of the sinners, the ones whose crimes went beyond simple robbery, the ones who had hurt and killed and destroyed in service to Two-Face's criminal empire.
One by one, they burned.
Not all of them—the Ghost Rider was selective, as always, separating the truly damned from the merely criminal—but enough. Enough to send a message. Enough to prove that judgment had come to Gotham, and it was not interested in plea bargains.
Vincent Marconi watched his colleagues die or break or flee, and when the Ghost Rider finally turned to face him, he dropped to his knees and started talking.
"I know where Two-Face is! I'll tell you everything! The safe houses, the accounts, the plans—everything! Just please, PLEASE don't look at me with those eyes!"
The Ghost Rider tilted its skull, considering.
"YOUR SINS ARE... MODERATE. THEFT. ASSAULT. INTIMIDATION. NO DEATHS BY YOUR DIRECT HAND." The flames flickered. "YOU WILL TELL THE POLICE EVERYTHING. YOU WILL SERVE YOUR SENTENCE. AND WHEN YOU ARE RELEASED..."
Vincent nodded frantically.
"...YOU WILL REMEMBER THIS NIGHT. AND YOU WILL CHOOSE DIFFERENTLY."
"Yes! YES! I'll be good! I'll be so good! I'll volunteer at a soup kitchen! I'll—I'll adopt a rescue animal! I'll—"
"STOP TALKING."
Vincent stopped talking.
The Ghost Rider turned away, leaving Vincent kneeling in the ash of his former colleagues, and walked toward where Etrigan was finishing up with the last of the fleeing goons.
"A productive night, wouldn't you say?" Etrigan dropped an unconscious criminal onto a pile of his fellows. "Much sin punished, much crime at bay! Your methods are efficient, I must confess—though a bit more fire would add to the... finesse!"
"YOU ARE... ENJOYABLE TO WORK WITH," the Ghost Rider admitted. "YOUR RHYMING IS ANNOYING, BUT YOUR ENTHUSIASM IS GENUINE."
"A compliment! How rare and sweet! From one who burns all those he meets!" Etrigan laughed, a booming sound that made the remaining conscious criminals whimper. "Perhaps we should make this a regular thing? Two hunters of evil, together we'd bring—much terror to sinners, much fear to the night! What say you, Spirit? Shall we unite?"
The Ghost Rider was quiet for a moment, flames crackling.
"...I WOULD NOT BE OPPOSED TO OCCASIONAL COLLABORATION."
"EXCELLENT!" Etrigan clapped his hands together, flames sparking. "Then let us celebrate our new accord! With hellfire and brimstone, we'll spread the word! That Gotham's sinners have twice to fear—the Demon AND the Rider are HERE!"
"THAT DOESN'T RHYME."
"It does if you pronounce 'here' with a certain... flair!" Etrigan gestured dramatically. "Poetic license, my burning friend! The rules of verse can always bend!"
The Ghost Rider made that strange almost-laugh sound again.
"YOU ARE THE STRANGEST CREATURE I HAVE ENCOUNTERED IN THIS DIMENSION."
"And you are the first who appreciates my verse! Most find my rhyming to be a curse!" Etrigan grinned, and for a moment, demon and Spirit shared something like camaraderie. "But enough of bonding—the night is young! More sinners await, more judgment to be sung! Shall we continue our righteous spree? The criminal underworld awaits our decree!"
"...YES. YES, I BELIEVE WE SHALL."
The two supernatural entities walked out of the bank, leaving behind a scene of devastation that would give the GCPD nightmares for weeks.
Behind them, Vincent Marconi sat in the ash of his former colleagues and began to seriously reconsider his life choices.
GOTHAM CITY - THE ROOFTOPS - 2:00 AM
Marcus had never expected to make a friend in this dimension.
It wasn't that he was antisocial—he was perfectly capable of interacting with other humans when the situation required it—but his dual existence as a boring data entry clerk and a terrifying supernatural vigilante didn't exactly lend itself to meaningful relationships. He couldn't tell anyone about the Ghost Rider thing, and he couldn't be the Ghost Rider around normal people, so he had resigned himself to a life of isolation punctuated by occasional judgment-related activities.
But Etrigan was different.
Etrigan was also a supernatural entity bound to a human host. Etrigan also dealt with the complications of straddling two worlds, two identities, two sets of expectations. And Etrigan, despite his annoying rhyming habit, was genuinely FUN to be around.
"This alliance pleases me," the Spirit of Vengeance said, as they watched Etrigan gleefully punch a drug dealer through a wall. "The demon's methods are crude, but effective. And his enthusiasm for righteous violence is... refreshing."
He rhymes constantly, Marcus pointed out. Doesn't that bother you?
"It is... eccentric. But I have existed for eons. I have learned to appreciate eccentricity."
Fair enough.
Etrigan finished with the drug dealer—alive but deeply reconsidering his career choices—and bounded back to where the Ghost Rider was waiting on the adjacent rooftop.
"Another sinner judged, another soul to weigh! At this rate, we'll cleanse Gotham by break of day!" The demon was practically GLOWING with satisfaction. "I must admit, Spirit, this has been grand! The best night of violence I've had in this land!"
"YOU ENJOY THIS WORK," the Ghost Rider observed.
"Enjoy? I REVEL! I DELIGHT! I THRIVE!" Etrigan spread his arms wide, flames dancing around his fingers. "Punishing the wicked is why I'm alive! Jason Blood—the bore who shares my form—would have me be gentle, meek, and warm. But THIS?" He gestured at the trail of defeated criminals they had left across the city. "THIS is what I was made for! To burn the sinners, to even the score!"
"YOUR HOST DISAPPROVES OF YOUR ACTIVITIES?"
"Blood is a fool, though wise in years. He frets and worries, full of fears. 'Etrigan, don't kill!' 'Etrigan, show restraint!' But when faced with evil, restraint I ain't!" The demon's grin was sharp enough to cut glass. "He tolerates our... arrangement... at best. But deep down, he wishes I'd just let him rest."
"I UNDERSTAND." The Ghost Rider's flames flickered contemplatively. "MY HOST AND I HAVE A... DIFFERENT RELATIONSHIP. BUT THE TENSION BETWEEN VESSEL AND SPIRIT IS FAMILIAR."
"Ah, so you know the dance we must perform! The balance between human warm and supernatural storm!" Etrigan sat on the rooftop edge, his legs dangling over the street below. "Tell me, Spirit—who is your host? What manner of mortal bears your ghost?"
"HE IS... COMPLICATED." The Ghost Rider joined the demon on the rooftop edge, an oddly companionable pose for two entities of supernatural destruction. "HE WAS NOT FROM THIS WORLD ORIGINALLY. HE BRINGS... PERSPECTIVE. MERCY. THINGS THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE HAS NOT TRADITIONALLY POSSESSED."
"Mercy? From VENGEANCE? How very strange! Does his influence extend to your range? The Joker you destroyed without pause or pity—not much mercy there for the madman of this city!"
"HIS MERCY IS SELECTIVE. HE UNDERSTANDS THAT SOME CANNOT BE SAVED. BUT FOR OTHERS—THE ONES WHO STILL HAVE POTENTIAL—HE ADVOCATES FOR... SECOND CHANCES."
"Second chances!" Etrigan laughed. "A concept I find quaint! Most sinners, given time, return to their taint. But your host believes otherwise, does he? That redemption waits for those willing to see?"
"HE DOES. AND... I AM BEGINNING TO UNDERSTAND WHY."
The two supernatural entities sat in companionable silence for a moment, watching the city below—the lights and shadows of Gotham, the eternal dance of crime and justice, the endless struggle between darkness and light.
"You know," Etrigan said, his voice losing its rhyming cadence for just a moment—a rare occurrence that suggested genuine sincerity, "I've walked this Earth for a thousand years. I've fought alongside heroes, against villains, and sometimes just for the hell of it. But I've never met anyone quite like you."
"NOR I, YOU," the Ghost Rider admitted. "MOST SUPERNATURAL ENTITIES I'VE ENCOUNTERED VIEW ME AS A THREAT. OR A TOOL. OR SOMETHING TO BE AVOIDED."
"Why avoid what you can fight alongside?" Etrigan's grin returned. "We are both instruments of cosmic order! Judgment and chaos, dancing on the border! You burn with righteousness, I burn with glee—but in the end, we serve the same decree!"
"AND WHAT DECREE IS THAT?"
"That evil must be opposed! That darkness must face light! That those who prey upon the innocent shall know our might!" Etrigan stood, stretching his arms toward the moon. "Call it vengeance, call it chaos, call it what you will—but we both know that crime demands a bill!"
The Ghost Rider rose as well, chains rattling, flames dancing.
"THEN LET US CONTINUE TO COLLECT IT."
"Together?"
"...TOGETHER."
They shook hands—skeletal fingers wrapped in hellfire clasping with yellow demonic claws—and something unprecedented happened.
Two of the most feared supernatural entities in existence became friends.
The criminals of Gotham had no idea how much worse their lives were about to get.
ARKHAM ASYLUM - BOTANICAL THERAPY WING - THE SAME NIGHT
Pamela Isley was tending to her roses when the night shift guard made his rounds.
Officer Jenkins—a decent man, by Arkham standards, one who didn't leer at the female inmates or take bribes from the criminal families—paused outside her cell and watched her work. She was using nothing but her hands and the small gardening tools that had been approved for therapeutic purposes, carefully pruning dead leaves and adjusting the soil composition in her collection of rehabilitated planters.
She looked... peaceful.
Jenkins had been working at Arkham for fifteen years, and he had seen Poison Ivy in many states: raging, manipulative, seductive, murderous. He had watched her escape dozens of times, had witnessed her transform the asylum's grounds into a jungle of carnivorous plants, had listened to her speeches about humanity's destruction of the natural world with the tired patience of a man who had heard it all before.
He had never seen her like THIS.
Calm. Content. Focused on something that wasn't revenge or escape or ecological terrorism. Just... gardening. Like a normal person with a green thumb and too much time on her hands.
"Evening, Ms. Isley," Jenkins said, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.
"Good evening, Officer Jenkins." Pamela didn't look up from her roses, but her voice was warm—genuinely warm, not the poisoned-honey warmth she used when she was trying to manipulate someone. "The night-blooming jasmine should be opening soon. Would you like me to save you a cutting?"
Jenkins blinked. "I... sure? My wife likes jasmine."
"Then I'll have one ready for you next week. The roots need to establish themselves first." She finally looked up, and Jenkins was struck by how DIFFERENT her eyes looked. Still green, still inhuman, but... softer somehow. Less predatory. "Thank you for the fertilizer, by the way. The roses are responding beautifully."
"It was just basic stuff from the garden center. Nothing special."
"All care is special, Officer Jenkins. That's something I'm learning." Pamela returned her attention to the roses. "Every act of nurturing, no matter how small, contributes to the greater ecosystem of healing. We all have a role to play."
Jenkins stood there for a moment, uncertain how to respond to a reformed supervillain spouting philosophical observations about nurturing.
"Well," he said finally, "keep up the good work, I guess. The garden's really coming along."
"Thank you. I find it... therapeutic."
Jenkins moved on, shaking his head in bewilderment.
When he was gone, Pamela allowed herself a small smile and turned to face the wall of her cell.
It was covered in newspaper clippings.
GHOST RIDER STRIKES AGAIN - JOKER'S REIGN OF TERROR ENDS
MYSTERIOUS VIGILANTE CONTINUES TRANSFORMATION OF GOTHAM'S UNDERWORLD
BURNING SPECTER OF JUSTICE: WHO IS THE GHOST RIDER?
RA'S AL GHUL HOSPITALIZED AFTER SUPERNATURAL ENCOUNTER
CRIME RATES PLUMMET AS GHOST RIDER FEAR SPREADS
And scattered among the news articles were drawings. Dozens of drawings, done in colored pencil and charcoal and whatever other materials Pamela had been able to acquire through legitimate therapeutic channels.
The Ghost Rider. Over and over again.
The flaming skull, rendered with careful attention to the way the fire danced and shifted. The motorcycle, captured mid-ride, trailing hellfire like a comet's tail. The chains, wrapped around sinners, delivering judgment. And, in one corner, a detailed study of those burning eye sockets—the eyes that had looked into Pamela's soul and found her... worth saving.
She reached out and touched one of the drawings, her green fingers tracing the lines of the skull.
"You saw me," she whispered to the empty cell. "You saw what I had become, and you didn't destroy me. You gave me a chance to choose differently."
Her smile widened, and there was something almost... worshipful in her expression.
"I'm choosing, Spirit. Every day, I'm choosing to be better. To nurture instead of destroy. To heal instead of harm." She pressed her palm flat against the drawing. "And when I'm ready—when I've proven that I can be trusted—I'll find you. I'll show you what your mercy created."
The jasmine in the corner of her cell began to bloom, its sweet scent filling the air.
"I'll make you proud," Pamela promised. "I'll be the best version of myself. For the Green. For the world." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "For you."
She returned to her roses, humming softly, her movements gentle and precise.
The guards who passed by later noted that Dr. Isley seemed particularly happy tonight.
None of them suspected that the model prisoner was developing an obsession that made Harley Quinn's fixation on the Joker look like a casual crush.
ARKHAM ASYLUM - DR. CHEN'S OFFICE - THE FOLLOWING MORNING
"She's doing WHAT?"
Dr. Sarah Chen stared at the photographs spread across her desk—images of Pamela Isley's cell, taken during a routine inspection—and tried to process what she was seeing.
"Building a shrine, it looks like," the orderly who had brought the photos said, shifting uncomfortably. "All those newspaper clippings about the Ghost Rider, the drawings... it's like she's made a whole altar to the thing."
"Has she done anything concerning? Any threats, any attempts to manipulate staff, any signs of her previous behavior patterns?"
"No, ma'am. She's been a model prisoner. Best-behaved inmate we've had in years, honestly. She started a garden club with some of the other patients—nonviolent ones, we vetted them—and they've been doing therapeutic planting activities three times a week. The courtyard garden looks amazing."
Dr. Chen rubbed her temples.
"So she's behaving perfectly, participating in rehabilitation programs, and showing no signs of her previous criminal tendencies..."
"Yes, ma'am."
"...but she's also apparently developed an intense fixation on the supernatural vigilante who traumatized her during the museum incident."
"That's... one way to put it, yes."
Dr. Chen looked at the photos again. The drawings were actually quite good—Pamela had always been artistically talented—and there was nothing overtly threatening about them. Just... a lot of pictures of a flaming skeleton.
A LOT of pictures.
"Is this... dangerous?" the orderly asked. "Should we confiscate the materials?"
Dr. Chen considered the question carefully.
On one hand, developing an obsessive fixation on any individual—supernatural or otherwise—was typically considered a negative psychiatric indicator. Harley Quinn's obsession with the Joker had been the primary driver of her criminal career, and that had NOT ended well for anyone involved.
On the other hand...
"The Ghost Rider isn't the Joker," Dr. Chen said slowly. "He's not manipulative. He's not abusive. He doesn't reward devotion with cruelty or use his followers for personal gain." She tapped one of the drawings thoughtfully. "If Pamela HAS developed feelings for this entity, those feelings aren't being exploited or weaponized. She's not trying to escape to be with him. She's not hurting anyone to prove her devotion. She's just... admiring from afar. And channeling that admiration into genuinely productive behavior."
"So we just... let her keep doing it?"
"For now." Dr. Chen gathered the photos into a neat stack. "I want increased monitoring of her mental state. Regular check-ins, expanded therapy sessions, the works. But as long as she continues to behave appropriately and doesn't show signs of obsession spiraling into dangerous territory..."
She shrugged.
"Honestly, if hero worship of a supernatural vigilante is what it takes to keep Poison Ivy reformed, I'll take it. It's still better than the alternative."
The orderly nodded and left, and Dr. Chen sat alone with the photos, looking at Pamela Isley's careful, loving renderings of the Ghost Rider.
"What ARE you?" she murmured to the drawings. "What is it about you that's changing these people?"
The drawings, predictably, did not respond.
But somewhere in Gotham, a flaming skull turned slightly, as if it had heard a question being asked—and filed it away for later consideration.
GOTHAM CITY - MARCUS CHEN'S APARTMENT - 6:00 AM
Marcus stumbled through his front door, exhausted but deeply satisfied with the night's work.
He and Etrigan had covered a LOT of ground—busting up three drug operations, intercepting a weapons shipment, and generally terrorizing every criminal who had the misfortune of crossing their path. The demon had been excellent company, his rhyming surprisingly tolerable once you got used to the rhythm, and his enthusiasm for violence had been... refreshing. Most of the heroes Marcus had observed in this world approached crime-fighting with grim determination or troubled conscience. Etrigan just genuinely ENJOYED punching bad guys, and that straightforward attitude was oddly liberating.
I made a friend, Marcus thought, collapsing onto his bed. An actual friend. A demon who speaks in rhyme and sets things on fire for fun.
THE DEMON IS ACCEPTABLE, the Spirit agreed. HIS METHODS ARE CRUDE BUT EFFECTIVE, AND HIS HEART—SUCH AS DEMONS POSSESS HEARTS—IS IN THE RIGHT PLACE.
He wants to team up again next week.
I WOULD NOT BE OPPOSED.
Me neither. Marcus smiled tiredly. It's nice to have someone to talk to who actually understands what this life is like.
SPEAKING OF OTHERS WHO UNDERSTAND...
Oh no. What now?
THE PLANT WOMAN. IVY. SHE HAS APPARENTLY BEGUN... CREATING ARTWORK. OF US.
Marcus groaned. Please tell me you're joking.
I DO NOT JOKE. HER CELL AT ARKHAM IS DECORATED WITH NEWSPAPER CLIPPINGS AND HAND-DRAWN IMAGES OF OUR FORM. THE GUARDS HAVE NOTICED. IT IS BECOMING... CONSPICUOUS.
So now we have Catwoman, Harley Quinn, Barbara Gordon, AND Poison Ivy?
IT APPEARS SO.
Why? WHY? I'm a SKELETON. I'm ON FIRE. This makes NO SENSE.
HUMAN ATTRACTION IS DEEPLY CONFUSING, the Spirit agreed. THOUGH I HAVE OBSERVED THAT YOUR ACTIONS—THE JUDGMENT, THE MERCY, THE ABSOLUTE CERTAINTY OF PURPOSE—SEEM TO APPEAL TO CERTAIN PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILES.
What psychological profiles?
WOMEN WHO HAVE BEEN HURT BY CHAOS AND CRAVE ORDER. WOMEN WHO HAVE BEEN FAILED BY JUSTICE AND HUNGER FOR PUNISHMENT. WOMEN WHO HAVE BEEN IGNORED BY AUTHORITY AND DESIRE TO BE SEEN. The Spirit paused. YOU SEE THEM, MARCUS. TRULY SEE THEM. AND IN A WORLD WHERE MOST PEOPLE ARE INVISIBLE, THAT IS... APPARENTLY VERY ATTRACTIVE.
Marcus stared at the ceiling, processing this.
So they're not in love with the flaming skeleton part.
THE FLAMING SKELETON PART IS... INCIDENTAL. THEY ARE IN LOVE WITH WHAT THE FLAMING SKELETON REPRESENTS. JUSTICE. CERTAINTY. THE PROMISE THAT SOMEONE, SOMEWHERE, WILL HOLD THE GUILTY ACCOUNTABLE.
That's... actually kind of sad.
IT IS GOTHAM. EVERYTHING HERE IS KIND OF SAD.
Marcus couldn't argue with that.
He rolled over, pulling his pillow over his head.
I'm going to sleep. Tomorrow, I'll deal with my accidental harem situation. Tonight, I just want to rest.
VERY WELL. BUT MARCUS?
What?
THE DEMON MENTIONED SOMETHING ABOUT INTRODUCING YOU TO SOME FRIENDS OF HIS. OTHER SUPERNATURAL ENTITIES. HE BELIEVES YOU WOULD... 'GET ALONG.'
More friends?
OR MORE COMPLICATIONS. WITH ETRIGAN, IT IS DIFFICULT TO TELL.
Marcus groaned again and burrowed deeper into his bed.
His life was getting increasingly complicated.
But at least now he had someone to share the complications with.
SOMEWHERE IN GOTHAM - THE SAME MORNING
Selina Kyle sat on her fire escape, watching the sunrise, thinking about flaming skulls and the strange turns life could take.
She had spent the night tracking the Ghost Rider's activities, watching from a safe distance as he and some yellow-skinned demon had carved a path of righteous destruction through Gotham's underworld. The violence had been... efficient. Beautiful, in a terrible way. Two forces of supernatural judgment, working in perfect harmony, dispensing justice without hesitation or mercy.
It was the most attractive thing she had ever seen.
"I've lost my mind," she said aloud, to no one in particular. "I'm sitting here at dawn, swooning over a skeleton and his demon friend beating up drug dealers. This is not normal behavior."
Mr. Whiskers, who had followed her out onto the fire escape, meowed skeptically.
"Don't judge me. You eat your own hairballs."
Mr. Whiskers continued to judge her anyway, because that was what cats did.
Selina sighed and looked out at the city—the city she had stolen from, exploited, treated as her personal playground for years. The city that was now being transformed by a force she couldn't manipulate, couldn't seduce, couldn't outmaneuver.
"He's changing everything," she murmured. "The criminals are running scared. The heroes are questioning themselves. Even ME—I haven't stolen anything in weeks. I don't even WANT to steal anything. What's the point, when there's something out there that sees through all the games?"
She pulled her knees up to her chest, suddenly feeling very small.
"What do you want from me?" she asked the sunrise, as if the Ghost Rider might somehow hear her. "You looked at my soul and decided I wasn't worth killing. But you also didn't tell me what I SHOULD do. You just said my crimes were petty and let me go."
She laughed, a slightly unhinged sound.
"Am I supposed to be better now? Is that the lesson? Stop being a thief and... what? Get a regular job? Join a book club? Become a HERO?"
The idea was terrifying.
But also...
"Maybe," Selina whispered. "Maybe that's exactly what I'm supposed to do."
She sat on her fire escape, watching the sun rise over a changing city, and began to seriously consider the possibility that Catwoman's criminal career might be coming to an end.
Not because she had been caught.
Not because she had been defeated.
But because she had been SEEN—truly seen, by something that judged souls for a living—and she wanted to prove that she was worth more than petty theft and moral ambiguity.
It was, she decided, a terrifying kind of freedom.
END OF CHAPTER SEVEN