"No, Kaecilius, I'm seventeen. My birthday hasn't come yet, but I'm still of age—by Kamar-Taj standards, not American law." Solomon found a spot that wasn't too dirty and sat down, dialing Kaecilius' number to get an update on why the temple wardens had yet to show up. For Kamar-Taj, the priority wasn't just the Tiefling boy but Mephisto himself. Until they located Mephisto, the wardens wouldn't act recklessly, lest they alert the cunning devil and let him escape.
But these were minor details compared to the bigger issue at hand: Kaecilius was firmly against letting Solomon take on a major role in the mission. Given the dangers of confronting another incarnation of Mephisto, Kaecilius feared Solomon might be tempted into a devil's contract and sell his soul. Instead, Kaecilius wanted Solomon to remain on the fringes of the operation—something Solomon vehemently opposed. After much back-and-forth, he managed to negotiate a compromise: he'd accompany the wardens, albeit in a more limited capacity.
Before Moreau could mock Solomon for being sidelined, the rumble of jet engines interrupted everyone's thoughts. Moments later, the rusty metal door creaked open, and in strode the ever-commanding figure of Nick Fury, clad in his trademark black leather trench coat.
"Where's Ghost Rider?" Fury demanded, wasting no time.
In response, Solomon simply raised his middle finger. "F*ck off, Nick Fury," he snapped, stepping forward as Dana followed silently behind, her massive sword slung over her back. "Send your people back. I'm not kidding—Ghost Rider is crucial to this mission. So critical that if you interfere, I will kill you. Step aside and stay out of my way."
Fury locked eyes with Solomon. The sorcerer's unwavering determination and knowledge of the future made it clear he wasn't bluffing. Fury, ever the pragmatic leader, understood the stakes. If Solomon deemed this mission important enough to kill for, then the threat level was far higher than Fury initially anticipated. Though Fury loved meddling in things he shouldn't, he wasn't an idiot. He decided to leave his strike team on the Helicarrier for now, opting instead to approach with a smaller group via Quinjet.
"Can we talk?" Fury offered, his tone somewhat softened.
"No." Solomon waved dismissively and gestured toward the drunken Moreau, who was now leaning unsteadily against a wall, clutching an empty bottle of wine. The priest muttered incoherently, mixing half-prayers with slurred complaints about how Solomon didn't appreciate the "Blood of Christ."
"Talk to him," Solomon said, leaving Fury to deal with the inebriated priest. "I have a job to finish."
With an exasperated sigh, Fury turned to Moreau, figuring he might glean something useful from the chaotic man of God.
It was late afternoon, but the overcast skies and persistent drizzle made it feel closer to night. The damp, cold air seeped into Solomon's bones as he crouched by a warehouse window, staring into the gloom outside. The rising humidity only added to the miserable atmosphere, and he shivered slightly as the chill bit at his exposed hands.
"I heard you saved Coulson," came a cold, even voice from behind him.
Solomon didn't turn. "I'm Melinda May," the voice continued. "Thank you for that. He didn't deserve what happened to him."
"It was nothing," Solomon replied, still keeping his gaze fixed outside. He wasn't interested in idle conversation. Dana remained vigilant at his side, her sharp senses on high alert. While May didn't appear hostile, she hadn't earned the construct's trust yet.
"I've read your file," May persisted, stepping closer. "Years ago, Coulson came to me with your case. He thought you'd been taken in by a group collecting 'enhanced individuals' to use as enforcers. He wanted to save you. That was… well, it was right after Bahrain." Her voice faltered briefly, then regained its icy composure. "Anyway, he's a good man. He doesn't deserve to know the full story of his… resurrection. Fury wants that kept classified, and I agree. It'd be too much for him to handle."
"Of course," Solomon replied without looking back. To him, it was a minor issue. His focus remained locked on the warehouse in front of him.
"What are you waiting for?" May asked, finally stepping up beside him to peer through the window.
"The rain?"
"I'm waiting for something you'll encounter again in the future. It's worth observing now," Solomon cryptically answered.
His entire deal with Moreau and Ghost Rider hinged on the premise that the Spirit of Vengeance could lead them to Mephisto's child. If it couldn't, the rest of the plan would collapse like a house of cards. Solomon hoped Johnny Blaze was desperate enough to rid himself of the spirit to make it work.
As daylight faded completely, a blood-curdling scream pierced the air. The agonized wail sent shivers down May's spine. She instinctively reached for her pistol, only for Dana to grab her wrist, silently reminding her to hold fire.
"What the hell was that?" May demanded, her voice betraying her unease.
Fury and Moreau came running out of the building, the latter stumbling over his own feet. The priest reeked of alcohol, and Solomon guessed the wine he'd provided was merely an appetizer to whatever else Moreau had been guzzling.
Their questions were answered moments later when an explosion of hellfire erupted from the warehouse across the street. The rusty iron doors burst open, and a blazing skeletal figure strode out, his fiery form radiating malice.
Ghost Rider had arrived.
Johnny Blaze—or rather, the Spirit of Vengeance—let out a deafening roar. Perhaps it was the frustration of being repressed for so long, or perhaps the entity was reveling in its freedom. Either way, the creature exuded raw, unrestrained fury.
Thankfully, Blaze's human consciousness managed to assert some control. He quickly scanned his surroundings before setting his sights on the Quinjet parked nearby.
"No! Not that one—stick to your damn motorcycle, you idiot!" Fury bellowed, his voice laced with panic.
But Ghost Rider paid no heed. Revving his hellfire-infused motorcycle, he launched it onto the Quinjet's roof, his flaming chains lashing out to anchor the bike in place. Hellfire surged along the metal links, reshaping the Quinjet's structure with grotesque skeletal decorations.
Before Fury could storm over and demand an explanation, Ghost Rider activated the Quinjet's controls. The aircraft roared to life, carrying both the Rider and his demonic motorcycle into the darkening sky.
"Are you f*cking kidding me?!" Fury yelled, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "He just stole my Quinjet without so much as asking?!"
"The boy is that way," Solomon said, pointing in the direction the modified Quinjet had flown. "I hope you realize what you're up against."
"I know exactly what's at stake," Fury snapped, his frustration boiling over. Moreau's drunken ramblings had provided a rough outline of the situation, but the priest's alcohol consumption made it hard to separate fact from embellishment.
"I need to track Ghost Rider," Solomon said, pulling out his phone to send a text. He still wasn't convinced Blaze had told the full truth about whether someone was helping him. That question needed to be resolved.
"I'm coming with you!" Moreau slurred, leaning heavily against the warehouse wall. "I promised him salvation!"
"Who the hell let him drink so much? Wasn't one bottle of wine enough?" Solomon asked incredulously.
"I may have shared some whiskey with him," Fury admitted, holding up a small steel flask.
"Americans," Solomon muttered, rolling his eyes. "I'll handle this myself."
Ignoring the judgmental glares of the other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, Solomon climbed onto the window ledge. Without waiting for further protests, he leapt into the darkness below. A brilliant white streak lit up the night as he and Dana vanished into the distance.
"Sir, is he… the one we think he is?" May asked hesitantly.
"No," Fury grumbled. "That's just the little brat playing pretend. Now get me the East Europe base on the line and tell them to send another Quinjet. We're not missing out on the rest of this sh*tshow."
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