DC Heroes in Marvel

"I can't control myself..."

Johnny was in great pain, clutching his head in his hands. The searing agony of Hellfire burned across his body, his flesh dissolving into skeletal form, fully revealing the spirit of vengeance before Constantine and Mephisto.

"Yes, that's it."

Mephisto laughed wildly. "John Constantine, you can't control the Ghost Rider at all. You should just hand him over to me. When I turn Earth into Hell, I will forgive your sins. Otherwise..." He grinned, eyes glinting with malice. "I will let the fires of Hell devour your soul forever."

"Enough nonsense." Constantine rolled his eyes. "You want me to repeat myself? You're just a washed-up old devil. You can't do a damn thing."

Without warning, Constantine raised his leg—

Boom!

Mephisto was caught off guard, never expecting Constantine to strike so suddenly. He knew Constantine was reckless, but to actually attack him? And so brazenly?

The impact sent Mephisto flying backward, crashing into the corridor wall with a dull thud. A gray shoe print was now stamped across his chest.

"You're weak," Constantine scoffed. "Your human vessel is old—what, toss your cane aside, and you'd be limping down the street? Why the hell are you even trying to act tough in front of me?"

Mephisto groaned, coughing up dark blood. His black eyes shrank to needlepoints as fury consumed him.

"Your soul..." Mephisto seethed. "I will rip your soul away!"

Constantine smirked. "Yeah, get in line. Plenty of folks want my soul. Maybe you should ask Satan and God from a few dimensions over if they'll let you have it—assuming you can even find them, let alone beat them."

Mephisto snarled and moved in an instant—

Boom!

A dense black mist erupted, swallowing the entire building.

Inside, those asleep began to tremble violently, caught in the grip of horrific nightmares, unable to wake.

Constantine remained standing. He knew how to counteract this magic, but it would take effort. And effort? That wasn't really his style.

Constantine had a simple rule—let someone else deal with the trouble first. Then, when the bodies had piled up, he could step in and do what he did best.

Fortunately, there was someone far better suited to take on Mephisto.

Boom!

A figure wreathed in hellfire burst into existence behind Constantine. Johnny was gone—his flesh reduced to bone, his soul overtaken by the Spirit of Vengeance.

He was no longer in control.

A dark, ancient force had fully awakened in his mind, devouring all traces of his self-consciousness.

The Ghost Rider had taken over.

"John Constantine..."

The Ghost Rider loomed behind him, his scorching presence making the air shimmer with heat. Constantine could almost smell the scent of brimstone, a familiar stench.

Like coming home.

Of course, in his case, "home" usually referred to Hell.

"Hell looks like the same miserable dump in every universe," Constantine muttered, turning to face the Rider.

Twin pits of darkness burned where Johnny's eyes had been.

"The Penance Stare, huh?" Constantine smirked. "Alright then. You wanna judge me? Go ahead. Try it."

The Rider's eyes flared.

And yet—

Nothing happened.

"Why...?"

The Ghost Rider hesitated. The flames around his eye sockets flickered. His fury wavered.

"Why can't I see your soul?"

His voice carried an edge of confusion, as though something was disrupting the very nature of his power.

"Your soul... It's being guarded. By something— no, someone—immensely powerful."

Constantine simply smiled, utterly unfazed.

"Of course it is."

The Rider's flames flickered again.

Constantine exhaled a stream of smoke from his cigarette and met his gaze.

"You're not strong enough to judge my soul."

His voice was steady, almost amused.

"Even in this world, my soul is still locked away—shielded by forces far beyond you."

Then, as if sensing something, Constantine turned.

From the swirling darkness, Mephisto's form began to emerge, his presence saturating the air with malevolence.

Constantine grinned.

"And you, Murphy..." His voice was laced with disdain.

"You don't deserve my soul either."

"Murphy..."

The Ghost Rider heard the name and felt his fury surge—old grudges mixing with new ones.

From ancient times to the present, he had never been a willing servant of Mephisto. If he had, Mephisto wouldn't have spent centuries scheming to claim his power, fixating on the Kyle bloodline to try and turn him into an obedient soldier.

Boom!

With a casual flick of his wrist, the Ghost Rider's presence ignited a decorative chain hanging in the house. The metal turned red-hot, as if awakening to his call, then shot into his grasp with an eerie sense of will.

A moment later, the blazing chain transformed into a whip—

Crack!

The fiery lash struck Mephisto, sending him flying once more.

The black mist blanketing the building thinned, its suffocating grip weakening under the chain's supernatural power.

In this mortal shell, Mephisto was no match for the Ghost Rider. His current body was already old, decaying—far from the ideal vessel for wielding his full strength. Worse still, every burst of anger accelerated his decline.

Constantine had provoked him, and now the Lord of Hell was paying the price.

His wrath was a double-edged sword. The more he raged, the closer his human body crept toward death.

He would have to find a new vessel soon.

On the other side of the room, Constantine watched the chaos unfold with his usual smirk.

Ghost Rider rampaging in the black mist, chasing Mephisto like a predator hunting its prey? Yeah, that wasn't surprising at all.

After all, the Ghost Rider had another name: "God's Wrath."

Zarathos—the Spirit of Vengeance—was, in the end, still a creation of God.

Heaven and Hell, no matter the universe, were always at odds.

If Johnny ever fully embraced the spirit's power—his red flames turning to blue—his strength would reach new heights. Strong enough, perhaps, to ride straight into Hell and back again.

"This isn't over..."

Mephisto's voice dripped with venom as his form, along with the lingering mist, dissolved into the void.

Johnny remained in his Ghost Rider form, his burning eye sockets staring at Constantine for a lingering moment.

Then, without a word, he turned, descended the stairs, mounted his hellfire-wreathed motorcycle, and sped off into the night. The road behind him burned with a trail of flame, stretching toward the horizon.

The Ghost Rider's duty was to punish the guilty.

And Constantine? He was beyond judgment.

Johnny had other business to attend to—darkness to hunt beneath the wings of angels in the so-called City of Angels.

Tonight would be far from ordinary.

…..

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