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[prakrriti]

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[fandomtrashcan]

Just a normal Hillrock Heights kid.

A not-cropped, text free version of the original panel of this comic.

You can find Hunter's portrait here.

Feel free to download, just don't repost without credit.

[wazzappp]

What if some of the residents of hillock heights start spray painting Ghost Riders open ended rectangle symbol that he has on his chest near places where he's saved people. Its a way to say 'la leyenda has been here so you better stay the fuck away'.

And in turn, Robbie has an easier time teleporting to those places with his mark. His SIGIL if you will. Maybe he can even stretch his consciousness out to those sigils to a certain degree. Nothing specific but just an awareness of what's happening.

[rokhal]

ANGR Magical Girl AU: Wrong Universe

The Robbie I usually write wakes up in the Ghost Rider Magical Girl AU.

I figured that in Magical Girl AU, Robbie is likely to go to Lisa to ask for help walking in heels (assuming Johnny's tips are less than useful) and Lisa gets so excited at the prospect of Robbie participating in drag and he denies that's what he's doing but refuses to explain so in her desire to be supportive she ends up stalking him so she can cheer for him at his show and ends up finding out that he's a magical girl which somehow makes a lot more sense. She becomes a valuable member of the team because she has social skills. Of a sort.

If anything here contradicts any other ideas anyone else has in the works, MULTIVERSE BAYBEE it's noncanon :) The Sharpie thing is purely a case of Great Minds Think Alike though. I saw that in Moose's fic and was like, twins!

This is way too long 😭

As Robbie scrubbed the brake cleaner off his hands, the axle grease wiped away and so did the black Sharpie he’d hastily scribbled onto his fingernails that morning. His bright pink fingernails. If it was nail polish, the brake cleaner should be taking that off, too; he scrubbed hopefully at his thumbnail but this was as useless as the acetone he’d tried before resorting to Sharpie.

He’d woken up feeling more normal than he had in a long time. The pleasant sensation of a full night’s rest had faded as he’d gotten dressed and made Gabe breakfast. His bad eye was mysteriously back to normal and the scar on his forehead was completely gone, but his goatee was shaved off, he had some kind of jewel embedded in his chest, his fingernails were pink, and. And Gabe wasn’t his Gabe. It was Gabe’s face, and Gabe’s smile, but instead of cartoon and comic book heroes filling his shelves and plastered all over his door, it was sparkly anime girls and Japanese motorcycle riders; he was happier, stronger legs and steadier hands, and he didn’t second-guess Robbie’s every expression and movement or double-check his identity after every time Robbie left his sight. Robbie spent half an hour tossing the bathroom looking for his epilepsy meds before he checked the app on his phone where he tracked expenses and found that this Gabe had been off them for an entire year.

The apartment was mostly the same; same view across Hillrock Lane out the apartment window, same pile of automotive magazines on the coffee table—now with manga mixed in—same thrifted art on the walls. Robbie had wondered if he was still asleep, and dreaming, or better, if the last two years had been a long and vivid nightmare, until he noticed the time and realized that he’d missed Gabe’s bus and was about to be late to work. He’d stuffed a stale tortilla in his mouth and gnawed on it while grabbing a pair of coveralls and helping Gabe into the Charger to get to school. He’d dropped Gabe off and made it all the way to Canelo’s before he realized that he hadn’t heard from Eli all morning.

He stood now under a half-disassembled Chevy Tahoe, scrubbing desperately at his glossy pink fingernails as though with enough solvent and friction he could wipe himself from this world and return to his own body, his own curse, his own Hillrock Heights, his own brother. He simply had no better ideas.

“Reyes!” Canelo barked from across the shop, and he jumped, dropped the can of brake cleaner. “Quit daydreaming!”

Eli would have had a snide comment about how Canelo ought to mind his own fucking business or risk getting disemboweled. Robbie checked the time and added up the hours he was due by the end of the day, for future reference in case Canelo rounded his pay down when it was due next week. If he was still here next week. He couldn’t be stuck here until next week but he didn’t know to do anything but work. Did his other self know anybody here who dealt with interdimensional travel and too-pleasant dreams? He wasn’t a Ghost Rider here, Johnny Blaze wouldn’t have any reason to have met him…

...But he was a something.

What the hell was he now?

He was on the clock, that’s what. He had a job he knew how to do, to provide for a brother he loved, even though neither of them were his, and he would reinstall this truck’s axles and wheel bearings and not get his alternate self fired and then he would, somehow, figure out how to get home. (Dread filled him.) (He hadn’t fantasized about murdering anyone all morning.) (The world felt brighter, his senses more vivid, his flesh and skin snug over his bones, and he could believe for the first time in a long time that he might be safe for others to be around.)

“You alright, son?” Canelo asked from two feet behind him, and Robbie hit his head on the Tahoe’s subframe. It didn’t hurt as much as it probably should have. Canelo was just standing there, frowning a little. “Take five, I’ll get you some ice.”

What the hell, Robbie thought, and no one answered.

Canelo did, indeed, return from the break room with an ice pack. No one else at the shop seemed to think this was unusual. Marty winced at Robbie and patted his own head, mouthing, You okay? and even Ramon grunted sympathetically at him. Robbie retreated to the bathroom where he pressed the ice pack to the starting bruise and stared himself down in the mirror. Without his beard, he looked young and delicate—that’s why he’d grown it. But it wasn’t just the beard; his eyes were brighter, his skin was smoother, the scar through his eyebrow had faded—all the scars on his hands were gone, too, the bashed knuckles and burns and scrapes that were inevitable if you worked with cars all day. He looked tender and undamaged. He looked like someone worth protecting.

He had a terrible thought and whispered, “Talk to me. I’m not doing this on purpose but if I know you’re in here I think I can give you your body back.” He stared uncomfortably into his own eyes, but the back of his mind was silent.

He got out his phone—same PIN as usual—and checked his contacts list. Johnny Blaze was on there, but Johnny Blaze had almost killed him and Eli the first time they’d met; how would Johnny react to some strange, murderous version of Robbie wearing the skin of the Robbie he knew? He couldn’t beat Johnny in a fight in the real world. He didn’t know how to explain himself. There was nothing to do but finish the Tahoe.

The day rolled on, he returned the Tahoe to drivable condition and did a couple tune-ups and oil changes, and he snagged a moment to Sharpie his nails black again. He wasn’t afraid of nail polish—he had black nail polish at home somewhere, eyeliner too—but pink was not his style and was liable to attract the wrong kind of attention, especially with how...how he looked, in this world. (What was he? Was he something that could fight, defend itself? There was no fire waiting under his skin to consume his human weakness.)

He was puzzling over a set of trouble codes from a fifteen-year-old Nissan Maxima when his phone buzzed. If this version of himself worked on the same logic, he’d set it up to mute unknown numbers but programmed in all Gabe’s teachers and therapists. He dug into his pocket under his coveralls and checked it. It was Lisa, saved in his contacts list with a photo he didn’t remember taking: familiar bright hair and smile, raising two fingers in a V in front of one eye while her other hand displayed a river rock with a large hole worn through the center, dangling from a pink ribbon.

This was not a conversation he was ready to have. He ended the call. A minute later, she called again. Robbie walked to the time clock and punched out as he answered. “Uh, what’s up.”

Screeching and howling and buzzing in the background. “Omigod where are you?” Lisa demanded. She sounded out of breath.

“Work,” Robbie said, baffled. “What’s going on, are you okay?”

“What do you mean what’s—” Banging, panting. “Where’s Eli?”

A chill unfurled under his skin, his hand grew numb as he gripped his phone case. “What are you talking about.”

“Did you lock him in the freezer again?” Lisa demanded. What. “I know he’s annoying—”

“That’s one word for it,” Robbie muttered, swallowing bile.

“—but he’s an essential member of the team!”

“What team?”

Lisa paused. “The, the team,” she said hesitantly. “The Guardians of Hillrock Heights. Robbie, you. You know what you do helps people, right?”

He was disappointing her somehow—no, worse, letting her down. “Yeah, of course, I, uh.” Eli existed here, but this Lisa knew about him; obviously this version of Robbie had trusted her more. Or she’d just stalked him and figured it out. “What do you need me to do?”

“Get to the Cecil Hotel,” Lisa panted. “Bring Eli. And stay and talk to me after you transform back.”

Transform. Robbie rubbed the hard pink jewel embedded in his sternum. “Right. Okay.”

He left the time clock and approached Canelo’s office, racking his brain for some excuse—a lie about Gabe? A medical appointment? When he opened the door, Canelo met his eyes and sighed. “Again? Well, go on.” Robbie stared at him. He wasn’t even scowling. “What do you want, a hug? Go do your thing.”

He ran out of the shop and threw himself into the Charger. As he sped out of the parking lot, he almost clipped off one of its mirrors against the security gate. He grabbed his phone and started to search for the Cecil Hotel while making a left turn onto Atlantic Boulevard and almost crashed head-on into an F-250; he couldn’t drive and use his phone at the same time anymore. The phone dropped to the floorboards and he pulled hastily to the side of the road, cursing.

His connection to the Charger was different here, too. Still there, but weaker. Possibly just in his head. He tried to stretch out into it anyway, feeling its vibrations, listening to the loping chug of its idle and the continuous hiss of its supercharger, but his consciousness stayed firmly in his human body.

He heard something clank in the trunk.

Atlantic Boulevard was not a good place for a street fight. Robbie found his phone, pulled up a route to the Cecil, took a detour in an alley behind a warehouse. He hit the gas and slammed the brakes a couple times before shutting down the car and sprinting around the back to pop the trunk, confront this alternate version of his uncle, slam the trunk on his neck while he was still dazed, kill him like this alternate Robbie wasn’t yet sullied enough to do.

There was no washed-up mob henchman wriggling in the Charger’s trunk. Robbie found a couple bags of school supplies, a tool box, and a big first-aid kit, nothing sinister, and then in the shadows, oddly, something pink and shiny—one of this Gabe’s collectibles? A Beanie Baby?

“FUCK,” the pink thing bellowed, and then it unspooled and slipped up over the edge of the trunk, hit the ground with a slap, and slithered away, S-curves glittering in the sun as it struggled against the smooth pavement. Robbie gaped, then chased after it. Him. Eli was making slow progress and Robbie caught up quickly, but he turned on a dime; Robbie headed him off away from a nearby dumpster and danced around him for almost a minute before he had the idea to shrug off his jacket and throw it on Eli’s head. Eli backed out from under it but by this time Robbie had him by the neck. “Look. Revenge is, you don’t got the mindset for it? There’s healing in forgiveness. It makes you more stable. Less prone to violent, emotional outbursts. Kid. Kid! We had our differences, but it was the situation, the close quarters, you know? You’d do the same in my position, I just wanted to live, I had unfinished business! And now, heh, you got a body, I got a body, we can go our separate ways. Kid? Hey?”

Eli was a shimmery pink snake about half-again as long as Robbie’s arm. He had round shining eyes in a hundred shades of rose, and the large scale between them was shaped like a heart. His forked tongue sparkled as it scented the air. His voice was exactly the same.

“You, uh. Look different.”

Robbie had a sinking feeling that stomping the snake’s head under his boot wouldn’t be doing this world’s Robbie any favors. He dangled Eli in one fist at arm’s length—an essential member of the team. “You don’t know what’s going on, either.”

“Believe it or not, I’m not the cause of everything that goes wrong in your life.”

“Lisa wants us at the Cecil Hotel,” Robbie said, returning to the Charger and dumping Eli on the passenger seat. “She requested you by name. We’re gonna take care of whatever’s going on and figure it out from there.”

“The Cecil, huh? Good times.”

“Don’t tell me you killed people there.”

“I won’t.” Eli awkwardly pressed his long narrow body against the door, slowly lifting his head toward the window. Robbie took a hard left and Eli slipped sideways between the seat and the side pillar. “Fuck.”

“Apparently you’re important for some reason.”

“Can you not act like my existence is an imposition for two seconds.”

Robbie slammed his fist into the steering wheel. “You exist because you committed human sacrifice.” Eli slithered out of view behind the passenger seat. Robbie took a breath. “You’re a talking pink snake here. You probably have magic powers.”

“Pink?”

“You color-blind, too?”

Eli was silent for the rest of the drive. Robbie hoped he was figuring out what magic powers he had, otherwise they’d just have to wing it.

Hotel Cecil was a trio of brick buildings spanning half a city block and joined by skywalks. The complex had probably been impressive before the invention of reinforced concrete. No longer a failing hotel for people falling down the ladder of society, it was being converted to affordable housing for people crawling back up. Robbie parked across the street and squinted up at it. He was pretty sure the walls weren’t supposed to be covered in gray goo, but there was a ghost tour or something right there on the sidewalk and none of the tourists were taking pictures. Maybe it was a maintenance thing? An art installation?

“Huh,” Eli said, finally squirming his way up onto the dashboard to take a look.

Robbie texted Lisa: Here.

Her reply was immediate. Fourth floor front building room 73

No emojis. That couldn’t be good. “Any ideas on how to get inside?” Robbie asked.

“Put on your spare coveralls and act pissy.”

Robbie could have thought of that himself, but he had no better ideas. He stomped through the graffitoed doors of the unassuming entryway and through the unexpectedly grand marble halls of the lobby floor, scowling like he’d been called in on his day off to fix a plumbing catastrophe that could have been prevented by routine maintenance the previous week, and glancing up now and again at the pulsing tangle of veins the color of neglected differential fluid that wormed between the ceiling lights and which no one else seemed to notice. Eli wrapped himself around Robbie’s neck like a scarf; uncomfortably close, but better, at least logically, than having him ride along in his thoughts like usual.

“Art nouveau,” Eli commented, peering up an angular gold-and-green wall sconce beside a statue in an alcove whose opening was carved to look like palm leaves and Egyptian columns. “Classy place full of staff who don’t ask stupid questions.”

“Shut up,” Robbie hissed. They reached the pair of elevators that served this part of the complex: just two, and one was out of order. A big brass dial on the top indicated that the elevator was on the eighth floor, and going up. Robbie stabbed the button irritably, then gave up and ran for the stairs.

On the fourth floor, the gray veins were so thick that the ceiling looked a foot lower than it should have been, and the light sconces were mostly covered. Somehow, the light escaped anyway, leaving the carpet brightly lit and the air at shoulder-height and above dim like twilight. Robbie watched a tall man in a business suit strolling down the hall, his entire head vanishing into the pulsing fleshy mass. “Keep your head down, there’s gray magical crap on the ceiling,” Eli informed him.

Robbie felt a moment of glee that Eli couldn’t just look out through his eyes anymore. “I noticed.”

“Try touching it. Left hand.”

Robbie poked one of the ceiling tentacles with his left pinkie finger as he advanced down the hall toward room 73, and cringed as the rock in his chest seemed to shudder in protest. The gray flesh was clammy and yielding, leaving his finger numb as he pulled away. Even if it was invisible, how did anyone walk around with their whole head swimming in this stuff without noticing? What was it doing to the people it enveloped?

He passed room fifty, and noticed that the higher the numbers progressed, the thicker the veins overhead pulsed and the lower they sagged, growing to fill more of the narrow space even as he watched. He crouched low and broke into a run. Room 73 was nearly overtaken; limbs as thick as ventilation ducts sprouted through the walls, heaving and pulsing and moaning, ozone and rot thick in the air. He had to kneel beside the door as he knocked. “Lisa! It’s Robbie. I’m outside.”

“Get in here!” Lisa yelled from within.

“They ain’t changed this lock since ‘98. You can shim it with a credit card.”

Robbie bypassed the latch and shoved the door inward against the mass of shifting tendrils packed against the ceiling. There was barely room to crouch inside; the rust-red carpet shone in the light of fixtures completely swallowed by the strange rot overtaking the hotel. He ducked as a gray coil twisted past his face.“Can you get to the door?”

“Kinda busy!” Lisa grunted. Someone else screamed, inhumanly long and somehow muted, the volume too soft for the cracks of agony in the voice. Robbie leaned down and spotted what looked like a clear space around the hotel bed. He army-crawled toward it. There was something wet and sticky on the floor—not blood, it smelled like solvent. White spray-paint, circling the bed. He dragged himself over the painted lines and got his first look at what Lisa was busy with.

There was a body on top of the blankets, a middle-aged white woman with hollow cheeks and loose skin rising in narrow folds where gray tendrils sank into her from above. Lisa had a broken bottle in one hand and was sawing at the thickest of the tendrils just above where it sank between the motionless woman’s eyes. With another, she held a flat rock with a hole in the center, scowling through it like a lens. From the nest of gray veins on the ceiling, a human figure sagged down, joined to the woman joint by joint with those tendrils. Its mouth was a formless hole, its eyes cold wet pits, its flesh the same sludgy substance as the rest of the hotel’s infestation. Robbie swallowed. “Is she alive?”

“For now,” Lisa said, scraping furiously at the tendril. Robbie noticed with horror that two other tendrils had descended from the ceiling to sink into Lisa’s shoulders; he lunged forward and ripped them away. The rock in his chest shuddered as his hand went numb. “Was it on me?” She turned around and looked at him for the first time. “Omigod, why aren’t you changed?”

Robbie took a deep breath and stared up at the vacant eyes of the abomination on the ceiling. He pulled out the blade on his multitool and joined in cutting the woman free; the gray stuff yielded like flesh to expose a tough stringy black core. “We can wrap her in the blanket and drag her out.” The human shape began to drag one of its hands down toward them, struggling against an unseen force.

Lisa grabbed his wrist. “Robbie, she needs an exorcism. You have to change.” He stared at the river rock that dangled from a long pink ribbon on her neck as she tried to meet his eyes. “She’s got kids who miss her, she’s turning her life around, you gotta help! Come on!”

“I don’t remember what you’re talking about,” Robbie blurted.

“Omigod are you cursed or something?”

The horror on the ceiling reached closer, closer, as black claws unsheathed from half-molded fingers. Then it drew back and tension shuddered through its body; the woman on the bed shuddered in synchrony. Its eyes fixed on the back of Lisa’s neck. It lunged, but Robbie was faster, slicing its wet palm with his knife as he pushed Lisa aside. As it swiped back to retaliate, he instinctively leaned into its path—baiting it with the Rider’s leather skin filled with the Charger’s fire ready to erupt the moment those claws released it to burn his enemy—and screamed as the talons sank into his human shoulder. He could barely feel the wounds through the hollow ache the creature’s touch carried, but the worst pain was the furious hum from the stone in his sternum, rocking and jerking like an engine that had snapped its mounts; he thought his chest would crack open from the force. His hand went limp and the knife dropped and stabbed blade-first into the bed. He punched ineffectually with his good hand as the creature lifted him. New tendrils sprouted from its body, seeking to plug into his own. He was as frightened and angry and frustrated as he’d ever been in his life, and though he was suppressing none of it since this Lisa was already enmeshed in his supernatural bullshit, the transformation wasn’t happening.

Eli slithered down his coveralls and escaped out his pant leg as he struggled. Lisa stared in horror through her river rock. “Eli! Help him!”

“Eh, sure,” Eli said, watching Robbie from the bedcovers while Robbie’s leg went cold and dead. “Rake its eyes! Behind your left shoulder!” Robbie flailed blindly with his working arm, hoping Eli hadn’t gotten his left and right confused.

Lisa stood up and grabbed Robbie by the waist, trying to pull him down. Blood from his shoulder soaked her hair. “What’s wrong with you two? Say the words!”

“What words?”

Lisa groped his chest until her palm pressed against his pink troll-doll gem. “Oh, thank God. Say it: Tie cloth nee, ya toys or chalk!”

“What?!”

“Say it! Tie cloth—”

“Ty glavny, ya tvoy suchok,” Eli interrupted. “Five words, you can do it.”

“Die glovny, a twoy sujock,” Robbie gritted out just before the ceiling monster’s limbs closed around his throat. For an instant, all he knew was aching cold and darkness. Then the stone in his chest sparked and a shockwave erupted through his body, driving away the clammy gray tentacles in a blast of warm pink light. It doesn’t hurt, he thought, shocked. Changing into the Rider in his own world was a cathartic blast of agony as his body cremated itself from within, but this, this was nice. He was weightless in a void of dancing blue-green lights. The pain of talons crushing his shoulder was gone, and so were the low-grade headache he always got about halfway through the work day and the tension in his spine and the knot on his head from banging it into the Tahoe that morning; he tingled all over with the contentment of an hour-long hot shower where he wouldn’t have to pay the heating bill. He stretched out, luxuriating in the feeling, and realized with horror that his body wasn’t there.

I’m hallucinating, he told himself. It was hard to think through the nice bubbly feeling, but he remembered that Lisa was right there trying to stop him from getting eaten, and there was a woman on the bed below who was dying, and he couldn’t see or feel anything but the bright pink gem illuminating the hollow space where his body was supposed to be. He thrashed, but it was like trying to fight the wind with a puff of smoke. He was nothing but thought, and he couldn’t even panic properly.

Solidity returned in jolts and starts: cool fabric twisting around his body and snugging him into shape. Protective gloves, leather boots long enough to save his knees from road rash, body armor, something to guard his forehead. The familiar handles of a pair of body hammers filled his palms, and the world snapped back into place. No time at all seemed to have passed; he was still suspended above the bed by the ceiling monster.

He was not the Rider, but he knew what the Rider would do. He jammed one hand into the mouth of the humanoid sludge stalactite and stabbed the spike of a body hammer through its skull. It moaned, and he stabbed again, flipped himself around, gripped its leg between his knees to anchor himself, and struck for the heart, the throat, all the vital targets that he’d trained himself to avoid whenever he gave in to the urge to beat down local thugs in Hillrock Heights. Black blood spattered into his eyes and trickled up his nose, reeking of mold. Its touch no longer chilled him; his touch seemed to burn it. He beat the creature until it melted away and retreated back into the ceiling, all the veins and coils and tree-root limbs draining away after it. Robbie landed hard on the edge of the bed, bounced, and rolled to his feet. His feet—

“Point your toes!” Lisa yelled, too late. He tripped over his own ankles and crashed face-first into the bedside table.

Whenever the Rider ate shit like this, he’d sink through his own shadow and reappear in the car like he’d meant to do it—not that he was embarrassed, just that he preferred not to take the time to pick himself up. Robbie pried himself up off the floor when he realized that his powers in this world did not include the ability to dissolve into the room’s nicotine-stained carpet. He was wet, disappointingly fleshy, and entirely alone in his head. His protective gloves were doing a poor job, already soaked through with disgustingly organic black slime, and his feet—

He looked down at himself for the first time. He wasn’t wearing protective gloves or work boots or body armor. He had the kind of delicate white cotton gloves that women wore with ballgowns in old movies, and thigh-high go-go boots over tights, and what looked like a women’s ice-dancing costume. The ankles of the high-heeled boots were decorated with pink rhinestones, and so were his white-painted hammers. The worst part was that under the pink satin bow where the gem from his chest had migrated, the black leotard bore the same staple-shaped white stripe as his favorite jacket. This was his ice-dancing costume.

He tried to get his feet under him to stand, but the heels were in the way. Whatever force had undressed him seemed to have a grudge against the stock geometry of the human foot; the boots were so stiff he could barely bend his ankles. When he yanked at them, they didn’t budge. He couldn’t find any fasteners. He was about to grab one of his spiked hammers and try ripping through the leather when he noticed Lisa looking down at him from the bed, holding Eli twined around her forearms like a pet corn snake.

“Get the fuck away from her,” Robbie snarled, lunging on his knees.

Lisa jerked back, carrying Eli with her. “Okay, what is your deal today? I thought you had amnesia, but the way you bashed up that genius loci—are you, like, possessed by your alternate universe evil twin with a goatee?”

“Basically,” Robbie said, retrieving one hammer from under the bed. “Put him down.”

“Hey, looks like we’re friends in this universe, too.” Eli rested his head in the crook of Lisa’s elbow and flicked his tongue at Robbie.

“Rrrrrrrr,” Robbie growled. It sounded ridiculous without the rumble of the Charger’s engine filtering through his throat. He could tackle Lisa and rip Eli away from her, bash his head into the wall—but she’d never trust him after that. “He’s not safe, he used to be a—”

“I know you are, but what am I?” Eli interrupted, and Robbie wavered.

Lisa passed him the box of tissues from the bedside table. “Wipe your face and exorcise Mrs. Sanchez so we can get her out of here.”

Robbie hated that this “change” had left him with a human face to wipe. He struggled to his feet, gripping the mattress for balance. The woman on the bed hadn’t moved; she stared vacantly at the ceiling, black veins spreading from the points on her body where the ceiling-monster’s roots had anchored. She was breathing, at least. Her lips were an unhealthy gray-purple. “Any idea how I do that?” he asked, glaring at Eli.

“Search me, I dunno what trigger words alternate-me picked.”

“You make a cross with your hammers,” Lisa said, demonstrating with her empty fists, “and say something like, eej an owie, sucker?”

“Idi na hui, suka,” Eli corrected her.

Robbie had a bad feeling that all his powers were activated by Russian vulgarities. He took careful crouching steps as he retrieved his other hammer, keeping one hand on the bed or on the wall as much as possible, then crossed his hammers like a priest in a vampire movie and did his best to parrot Eli’s words. There was a rush of wind that set his hair fluttering along with the skirt and pink bows of his leotard, and a fountain of pink sparks erupted from the hammers, right at the comatose woman’s bare face and the flammable-looking bedclothes. He had to separate the hammers, to turn off the power or at least point it in a safer direction, but his body wouldn’t obey him: his spine straightened and his shoulders drew back and his legs stepped wide into a power-stance despite the boots pinning his feet at an unnatural angle; he was spraying hot sparks at a defenseless innocent person and he was posing like he was proud of himself.

The seizure ended and he dropped the hammers and stumbled to the edge of the bed, ready to smother fires with his thin cotton gloves, brush off any burning embers from the woman’s hair. Lisa caught him by the shoulder. “Hey! Hey, look, you did it,” she said, examining the woman through her river rock.

There were no fires or burns. The infected gray-black marks were retreating up from her skin and trickling away into inert slime. “What did I do,” Robbie panted.

“You saved the day!” Lisa said brightly. She lifted her rock to check the ceiling; fresh veins had begun to ripple over the paint in a human outline that mirrored Mrs. Sanchez. “You saved...two thirds of the day. Eli, so your thing.”

Robbie hated that he knew Eli well enough to read from the tension in his sigmoid posture that he was taken aback. “My thing.”

“Bite her!” Lisa said impatiently, watching the ceiling.

“What?”

“His bites heal people.”

“Puta madre.” Eli stared at the woman in...probably disgust. “This is…” He cut himself off, looking up at Lisa. “Just what I’ve always wanted.”

“You are so full of shit,” Robbie hissed. Lisa glared at him, and Robbie glared back. “He is!”

“We don’t have time for this,” Lisa said to Eli, making a strange gripping gesture beside his head. “Hurry up or I’ll do it for you. Manually.”

Eli grudgingly fit his mouth around Mrs. Sanchez’ wrist and wriggled his lips and teeth around with disturbingly more mobility than Robbie had expected a snake to be capable of. Robbie clenched his fists as translucent pink fangs flicked into view before sinking into her wasted skin. Eli’s body glowed, and pink sparks shimmered along her veins, circled over her heart, and flashed twice before vanishing. Mrs. Sanchez opened her eyes and sat bolt upright, staring at Robbie.

“Uh,” Robbie said.

“Oh thank God you’re okay!” Lisa squealed, throwing herself between them and gripping Mrs. Sanchez by the torso. “Ma’am, you just survived a carbon monoxide leak, it’s absolutely imperative that we get you to fresh air, you may still be experiencing visual disturbances, first responders have been called, come on, let’s get you out, don’t worry about your belongings, let’s go. Go. Go.” She half-led, half-wrestled the confused woman out the door. Robbie took two steps after them before his ankles did a death-wobble and dumped him to his knees. “We’ll figure out your amnesia-whatever when I get back,” Lisa assured him. “If the hotel wakes up again…” She mimed bashing something with a hammer. “You got this!”

“I got this,” Robbie whispered to himself, stumbling to the nearest wall for balance.

“He can’t even walk!”

[robbiereyesangr114]

Quick info dump about my ANGR Firefighter AU for Robbie

● Certain points from Vengeance Drives for Uber by @rokhal will be included, including but not limited to Guero being wheelchair bound, Alex Northwick's death (with a slight tweak being Robbie didn't dispose of his body into Hell), Vengeance's skirmish with Robbie, the ending rescue of the bus and Forerunner incident.

● The main antagonists will be Muse of course but also, Marco Miranda a corrupt and racist cop who will continuously harass Robbie for having Grumpy's car and John Orr (real person worth a quick Google if you have time) an arsonist Fire Chief & Arson Investigator in Robbie's district who begins burning places close to the Reyes Residence and places of importance to Robbie, leading up John lighting fire to the scrap yard while Robbie is inside, just to name the ones I've fleshed out so far. Vengeance will make a minor appearance as he'll be in LAPD custody and Robbie will assist in him getting escorted to a S.H.I.E.L.D. Facility.

● Robbie, Lisa and Gabe will all work in the same station. Robbie will be a Firefighter III and EMT (since LAFD requires Firefighters to hold a level of medical as well), Lisa will be a paramedic, and Gabe will act as a secretary as sorts.

● Alex Northwick's death will lead to Cecilia Reyes "Forcefield" from the X-men to take his spot. I may work in them being related, but probably not. I'll leave that up to feedback.

● Robbie will have moved from Hillrock Heights to Boyle Heights, using the Agents of Shield locations as points of reference. He will still work for Canelo during some of his time off from the station and take up a job at El Monte Junk and Salvage as Canelo owns it too, and it's close to home. This move will but Robbie closer to the Angeles National Forest and a block away from Evergreen Cementary (where Eli was buried)

● Gabe will be starting high school at this point in the timeline and will be dating Charlene Ocampo (see Ghost Rider Valentines Day Special)

● Robbie will be assigned to Engine. He will baby/clean/maintain the apparatus as he does the Hell Charger. With being assigned to Engine will mean he'll be going in fires and have to do his best to act "human" and not go into situations his powers would protect him from.

● Background characters will be pulled from Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., 9-1-1 and the Dick Wolf universe.

I'm open to suggestions from all my Ghost Rider mutuals as well as anyone who mignt be able to help flesh out the story @wazzappp @belushiii @cicada-candy @moosemonstrous @rokhal

[moosemonstrous]

Ghost Rider Pacific Rim AU - night classes

“It’s so cool,” Gabe pulls his face down to get a better look at his eye. “You’re like Dr Luo! Is it like that forever now?”

Robbie wracks his brain for an image of Dr Luo – he’s pretty sure that’s one of the bad guys in Ninja Wolf. Wait, this hurts your feelings? That’s hilarious. It’s nothing. He’s just glad Gabe isn’t freaked out by the way his pupil is still misshapen, the surrounding iris cloudy-brown from the broken blood vessels. Dr Montesi said the damage is mostly cosmetic, but seemed a little taken aback that he could see without much trouble. She spent the majority of their appointment frowning and making notes while Cho rattled off incomprehensible test results. They clearly arrived at some sort of a reluctant conclusion, but didn’t translate it into non-PhD, so all he knows is that he needs to go into the resonance machine again, this time for a full-body scan. MRI became MRS, which will apparently make all the difference.

He’s been prescribed extra rations. He’s already struggling to finish what the mess hall considers regular ones – but Gabe is always hungry after finishing his, so it’s hardly a problem.

“It should go back to normal in a couple of weeks,” he says as Gabe pulls his lower eyelid down. “How was school, anyway? Did you meet anyone new?”

While school-prep was essentially quarantine, proper ‘school’ turns out to be something of a misnomer – it’s a classroom attached to the unattended minors centre where the whole base dumps their kids when their guardians are at work, or otherwise occupied. Sometimes, after a demon attack, some of the children find themselves permanent residents until alternative care can be arranged. It’s good for them to be used to the environment.

“We’ve been notified you will be joining the academy,” the teacher told Robbie while Gabe was saying goodbye to his new classmates. He didn’t offer congratulations. “You don’t need to worry about the schedule. I know Major Brooks likes to run his sessions long.”

Major Brooks can like his sessions on the moon for all Robbie cares. He’s not letting Gabe live out of a temp bunk full of abandoned and orphaned children. The nightmare he had, the one about dying in The Charger – Didn’t die. – still makes him uneasy, and he has no plans on joining any strike teams. Besides, it seems a little unfair – as in any other childcare facility he’s ever seen, the staff are stretched thin and never paid enough for all they’re asked to do. Robbie can’t imagine preparing for a shift with sixty kids and ending up with a hundred, because someone up in the dome ran an exercise for an extra two hours.

That’s because you’ve never been in a Kwoon ring. Trust me, it’s better than hanging around a cripple all day.

He freezes. Was that–

“...and Lin said her dad can make me elbow pads like hers,” Gabe finishes recounting. Crap, Robbie didn’t mean to space out like that. “I want to draw her a picture from her story. Can we get the book?”

Gabe has a school-issued tablet that came complete with a stern warning about selling Shatterdome property. It takes Robbie longer than he’d like to figure out how to access the online library. Every piece of technology they get is second-hand or renovated, and still years ahead of what he could afford back in L.A.

The e-reader has adjustable text size and screen contrast, and a read-aloud option. Damn, you’re easy to impress. The book Gabe requested seems to be some sort of a video game novelisation.

This is all too good to be true, he thinks when Gabe is busy finishing his second helping of noodle soup while following the text along to the narrator in his earphones. The stipend he’s getting from medical is slightly less than what he’d make as a mechanic, and nowhere near enough to save up and leave, but so much on the base is provided for free it’s not really a concern. It feels not unlike the first few weeks in their own flat back in Hillrock Heights – a to-date unprecedented amount of comfort. That lasted only seven months before the demon attack. According to the countdown display, the next one is due in three weeks.

“Robbie-Robbie,” Gabe sing-songs without looking away from the screen. “Your soup is getting cold.”

“You’re holding it wrong. Extend your thumb,” Robbie says to his dad, grabbing his staff to demonstrate.

Dad is only a couple of inches taller than him. He rolls his eyes. He looks… fond.

“I can still knock the snot out of you, soldier boy.”

Robbie laughs. It sounds forced. “Yeah? That a threat?”

“Hell yeah.” Dad looks a little unsure for a moment. “Seriously, Juliana is watching. Go easy on me, huh?”

Robbie doesn’t remember having dreams like that before. Normal stuff, sometimes nightmares, but never these… these weird whole-scene narratives. He lies in his cot for a good ten minutes, trying to level his breathing; it felt so real. His arms ache.

Four in. Hold four. Four out. It’s being in the Shatterdome. Back in the Shatterdome. It’s messing with whatever… block he’s got in his head. There are records – classified, but maybe if he asked–

Or you could just plug back into The Charger. It’s got what you need.

Is it weird that Gabe doesn’t seem interested? Then again, he was too little to remember dad at all. He stopped asking after mom fairly quickly too. It used to be a point of pride for Robbie – he could do it by himself. They didn’t need anyone else.

He presses his knuckles into his eyes until he sees sparks. Jesus, pull yourself together. Right. He swings down from his bunk and goes to wake Gabe up – he’s been sleeping like a log with all the noise suppression in the crew quarters. They have morning routine down to the minute – roll out the kinks from Gabe’s legs and lower back, make sure he doesn’t try to spit out the one pill that doesn’t come in a sugar shell, decant the rest of the day’s meds plus emergency supply into the plastic container, check the medical info sheet is still in his backpack where it’s supposed to be. Gabe showers in the evenings, and Robbie in the mornings while he gets dressed. Back in L.A., the harried social worker he used to harass for advice mentioned that now Gabe is a teenager, Robbie needs to occasionally leave him alone behind a closed door, and this is the best he can offer – other than never, ever thinking about it any further in any detail.

All the kids get meals at the beginning of each shift, so he drops Gabe off first before looping back to the mess hall for his prescription food. Most of everything on offer is vegetarian, but with his new academy assignment Robbie can technically access the pork. It’s half eight in the morning – he has to solemnly promise the old lady behind the counter that he won’t starve to death on just rice and beans.

It turns out to be the wrong choice.

*

Tony waves Amadeus over to the edge of the viewing platform and points to the mat to the far side of the gym, where Robbie Reyes is getting his ass handed to him for the fifteenth time in a row. He’s probably counting, too. He looks the type.

“Ouch,” Amadeus hisses in sympathy. “Wasn’t he supposed to just run laps?”

“Yep,” Tony pops the ‘p’. He wishes he’d brought popcorn. “Don’t ask me, they were already at it when I got here.”

They watch the sixteenth match end, once again, with Reyes flat on his back on the mat. Tony waits until Eric gets him up again to nod his head to the other side of the platform. “Watch the Colonel.”

Ivanov doesn’t make a habit of observing the recruits. He shows up in the Kwoon Combat Room for pair ups, because that’s always good fun, but the cadets are pretty pitiful until Eric whips them into shape, and the brass tends to train when the impressionable young people can’t hear their backs creak from the effort. He’s been watching Reyes like a hawk, though, and according to Tony’s quick dig into base surveillance, arrived just in time to potentially instruct their Fightmaster to change up his training program. Eric doesn’t sway from his routines unless directly threatened with public speaking. Or unless Carol asks nicely enough, and she’s on duty this morning.

“His orthodontist will have some work to do,” Amadeus comments. He produces a pack of jelly beans from his coat pocket and offers some to Tony. “Are we being anti-establishment again?”

“Please, we’re always anti-establishment. Say, I know nothing about martial arts. Is Reyes any good?”

Only the rangers stand any chance of winning against Eric, and usually only after several years of learning his every move. That the kid hasn’t tapped out yet is already pretty impressive, but Tony has been known to mistake stubbornness for skill before. Amadeus crunches on the jelly beans for a long moment before replying.

“It’s like he’s been studying from old movies,” he says, thoughtful. “Knows what to do, but can’t back it up.”

“Did he mention getting any lessons?”

“Two boxing classes at fifteen.” Amadeus has the good sense to appear slightly red-faced at how quickly he pulled that information out of his giant brain. Tony magnanimously lets it slide. “What are you saying?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. But something smells funny here, doesn’t it?”

“Wait till you see what Montesi pulled out of his MEG scan.”

“Oooh, do tell.”

One level below, Reyes begins losing his cool. He puts enough strength into his next hit that when the wooden staff hits the mat instead of Eric’s leg, it bounces back and nearly hits him square in the face. Tony really doesn’t know much about fighting – he’s more of a lover type – but he knows Eric Brooks, and under three hundred layers of repression and self-esteem issues no therapist in the universe could crack, the big guy appears to be surprised.

“Not here,” Amadeus pockets his jelly beans. “Patient confidentiality and all that.”

That’s even more curious. “That good?” Amadeus has that look on his face. It’s been a while since Tony had last seen it, and he can’t say he enjoyed the resulting mayhem. “Alright, boy wonder. Lead the way.”

[goldendaydna]

The Hell Charger being able to phase through stuff is one of my favorite things.

Imagine a criminal, thinking they'd be safe be safe on say the fifth floor of a building but the moment they turn around there is this flaming car dead center in the room with the Ghost Rider of Hillrock Heights just staring at you.

[spikershoyo]

Alright, friend. Would you rather go on a late night drive with...

Robbie Reyes

Or

Tommy Miller

OUHHH

ok, would love to go on a drive with Tommy but I feel like he's more like a roadtrip kinda guy, and Robbie has already been given the HC for late night drives. So def Robbie, wether it's romantic or platonic, getting some yummy food and having fun listening to music or just talking while parked on a hill that over looks Hillrock Heights!!

[imsamirshah]

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[fandomtrashcan]

My fave Lisa headcanon is that she has ugly duckling syndrome. Like, she was a very average looking kid who maybe had acne or wore braces and happened to have the bad luck to be bullied. Then puberty hit and boom, when she enters highschool she is gorgeous. She is incredibly beautiful and deep down she still cannot believe it, but the thing is that she fits now. And fitting is a good thing, specially in hillrock heights. So she puts on a Valley Girl persona, but deep down she's still kind of ankward and insecure, and smarter than people give her credit for. Her social skills are not top notch. She doesn't have experience with boys even if she tries to act brave with Robbie.

[wazzappp]

I CANT DRAW RIGHT NOW BUT THIS IDEA HAS BEEN BOUNCING AROUND MY BRAIN LIKE A POSESSED TENNIS BALL ALL AFTERNOON AND I FUCKING NEED IT OUT NOW

Okokok you know the whole 'Halloween is when ghosts are closest to the material plane' shtick? THAT. BUT IT EFFECTS ROBBIE.

He wakes up on October 31st and just feels off. Cold but in that freezer burn way, claustrophobic in his own skin just straight up bad. Robbie, being Robbie, just assumes he has a cold and goes on about his day. Goes to work takes Gabe trick or treating (maybe trunk or treating that could be cool. All before dark of course. Hillrock heights on Halloween night sounds like a lot of trouble.) And finally FINALLY the sun goes down and he can burn up.

He lets off some steam in the usual way (finds some people to beat the shit out of). And goes to snuff out so he can go home and (try to) get some sleep.

But he can't. He can't snuff out.

Queue PANIK. Wtf is he going to do? He can't go home like this, obviously, he's already neutralized the biggest threats for Halloween night (maybe call Lisa?? 👀👀💥🔨 NOT THE TIME SHIPPING BRAIN).

Anyway, he can finally force himself to snuff out a few hours before daylight. And he's relived, obviously, in a 'OH THANK GOD IM NOT STUCK FOREVER' kind of way. BUT HES STILL WRONG. His hands still look like the burned ghost rider suit and it traces up his arms following his veins. The metal cheekbones of the skull are showing in slivers on his face and its the same with the main vent on his forhead. His eyes still glow, when he speaks there's clicking and rasping noises, it's all just WRONG.

QUEUE PANIK 2 ELECTRIC AVENUE

All of this goes away by the time the sun rises and its actually the morning of the next day but ughhhh. I realized that Robbie essentially sees his ghost rider form as a tool more than anything else, and has never stopped to just EXIST like that. HENCE MY DESIRE TO FORCE HIM.

[rokhal]

College is a Scream

All-New Ghost Rider meets Scream, set when Robbie is like 20 and Lisa is in college. Part 1 of ? Posting this now in case I don't finish the rest. Thanks @wazzappp for troubleshooting this!

The first time Lisa O’Toole narrowly escaped being stabbed to death, she was walking alone across the UCLA campus on a breezy October night, chatting on the phone to a member of the student advisory committee doing a survey.

“Again, sorry to bother you so late,” the other student was saying. He cleared his throat and Lisa heard a wuffling sound, like wind across a microphone. Maybe that was from her end. “We’re just trying to take everyone’s preferences for activities into account. Uh, do you like movies?”

Lisa laughed. The guy on the other end seemed so earnest, and she could picture him crouched in his dorm room by the light of his desktop, working his way through a script and a list of numbers. Had to be such a drag. “Pretty sure everybody likes movies.”

“Any movies?”

Lisa was getting better at catching sexual innuendo. “Most movies.”

“How about scary movies?”

“Oh, you bet your bottom I do!”

She could practically hear the other student grinning back at her over the line. “What’s your favorite scary movie?”

Lisa bounced on her toes as she crossed a courtyard and approached the gap between the art building and the theater building. “Omigosh. That’s so hard. That’s a hard choice. Like, what’s my favorite good scary movie, or which do I watch the most, or what do I recommend to a friend or what’s the best one for a party? A party, you know, I think you want late eighties/early nineties pop-culture schlock. Like Chucky. It’s not too hardcore for a large audience, and the effects hold up, and there’s a lot going on, like with the serial killer practicing hoodoo to tie himself to the living world. Or, maybe? Elm Street II. Nightmare. If you know the behind-the-scenes story before you start, the queer cinema story, it like blows you away, and the body horror? The transformation scene where Freddy Krueger tears his way out of Jesse’s body and possesses him? Umph. Haunting. And his kinda-girlfriend has the same name as me, and she survives. Or, wait, did you mean the movie that scared me the most? I’ll be honest...you still can’t beat The Brave Little Toaster.”

“How about the Stab franchise?” the student prompted, his voice going a bit growly.

Lisa squeaked. “I love Stab! They’re so cheesy. Stab V is my favorite, it’s like the best take on time travel in cinema, it’s totally underappreciated.”

The line fell silent for a bit and Lisa checked her reception as the tree-lined walkway narrowed between the massive theater building and a freestanding wall that cupped a little wooded park at the end of the art building. “Every Stab movie starts with a phone call. A stranger calls a woman alone, seeming friendly until he suddenly ropes her into a sadistic game. So...Lisa—”

Was that movement beyond that stupid cinderblock wall up ahead? Lisa slung her purse off her shoulder and let it dangle low and heavy from her free hand. “Gotta-go-nice-chatting-call-you-back-bye!” she hissed, hanging up. It was awfully narrow between the little park and the theater building. Awfully dark, with the security lights casting harsh shadows in exactly the wrong places.

There was no law against hanging out in parks. Could be somebody sleeping rough, shooting up, waiting to meet somebody for a deal—but this wasn’t Hillrock Heights, Lisa reminded herself. On campus, nobody should have any business lurking around in the dark.

The brightly lit street was less than fifty yards ahead. Turning back would mean turning her back on whoever this was. It was probably just a couple students making out, anyway. “Hey,” Lisa called, so as not to startle whoever it was. Her phone buzzed in her hand, and she silenced it, wishing she’d worn something with pockets today. She backed toward the theater building, watching the wall as she went.

No one there as she started to round the corner, just darkness and trees. She kept watching over her shoulder as she passed by, and just as she was about to look away toward the street, someone dressed in black with a shining, twisted face charged out from behind the wall. Lisa shrieked and swung her purse and struck the figure with a crack. They dropped slacklimbed to the pavement and lay still.

It was a person in a Ghostface costume, with the screaming mask and black robe and mall-ninja hunting knife and the whole bit. Not a monster, not La Leyenda, not a gang member on steroids, but a fellow student. “Oh no.” Probably some twisted fraternity prank. “Oh no!” And Lisa had gone and gotten herself involved.

She could just leave the guy there. But he’d been unconscious for thirty seconds already. That was bad. If she left him here and he died, no-one would know, but she’d know, and that would set a bad precedent. She called campus security as she kicked the knife away from the student’s slack grip.

“So, like, I was walking to my bus stop from the library and there’s this guy just lying there in a Halloween costume,” Lisa explained after greeting the dispatcher. “He’s not answering me? I think somebody needs to check on him.”

“Is he breathing?” the dispatcher demanded.

Lisa crouched behind the student’s back and watched it rise and fall. “Yeah. Like, can I go? It’s kinda creepy out.”

“Please stay with him until first responders arrive,” the dispatcher requested. “Clear any obstructions away from his nose and mouth. You need to be ready to answer questions.”

Crap, crap, crap. Lisa pulled the mask off the student’s face; it was a guy, looked like an upperclassman, white, eyes open but unfocused, blood dribbling down his scalp. “But my bus is coming!” she lied. She turned on her phone flashlight and checked the outside of her purse for blood: nothing. Looked like the guy’s hood had caught it all; small favors. This was really bad.

“You have to stay with the unconscious person!” the dispatcher insisted. “You could be legally liable for abandonment if you walk away!”

“Okay, okay,” Lisa said, stepping around to the non-staring side of the man’s face. “I’ll stick around. It’s just really creepy here, okay?”

“You’re doing the right thing. Paramedics are on their way.”

As sirens wailed in the distance, Lisa fished her lucky brick out from the bottom of her purse and threw it as hard as she could into the park. “Crap.”

[southindiatourstravels]

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