Marvel: Ghost Rider

Johnny stepped out of the stifling house, where the music mingled with the smells of sweat, alcohol, and cheap perfume. The cool night air greeted him, and faint sirens could be heard in the distance.

"Probably someone already complained about the noise," he thought.

His motorcycle stood by the curb, gleaming under the dim streetlights. Johnny headed toward it but was stopped by a female voice.

"Feeling bored too?"

He turned. Sitting on the edge of the roof, as if unafraid of falling, was a girl in a black dress and a scarlet jacket. She dangled her legs over the edge, swinging them like a teenager watching the world from above.

There was nothing unusual about her appearance: long chestnut hair, minimal makeup, modest clothes. Yet something about her immediately caught Johnny's attention.

"What do you want?" he asked coldly.

"Do you always look this grumpy?" she replied, tilting her head. "You seem like the kind of person who never smiles. People probably feel uneasy around you, thinking you might kill them any second."

Johnny smirked involuntarily but quickly regained his composure.

"So what? Maybe I just don't like anything in life."

"No," she said calmly. "You're capable of being happy. Just not around these people. Not among the normal ones."

Johnny frowned but didn't leave. Her words had struck a chord.

"And you? Sitting up there means you're not a fan of these parties either."

"I'm just another loser who came here to feel normal," she shrugged. "Didn't last long, though. The roof's better—great view, fresh air, no smell of sweaty bodies. Want to join me?"

"How'd you get up there?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

"Flew up on a broomstick," she said with a smirk, winking as she mimed holding something in the air. "Though it only works for witches."

Johnny walked toward the house wall. With a single jump, he grabbed the edge of the roof, pulled himself up, and sat beside her.

"Don't see any broomsticks here," he said, brushing off his hands.

"You're not the only one whose gym coach makes them practice pull-ups," she said, pulling something from her bag. "Since we're stuck at this dumb party, might as well have a symbolic drink."

She held out a can of beer to him. Johnny eyed it skeptically, remembering the awful taste of the one he'd left by the couch downstairs. Even plain water was better.

"I don't drink beer. Don't like the taste."

"Already tried the local poison, huh? First party, then," she noted with a grin. "The pros always bring their own drinks."

Still, he took the can, opened it, and took a sip. To his surprise, the beer was pleasant—almost like nectar.

"Not like the garbage downstairs, is it?" she said, taking a sip and gesturing dramatically toward a drunk guy throwing up on the lawn. "I didn't get how people could drink alcohol either, until I stole my dad's stash."

"Is this from his stash too?" Johnny asked, inspecting the can with German labels. "Never seen this in stores."

"I was born and spent half my life in Europe," she said with a shrug. "Got used to quality."

Johnny looked at her. Her calm demeanor and the ease with which she spoke intrigued him for some reason.

"I'm Johnny," he said, extending his hand.

"Wanda," she replied, shaking it. "Did your friends drag you to this party too?"

Wanda talked about her acquaintances, whose names meant nothing to Johnny. All he gathered was that she wasn't from his school or even his city. That made her more intriguing. With strangers, you didn't have to drag out your buried humanity. You didn't have to suppress your darkness. You could simply be yourself.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the distant lights and neon signs of New York.

"You said you don't like places like this," Johnny finally broke the silence. "So why'd you come?"

Wanda took another sip of beer and thought for a moment.

"I wanted to feel normal," she said. "Sometimes you just want to forget that you're… different."

Johnny frowned.

"Different?"

"I've always seen strange things," she continued, staring at the sky. "When I was little, it even scared me."

"You mean prophecies and other mystical stuff?"

"Exactly."

Johnny also gazed at the sky. Some might scoff at talk of prophecies, but it was hard to deny the supernatural when your mom was a witch, your maid was Satan, and you were an immortal skeleton.

"Tell me more about your prophecies," Johnny asked. "I'm no expert, but I read fantasy, and I know it's a rare gift."

"It first happened when I was eight," Wanda said, taking a long sip as if bracing herself. "In art class, my teacher spent ages trying to figure out what I'd drawn. All I could tell her was that it belonged to her." She wrapped her arms around herself, as if suddenly cold. "A few days later, she called me a witch in front of the whole class and grabbed my arm. It took every adult nearby to pull her off me after I started screaming. She was crying. My skin was stuck under her nails. In her other hand, she held an X-ray and my drawing. Both showed a tumor in her abdomen."

"And she thought you cursed her, didn't she?"

"You have no idea what kind of hysteria broke out at the orphanage. 'Plague Witch' was the kindest nickname I got," Wanda said with a bitter smile. "But there was a silver lining. That incident is how my father found me and my brother and took us out of that place."

"And what happened to the teacher?"

"Thanks to my prophecy, she got a medical checkup in time and had a successful operation," Wanda said distantly. "She's alive and well. Probably still working at that orphanage."

"And I bet she never thanked you. Probably didn't even apologize," Johnny said, taking a sip. "Ever thought about sending her a bunch of homemade postcards?"

"Heh, that'd make a great Halloween prank," Wanda said, smirking darkly for a moment. "You're the third person to say she deserves punishment. Third, after my dad and brother."

"Sounds like they understand justice," Johnny shrugged.

/////

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