Thanks to the massive sword being carried by what appeared to be a frail young girl—giving the impression it was some kind of foam prop for a movie—neither Solomon nor Dana faced any issues entering the supermarket. It could also have been due to the overweight, aging security guard snoozing at the entrance. Regardless, with the help of his Tongues spell and a bit of charm, Solomon managed to extract some useful information from the cashier, albeit for the price of twenty dollars. Nobody forgets a man who shows up daily in a greasy leather jacket, reeks of motor oil, and always buys whiskey.
The cashier had been particularly scornful: "That guy reeks like he hasn't showered in weeks. If it weren't for the fact that he's a paying customer, we wouldn't even let him through the door."
"I can see why," Solomon muttered as they left the store, switching back to English to speak with Dana. "The whole place smells like fermenting baby diapers, and I don't even want to imagine what the bathroom looks like. Honestly, how does anyone spend so much time in there? At least we've got a lead—a man reeking of motor oil, plus the location of an abandoned auto repair shop. Let's check it out."
"Yes, Master," Dana replied dutifully, showing no reaction to Solomon's tirade. Her focus remained on carrying out his orders.
Upon arriving at the abandoned repair shop via a portal, Solomon and Dana were greeted by a truly dismal sight. The place reeked of oil so strongly that it stung the nose. The ground was a grimy mix of black sand and pale, cracked concrete, and the walls were rusted sheets of corrugated metal. The entire area exuded a cold, greasy atmosphere. Once, this might have been an important facility, but it had long since been left to rot.
No one in their right mind would come here—not even homeless people, given the lack of nearby resources like food and water. Even wild animals seemed to avoid the place. Solomon hadn't expected to find anyone here besides his target, which made the presence of a drunken, leather-clad man all the more surprising.
"You can control that demon. Make it your weapon, can't you? You're stronger than the deep, hungry thing inside you," the drunken man slurred.
"Who are you?" Solomon's eyes narrowed, locking onto the figure. A few steps away, one of his primary targets—Johnny Blaze—stumbled out, holding his head as if nursing a hangover. He leaned against his rain-tarp-covered motorcycle, clearly uninterested in either man present.
"Who the hell are you?" the drunken man in the torn leather jacket barked, giving Solomon and Dana a once-over. His eyes lingered on Solomon's crimson Saint's Cloth, a flicker of recognition crossing his face. Turning back to Johnny, he asked, "Anyone else come looking for you?"
"Step aside, I need to talk to him," Solomon interjected, brushing past the drunkard. Dana stood ready, her giant sword poised for action if needed. Solomon grabbed Johnny by the collar and shook him forcefully, trying to snap him out of his stupor. "Tell me, Johnny, how did you escape the States? Who's helping you stay hidden?"
"I… I don't know… Who the hell are you?"
"My apologies for not introducing myself sooner," Solomon said, releasing Johnny and pulling on a pair of white gloves from his pocket to avoid the grime on Johnny's filthy leather jacket. "I am a sorcerer from Kamar-Taj. The last time you encountered Mephisto's avatar, we were the ones who melted it down—and we also saved your girlfriend. I assume you looked into the events of that night afterward? Hopefully, Carter Slade gave you enough details so I don't have to waste my breath. Let's be clear: the commotion you caused has both S.H.I.E.L.D. and Kamar-Taj keeping tabs on you. We're not putting our faith in a Spirit of Vengeance that can't even control itself."
"Hey, wizard!" the drunkard interrupted, his gaze fixated on Solomon's red robe. "Where'd you steal that Saint's Cloth from?"
"That, I wouldn't know. It was a gift from the Sorcerer Supreme," Solomon replied curtly, motioning for Dana to pull the man away. "Keep him out of my way," he added before turning back to Johnny. "I saw your girlfriend before I came here…"
"Roxanne…" Johnny muttered.
"Good to see you haven't drunk yourself into complete amnesia yet!" Solomon's lips twitched into a wry, half-hearted smile. "She did say she'd like to punch you a few times, Johnny Blaze. Now, tell me—has someone been helping you? If your answer satisfies me—"
"You think if I had help, I'd look like this?"
"HEY! F*ck, I'm not gonna hurt your little boyfriend—let me go! Damn, how are you so strong?" The drunkard struggled against Dana's grip, yelling at Solomon, "Listen up, wizard. Ghost Rider has an important mission. He's not going anywhere!" He pulled a photograph from his pocket and held it out. "Ghost Rider has to save him! If you've got any shred of humanity left under all that magic, you'll back off and let him finish what he's meant to do!"
"Wonderful!" Solomon said with a broad grin, letting go of Johnny to snatch the photo. He studied the image for a moment before asking, "So this is the tiefling? Doesn't look particularly special. Has he not yet embraced his demonic blood?"
"You're after him too?" The drunkard's initial shock quickly turned to fury. Struggling harder, he snarled, "I know how you wizards operate! You'll do anything for power—F*ck! Let me go! I'm warning you, don't hurt that boy. He's innocent! I should've known better. I thought you were young enough to still have a conscience, but you're just like all the rest!"
"The fate of the tiefling depends on the circumstances, not my whims," Solomon replied calmly, slipping the photo into his dimensional bag. "Now, where is this boy?"
"Your real target isn't Ghost Rider—it's the boy, isn't it? You're working for the devil, aren't you?" the drunkard spat. Defeated, he slumped to his knees under Dana's unyielding grip. Closing his eyes, he began murmuring prayers. When he opened them again, he glared at Solomon with fiery hatred. "Get lost, servant of the devil. You'll get nothing from me about that boy. Rider, get up! Find that boy and save him—I swear your soul will find redemption!"
Solomon, baffled, spread his hands in mock confusion. "How exactly did I become Mephisto's lackey?"
"Cough, cough…" Solomon began to retort, but a hand clapped his shoulder.
"Give me the photo," Johnny Blaze growled impatiently. "Now."
"Tch. My dear Ghost Rider, you seem to have picked a fight with the wrong people," Solomon quipped before turning back to the kneeling priest. "Dear Father, if I were you, I'd start praying to whatever Abrahamic deity you serve—because it's about time they sent a representative down here."
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