Marvel : Starting as Ghost Rider

Arriving at an intersection, Roger gradually brought the vehicle to a halt, for a barricade had been erected ahead.

A phalanx of police officers, all of African descent, stood guard, meticulously scrutinizing each passerby, comparing them to the images of the wanted fugitives: Roger and George.

Roger, following the officers' directions, slowly brought the vehicle to a standstill. He then parted his lips, revealing a row of gleaming white teeth in a smile.

"Greetings, officers. What seems to be the matter?"

One of the officers, a man of considerable girth, perceiving a fellow of similar complexion, felt an immediate sense of camaraderie. "Indeed. We are in pursuit of two terrorists who assaulted police officers. One is a white pig, the other of mixed blood. Have you encountered them?"

"Oh, no, certainly not. How could I possibly associate with such white pigs? They are responsible for virtually all the criminal activity in this nation. It is a disgrace," Roger exclaimed, feigning indignation.

The officer of considerable girth cast a scrutinizing gaze upon George, seated behind Roger. Due to the latter's cap and sunglasses, he appeared somewhat suspicious.

"This is my sister. She requires medical attention. For the sake of our shared heritage, have pity on us, my friend," Roger implored, resorting to the persuasive power of currency, discreetly proffering several banknotes.

"Proceed. But exercise caution. Should you encounter any suspicious Caucasians, report them to the authorities immediately," the officer declared, retracting the barricade, signaling their passage.

"Oh, thank you, Officer. We shall be vigilant against those white pigs," Roger replied, his ebon countenance once again splitting into a grin, revealing eight gleaming white teeth.

Subsequently, under the guidance of a traffic officer, they slowly navigated past the barricade.

Ultimately, they emerged from a substantial encirclement of FBI agents, departing with unhurried ease.

"Hehe, you see, George? This is precisely the utility of a disguise," Roger chuckled, a hint of mischief in his tone.

Roger's guiding principle in life was to avoid unnecessary risks whenever possible. He eschewed the path of the antagonist, preferring a more circumspect approach.

Who knew what perils lurked within this dimensional space? Was it not preferable to navigate it with ease, employing a disguise, rather than engaging in needless conflict?

He considered himself a man of intellect; brute force was the province of the uncouth. The true protagonist employed his mind.

"What? You cannot locate them? What manner of incompetence is this? You fail to find two individuals with such distinctive complexions? Have they burrowed into the sewers like rodents?"

 Carmack unleashed a torrent of invective. A pack of imbeciles! How had he contrived to fashion such a worthless assemblage?

Having severed his ties with the real world, Carmack had refashioned this realm in the likeness of the New York of reality.

He had, furthermore, populated it with an equivalent number of non-player character (NPC) simulacra, thereby rendering it virtually indistinguishable from his former existence.

He then embarked upon a political career, ascending to the presidency of the United States. He refrained from invoking his godlike prerogatives unless absolutely necessary.

For such actions rendered the experience devoid of meaning. Within this dimensional space, he had initially reveled in the discovery of his omnipotent authority.

But this elation soon gave way to a profound sense of ennui. He knew not the source of this emptiness, despite the fact that the inhabitants of this realm possessed the semblance of genuine humanity: they conversed, harbored independent thoughts, bled, and perished.

Yet, he remained plagued by a feeling of hollowness, for these individuals could not provide him with a sense of authenticity. With a mere wave of his hand, they would cease to exist; with another, they could be recreated.

Beauty and wealth, including material possessions, had lost their capacity to assuage his spiritual void, for they were too easily obtained, available in limitless quantities.

He did not possess Ajay's sanguine disposition. Having endured racial prejudice from his youth, he harbored a profound darkness within, though he typically concealed it.

Subsequently, he had fashioned this world and then imposed limitations upon himself, refraining from exercising his divine powers. In this manner, he could not indiscriminately annihilate the populace, and this constraint afforded him a modicum of satisfaction.

Carmack had finally grasped a fundamental truth: that which is acquired too effortlessly is never truly cherished.

Consequently, he had sealed away his own powers, activating them only in the face of attack or peril.

He then pursued a career in politics, campaigning for a seat in the legislature, and ultimately, for the presidency. The process mirrored that of the real world, arduous and demanding, yet he no longer experienced that sense of emptiness.

Now, the arrival of George and Roger had awakened the dormant cruelty within him. He yearned to apprehend these two individuals from the real world, to subject them to exquisite torments, thereby gratifying his sanguinary desires.

For he experienced no emotional resonance, no sensation whatsoever, in the slaying of virtual NPCs. It was akin to playing a video game; in time, he even lost the inclination to kill.

The very thought of torturing two real individuals sent a thrill of anticipation through him, akin to a man eagerly anticipating a visit to a brothel.

He had directly invoked his authority, mobilizing various agencies: the CIA, the FBI, the Department of Homeland Security, the police, all in a concerted effort to locate Roger and George. And now, these NPC subordinates had the audacity to inform him that they had failed?

"Worthless! I have no further use for you." Carmack, without hesitation, drew a pistol and dispatched the individual before him with a single shot to the head.

"Aaaah—" The comely female secretary, witnessing this scene, was utterly terrified. The President had actually drawn a firearm and committed murder!

Carmack fixed the female secretary with a chilling gaze. She, startled by his scrutiny, immediately covered her mouth, silencing herself.

"Issue orders. Seal all exits from New York. No one is to be permitted to depart. Scrutinize all identification documents rigorously. Any suspicious individuals are to be apprehended immediately."

"Y-yes, sir. I shall relay the instructions forthwith."

Carmack glared coldly at the female secretary. Whether or not he would face impeachment by the legislature was of no concern to him. A mere collection of NPCs. Were he not still bound by the rules of the game, he would have long since eliminated this group of imbeciles.

Roger and George, astride their motorcycle, were rapidly approaching the outskirts of New York when they once again encountered a barricade.

This time, they were not so fortunate. Several officers immediately demanded that they produce their driver's licenses, or other forms of identification.

Roger possessed a driver's license, but it was his own, authentic document. This black persona he currently inhabited had no such documentation, naturally. And upon inspection, the officers would likely discover its spurious nature.

Thus, he hatched a plan—

"I protest! This is inhumane! It violates the spirit of freedom of the United States! I refuse to comply!"

An elder officer of African descent approached, patiently attempting to reason with Roger. "My friend, I, too, acknowledge that this contravenes the principles of liberty. But it is unavoidable. Orders from above. I implore you to cooperate."

Roger was on the verge of resorting to his pecuniary powers once more when a voice arose from beside him.

"Fuck you! Go to hell!" A young Caucasian male, upon being requested by an officer of African descent to present identification, responded with a torrent of abuse.

"Ah, police brutality! A white man is assaulting a police officer!" The elder officer bellowed. The surrounding officers immediately drew their firearms, unleashing a volley of bullets upon the young Caucasian.

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang—

Following a fusillade of "popcorn," the young Caucasian met his demise, his body riddled with "peanuts"...

George and Roger exchanged a bewildered glance. "....."

"Perhaps we should retreat for the nonce, and devise an alternative strategy. Surely, in a city as vast as New York, there must exist other avenues of egress," George whispered.

"There is no time for further delay. He clearly has no intention of permitting our departure, else he would have already manifested. He is toying with us, like a cat with a mouse. Hold tight, I am about to force our way through," Roger replied in a hushed tone.

"Wait, wait, wait! Exercise caution! There are tire spikes ahead. Your vehicle will suffer a puncture if you proceed—"

"Who said tire spikes preclude passage? Who said motorcycles fear tire spikes? It is the tire spikes that should fear the vehicle."

George: "...?!"

Vroom—!

Roger abruptly revved the engine, accelerating forward with a surge of power. As they neared the tire spikes, poised to puncture the tires, Roger's eyes snapped open. Ghost Rider, motorcycle transformation—

The two tires suddenly erupted in blazing infernos, directly a swathe of tire spikes, flattening and bending them.

The Hell Cycle, the Ghost Rider's steed, manifested—

The tires, now engulfed in infernal flames, flattened, even melted, the tire spikes in an instant as they passed over them. The motorcycle then collided directly with the barricade the officers had erected in the center of the road.

The Hell Cycle, utterly disregarding Newton's laws, shattered the substantial barricade, sending fragments flying in all directions.

Having demolished the obstacle, they departed with audacious impunity, leaving behind a throng of astonished officers.

"Apprehend them! Summon reinforcements!" +20 (multiple voices)

"Requesting backup!" +30 (even more voices)

————

Within the White House, Carmack, newly installed as President, reclined upon a sofa, idly perusing the news, switching channels incessantly, hoping to find a report concerning George and Roger.

Ring, ring, ring—

"Carmack here. I trust you bring tidings of a favorable nature. What? Two men of African descent breached the checkpoint, utilizing a motorcycle, and even demolished the barricade? Imbeciles! That is them! Is there any need for further inquiry? Pursue them with all haste!"

Terminating the call, Carmack pondered. It seemed that mere observation was proving tedious. He picked up the telephone again, dialed a number, and issued a series of instructions.

"Hey, hey, hey, Roger, why has your motorcycle undergone such a transformation? My posterior is near to being roasted!" George exclaimed in terror, gazing at the motorcycle, now entirely ablaze, particularly the two tires, which resembled whirling wheels of fire.

The wheels of fire, traveling at high velocity upon the roadway, caused the asphalt to melt, leaving behind a trail of blackened scorch marks.

"I am exercising the utmost restraint with the temperature. Otherwise, it would not be merely your posterior, but your entire being, reduced to cinders," Roger shouted back.

Roger, too, found himself in a predicament. He trained diligently each day, striving to avoid inadvertently scorching any fair maidens, lest he find himself bereft of admirers. He endeavored to refine his control over his powers.

From an initial, full-bodied transformation, he had progressed to the point where he could transform only a single hand, or a single foot, or even just his two eyes, leaving the remainder of his form unaltered.

And now, he could imbue his motorcycle with infernal energy, transforming it into the Hell Cycle. However, his control over the temperature remained imperfect.

To be able to prevent George, seated behind him, from being incinerated was already the limit of his ability.

"Roger, police vehicles are pursuing us from behind!" George yelled.

"Then discharge your firearm! Why are you hesitating?"

"But—"

"But what? They are mere NPCs fabricated by Carmack. He can conjure as many as he desires with a single thought. Even if you perish, they may not."

George gritted his teeth, drew his service pistol, and discharged several rounds towards the pursuing vehicles.

In an instant, several police cars suffered punctured tires, their front ends veering uncontrollably, colliding with their surroundings.

Two even experienced ruptured fuel tanks, igniting and culminating in explosions.

"Hey—Officer George, when did you become such a marksman?" Roger had initially hoped only to delay the pursuit, preventing the police vehicles from drawing too close. He had not anticipated George's unexpected proficiency.

"I do not know. I merely aimed at the tires of those vehicles, and the bullets found their mark. I have never possessed such marksmanship before."

"What?!"

How could such a fortuitous development occur? Arriving in the mirror dimension had suddenly transformed him into a sharpshooter? Then why had he not experienced a similar augmentation?

Wait—

The mirror dimension... Could it be the fruit, shaped like excrement, gifted by Ajay?

But why had he not experienced any effect? What was his ability? Even if it were only usable within this dimension, it would still be a boon.

He closed his eyes, attempting to sense some extraordinary power for a considerable time, but to no avail.

"George, what were your thoughts when you discharged your firearm?" Roger shouted.

"I simply thought, 'I must hit the target, may God grant me His blessing.' That is all," George replied loudly.

"I see. Let me attempt it."

At that moment, a police helicopter appeared in the sky above, issuing a demand via loudspeaker for Roger and George to surrender.

Roger produced his favored weapon, the silver Desert Eagle, and squinted one eye, taking aim at the helicopter.

"May God grant me His blessing and allow me to hit the target—"

George was initially perplexed, but then his very soul seemed to leap from his body in terror. He cried out, pallid with fear, "Roger, what are you doing? If the motorcycle is uncontrolled, it will overturn!"

Roger remained unconcerned, not only directing his gaze skyward but also releasing his other hand from the handlebars, leaving the motorcycle to steer itself.

"Fear not. It is a mature motorcycle now. It is time it learned to drive itself."

"What!?" George's eyes widened in disbelief, utterly failing to comprehend Roger's words.

However, he observed that the motorcycle, despite lacking a rider's control, proceeded to execute turns and accelerate with the precision of a seasoned professional racer, gradually calming his racing heart.

"Roger, in your company, I shall, sooner or later, succumb to cardiac arrest, perishing from sheer fright."

[Those below, heed my words. Stop the vehicle immediately and surrender. If you fail to comply, we shall initiate an attack.]

The police in the helicopter issued a warning via loudspeaker, for the President had ordered that they be apprehended alive, if at all possible, resorting to lethal force only as a last resort.

Bang—

Roger fired a shot at the helicopter. He missed, or, rather, his aim was off.

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!

He fired several more shots, emptying the Desert Eagle's magazine, yet failed to strike the pilot. Roger was deeply frustrated. Was the excrement-shaped fruit he had consumed a counterfeit?

Meanwhile, a chorus of police sirens arose from behind. More police vehicles were joining the pursuit.

As they traversed a bridge, an attack helicopter suddenly appeared ahead.

Boom!

A missile, trailing a plume of smoke, streaked towards the bridge, detonating and severing it.

George watched this unfold, dumbfounded. "They are insane! To apprehend two criminals, they deploy an attack helicopter and even destroy a bridge! Such a waste of taxpayer funds! Are they not afraid of impeachment?"

Roger rolled his eyes, now those of a dead fish. "This is not the real world. They could detonate the Pentagon, and I would not be surprised. Have you not yet awakened to this fact?"

George: "....."

A short while later, a dense cluster of police vehicles encircled Roger and George. This time, armed military vehicles led the vanguard; small-caliber bullets would likely prove ineffectual.

[The two individuals ahead, heed my words. Surrender immediately. You are suspected of... assaulting police officers, stealing a police vehicle, and impersonating a person of African descent. Now, return with us to assist in the investigation.]

The leading NPC police captain, initially intending to accuse them of suspected terrorist activities, found himself unable to utter the words, deeming them too shameful. He ultimately altered his statement.

He, too, could not comprehend why such a substantial force, including the deployment of an attack helicopter to destroy a bridge, had been mobilized merely to intercept two individuals. And, preposterously, they were prohibited from employing lethal force. Well, although, admittedly, their crimes did not warrant such a measure.

"What do we do now? We are trapped. The sea lies ahead."

[George, I wish to converse with you.]

A voice suddenly emanated from the attack helicopter. It was the very colleague they sought, Carmack, the controller of this world.

"What do you wish to discuss?" George shouted.

[I will not harm you. If you surrender and remain here, I can appoint you as Vice President, or members of the legislature. What say you?]

"Roger, what should we do?" George whispered.

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