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The feeling of being old, of having seen too much, of reticence to do what has to be done is gone when he steps out of the comic and back into the fairly tranquil and comforting world of the Library's storage room. Ralph is leaned up against a unit of shelves, thumbing through yet another comic that doesn't have almost imperceptible hum of the special books and things in the place. The younger man looks at the box in Mike's hand, not curious, probably not wanting to know what it contains. Better he doesn't know.

"Got out of there without confrontation. Not a good sign." Even if Ralph doesn't ask, he should know.

"I'm not sure I like saying it that way, Ralph." He hits the lights after they exit the storeroom, watching ahead, listening behind, more from habit than worry that what he awaits is right here, right now. But it is out there. somewhere, somehow, waiting. Mephistophles' presence in his shop was his first clue that the evil of his world followed him here to this, at least, something of it. Stupid to think he could hide from it and that one day, he wouldn't have to reckon with his past and his curse.

He wants to think that it is only this one contract, this one last transformation and then he gets his life back, a sense of true normalcy. But he knows it's never only this time, this single job to do. There's always one more reason he didn't hold up his end of a bargain struck when he was too distraught to really understand what his blood on the line meant. Never sign a contract until you read the fine print. Especially when a benevolent stranger offers you the world in exchange for a 'favor.'

"Means that if they didn't try to take me out in here," he rattles the comic, "then they're already here and found another way out. Maybe they always had another way. I don't know. Best you can do to be ready is keep your eyes and ears open. Trust no one you don't already know with any information. Wish I had better advice than that."

Somewhere private. Alone in darkness. No one to see when he takes over- that other part of himself he keeps hidden from everyone but the one he trusts most to keep his secret safe. Time. Time to call up the spirit of fire from within, to let it crawl through his bones and tissue, let it burn through his organs and consume him in flame until he is Hell that walks in leather and chains and wreaks destruction in its wake.

The box he took away from his world holds a key to his soul- a reminder that from fire, a new life is born. He removes a pouch from the box, old, worn leather tied with the same, and carefully opens it. Onto his palm slides the medallion an old medicine man gave him all those years ago in the Black Hills, when he'd been uncertain what to do with the life he'd inadvertently accepted. He studies it a while, concentrating all thought into the details etched into the dull gold shape.

"All that is good must past through fire to stay pure." The words startle him a little, even though they hang in the air, spoken in his voice, but it is the echo of the elder's voice in his memory.

His intentions were good. He was deceived. He owns this curse, that it cannot be used on the innocent. He will find his contract, and fulfill his end of the bargain he made with Mephistopheles. Then, he will have passed through fire. Maybe then, it will be done.

His first attempt at bringing the monster up is a lick of flame in the palm of his hand. He smiles, thinking he's a bit rusty and old. The second try is better, and he watches as flame engulfs his entire hand, concentrating on freeing the energy within that has not been unleashed in almost thirty years.

Another sound breaks the silence of the trees. It is a laugh- otherworldly, haunting, that sounds even over the rev of an engine that speaks of power not given it by human intelligence.



Now to find the one Mephistopheles wants...

Drugs. Prostitutes. Murder. Blackmail. None of that could have induced him to take the mantle of the Ghost Rider again. But Mephistopheles knew, has always known, that the taking of innocence from the meek of the earth is the key to his willingness to feed the fire of fury and revenge. As he watches, even in his human form, he can read the souls everywhere around him, knows what they have done, and it burns within him like a steady flame that flickers as his gaze rests on this person or that. But of them all, his target is the least human of them all, for his favorite sin is the kidnap and sale of little girls to the highest bidders without a single thought of the horror they endure and often are lost to death as a result of.

Even as the very thought sickens him and fuels the desire to change without a care to publicly revealing himself, he beholds a fresh-faced, pudgy man of some forty years stumble through the crowd and heave himself into the booth with the contract. He has seen this man before. Where? He searches his memory for this face, until he remembers a press conference on the evening news one night- some senator or something in trouble again, and pulling the remorse act to keep his slick ass out of indictment. The fat man stood behind him in the glare of the cameras, an aide-de-campe or some damn thing. This is more interesting as time plays out their interaction, one that becomes more heated as it progresses then melts into whispered threats that are as obvious as the clothing the man wore to 'blend' into this scene- polo shirt not acquired at a local mall store, shoes that scream the most valuable leathers in the world went into their making, khakis that are tailored to his thick body. The bodyguards escort him to the door, but his backward look at the contract is all Mike needs to know that there is much more to this man than Mephistopheles was willing to share until he knew Mike would comply with his will.

"Fred, when you get your jaw picked up off the floor, bring me a beer and one for the guy in my seat, too."

The voice shakes him out of his thoughts, and he swivels a little too hard to see who it is, even though he already realizes it belongs to Logan. For a split second, he's torn between needing to keep an eye out for his target, and to see what Logan has on his mind. A long-ago memory of a tiny, golden-haired little girl staring out the window after a woman who never looked back once toward her as she rode away with another scumbag like the one he's been watching makes the decision for him.

He picked her up clumsily, and she held on to him with a chubby arm, but twisted around to make sure she didn't miss it if her mother came back to claim her. He hurt for the baby, even if Ellen and Mary would love and care for her, help her grow to womanhood. It's not the same as having your own parents' affection and pride that you are their offspring. He understood too well himself. "I don't think she's coming back, sweetheart." It was then his decision was made to do whatever it took to break free of his curse- to have love and family in his life, and do whatever it took to protect it- to make sure that someone didn't leave them behind to face the world alone. Even if the most logical means would have been to leave them as far behind him as possible, to keep them safe from himself.

If anyone might have a snowball's chance in Hell to even begin to know what Logan must feel or need, it is him. And he knows too, that Logan can't do it without a solid rock of love and acceptance to cling to.

"You want it back, or do I have to go a round in that cage with you to keep it?"

"The girl's already called first place in line, so there probably won't be much left of you after she's done for anyone else to do any damage to. But I suppose if you give me a good reason for doing what you did, I might be able to get in a good word for you." He knows why. But he needs to hear it from Logan, to see where his head is now, and if there's any chance he and Lil can work it out and get back to a place where the world is something resembling right for them.

He hears the hesitation and the effort to remain unaffected in Logan's words, and it's the tell he needs. Whatever was going on in Logan's head that night he dumped Lily, it wasn't because he didn't care about her. "A mess. Alternates between half-dead and half-alive, most of the time. How're you doing?"

He feels the tingle of carbonation prick the back of his throat, the raw taste of barley and hops clinging to his taste buds, and then the sensation is gone as quickly as it was there. He reaches for it a couple more times, then shakes his head slightly. "There's always another option. This one only gives you the choice, not her. No matter how right or wrong it was."

The target is eyeing Logan, nudging one of the skinny girls who laughs nervously and seems reluctant to move from her spot. She only knows the man who gets in the cage in the other room, not the man who cared enough about a girl to put distance between her and the danger he represents.

"Might understand better than you think, kid." He sighs, the feeling of having seen too much and knowing what he still has to do taking the wind out of his sails and making him feel old and worn. "You're not the only one with skeletons in your closet and danger lurking around every corner. Talk to my woman sometime about what she's been through because she chose to stick with me through some tough shit."

Moment of truth, Michael. It's enough you let Ralph in on your dirty little secret. But Logan should know he's not as alone as he thinks.

"Try me..."