A pitch for something that will never happen but I want to share it anyway. I mean if someone wants to pay me to write this for Marvel, I 100% will…
Beatrice Albinson saw something she shouldn’t have. The robots came for her, at night. They didn’t want her to tell anyone. No one could know about The Plan. So Beatrice ran. She hid. She ran some more. Beatrice hid in the dark spaces. She ran and hid and hid and ran until there was no where else she could think of. The robots were tireless, but Beatrice was only human.
And then she came across the stable. There shouldn’t have been a stable near the West Side Highway. Beatrice had always thought it was a bagel shop, truth be told. But no, a stable for sure. Big door, smelled of animal, bits of hay strewn about outside. Big old A logo on the door. A didn’t stand for stable, Beatrice was mighty sure about that.
Inside the stable (hey it seemed a good dark place to hide and horses didn’t bother Beatrice), she found a chariot. Big thing: old wood, carvings covering it all around, gold inlay and silver runs filling in the spaces. Nearby the chariot she spotted the horses. Wait. No. Those were horse-sized but they were giant goats. Goats with glowing red eyes and flaming lashes. Goats who didn’t want to be disturbed.
The robots found her, of course. They’re robots, they have an app for that. They came in shooting. Robots and horses (they assumed the goats were horses as well, because come on, who wouldn’t?) never did get along.
Turns out robots and giant goats get along rather less well. The goats shrugged off the lasers and small arms fire, breathing fire that melted the robots into slag. Beatrice wasn’t as lucky. She lay on the floor, hay soaking up her blood, as the fire raged around her. It covered her, danced over her body, but did not consume her form.
Instead she found herself feeling better. She sat up, ran a hand through her hair and noticed that her hand came back covered in fire. That, she told herself, was new. Abnormally calm or in the full flush of shock, either way, Beatrice stood and looked around.
She knew, as she walked, that the chariot was hers. For a time, at least. As her feet touched it, the wheels burst into flame. A flame that didn’t harm the ancient wood. The goats willing walked over and, in a process Beatrice couldn’t quite figure out, harnessed themselves. As they did their beards and tails burst into raging fire as well, Flames licked up from their hooves. And then they turned, dragging the chariot, and took to the sky leaving fire in their wake.
The Goat Rider was born. The spirit of Vengeance merged with… well, let’s just say that Thor was mighty pissed someone stole his goats. But that’s another tale for another time…