II. Ichigo’s World

“Let go of me! Let go!”

He struggled desperately, hammering his fist against the adult’s broad chest and kicking at his shins, all to no avail.

Before him, the other adult remained placid in the driver’s seat of the old beige car, the door held open by a third man dressed in a black uniform with a skeletal design upon the chest, his face hidden behind a balaclava.

“Let go of me!” he screamed again, struggling to break free of the man’s grasp and turning to face the deserted street. “Dad! Dad! Help!”

Towering above him, the pale, expressionless features of his kidnapper broke into a malicious smirk.

“Boy, your father is exactly the reason why you’re in this mess,” he snarled, his voice gruff, “so pipe down and try a bit of co-operation, yeah? Maybe then you might be able to walk properly when you see your father again.”

He screamed out in frustration and abruptly felt the blow of a gloved fist crashing down into the back of his head, rattling his teeth and sending him to his knees.

“Stupid kid,” the voice snarled, “I told you to try co-operating, didn’t I?”

Oodōji Kotarou’s head slumped forward, his vision blurred and his body screaming with pain. Beneath his feet, the stones seemed somehow darker, the shadow of his kidnapper cast long upon the ground.

His eyes closed and opened and, for a moment, he could have sworn the adult’s shadow was less like a man and more like some hideous beast and then, mercifully, unconsciousness took him, and he thought no more of his pain.

Tsukasa idled by the front door, his eyes distracted by the serenity of the abandoned street and his thumb occasionally depressing the button atop his camera, freezing the scene before him within the camera’s viewfinder.

Both Yuusuke and Natsumi had headed off to waste time in town, leaving him to brood aimlessly outside of the quaint little shop, unable to fathom his purpose in a world that had no use of him.

Sighing, he pushed the button one last time and recapped the lens, allowing the pink Holga to sway gently on the strap around his neck.

Kaitō Daiki had interfered with the movement of the house before, momentarily trapping him in his role as a student of SMART BRAIN High School yet the other man had never fully succeeded in so effectively denying him a role. It was as if the universe had rejected him, forced him from his path and abandoned him amidst the shadows of another timeline, an alternate Ðecade.

He turned to head back into the house when suddenly another car careened onto the street, the familiar pattern of driver and child skewed by the slumped form of the unconscious boy and the leering man in dark sunglasses holding him down.

The car skidded past him, affording Tsukasa a glimpse of a second man, equally sinister in his own pair of sunglasses and a driver, face hidden behind a balaclava.

“This world might not have a role for me,” he announced quietly to himself, setting out in a run after the car, “but I can still recognise someone in trouble when I see them!”

Expertly, he snapped open the Ride Booker, swiftly drawing out a single card with his fingers and holding it before him as he ran, flipping it over in a vain attempt to attract the attention of the three men in the speeding car.

He reached down, tearing a heavy white belt from his coat pocket and placing it over his waist, allowed the inherent artificial intelligence within the belt to awaken at his command and draw a band of metal around him to secure it in place.

With one hand, he unlocked the belt into its secondary form, and slammed the card down into it with his other.

“Henshin,” he announced, the word a declaration of intent rather than a command.

Particles of energy cauterised in the air about him, rushing to one another to form sheets of impossible metal, armour burning its way into existence from the gaps between unseen realities.

He spread his arms wide and the sheets of metal flocked to him; twisting about his limbs and locking into place until his entire body was clad in a suit of perfect, obsidian armour, the only colour being the glow of his masque’s emerald eyes and the lines of a white ‘x’ traced upon his right shoulder.

With a further flash, seven cards of light materialised and drove forward, lodging themselves into his helmet and bleeding a hue of red into the shoulders and gauntlets of the suit.

Before the armour had fully crystallised about him, he reached down once more, snapping a second card free from the belt and unlocking the device once more.

‘Kamen Ride,’ the machine called out with mechanical bravado, the card sliding down and inducing a brief series of holographic icons to indicate the processed command.

Tsukasa moved his hands over the surface of the belt, palms splayed, the atmosphere about him charged with static energy.

‘RYUKI!’ the belt announced with pride and the armour around him shifted, transforming in a blur of colour into a second suit of red, overlaid with a silver breastplate and helm, the masque divided by a grid that obscured its swollen eyes.

Without pause, he launched himself forward and disappeared.

There was a blur of movement in the wing mirror of the distant car and then Tsukasa burst forward from the rear view mirror, lashing out with his fists in two consecutive blows that sent the driver’s head reeling and the car skidding to a stop, its tail-end spinning on the road, tires screeching.

With a howl of rage, the square-jawed man in the passenger seat slammed forward, his naked head crashing into the dragon decoration on Tsukasa’s helmet and still managing to throw the armoured man backwards, shattering the windscreen of the car and rolling off the hood.

Swifter than any human, the passenger tore open his car door, blood streaming down his face, the mark of the dragon scarred into his forehead as he staggered over to where Tsukasa lay in the road, the Ryuki armour fading, giving way once more to the original red and black design of his initial suit.

Reaching down with a giant hand, his breath shallow and his eyes wild behind the sunglasses, the giant yanked Tsukasa up from the ground, thrusting his face forward against the cool metal of the masque.

“You’ll regret that,” he hissed.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” the younger man answered with disinterest.

Bursts of light exploded from the man’s back, Tsukasa holding out the Ride Booker in Gun Mode, the barrel shoved against the creased white shirt and loose black tie.

In pain, the figure staggered back, his hands reaching up and tearing the sunglasses from his face.

“Bastard,” he screamed, his face shifting, revealing a darker countenance disguised beneath his human features, “I’ll make you pay for interfering with us!”

The flesh rippled, warping as the darkness seemed to rise, shattering the assumed human appearance and revealing a hideous bat-like visage, its snubbed nose and wide ears twitching as a high-pitched scream filled the air, piercing Tsukasa’s ears and forcing him to stagger back a step.

From the backseat of the car, the second man rose up, the child still held in his grasp and his face devoid of expression.

“Kadoya Tsukasa,” a quiet voice called out at his shoulder.

He whirled around, his eyes widening as he caught sight of another figure marching down the centre of the road toward them, the blade of a sword slung over their shoulder and their armour seemingly carved from polished wood and black plastic. Ornate gold decorated the design in parallel to the dividing lines of white on his own standard armour.

About his neck, a red scarf fluttered wildly in the wind and, imbedded within the wood of the masque, two fierce bulging insect eyes blazed with white illumination.

Lifting his arm, the stranger pointed with his finger, stopping abruptly in the road before the car, steam rising from beneath the hood and obscuring the details of his ornate suit.

Tsukasa followed the other’s line of sight in time to see a short man with an expression of indignation standing upon the roof of the nearest house, a large white belt similar to his own and yet very different bound around his waist.

He lifted up his arms, striking them out from his chest and glaring down at the bat monster below and the immobile car, its driver slumped and unconscious over the steering wheel.

The monster lifted its head, spittle flying from its fanged maw as it sighted the other.

“Damn you,” it hissed, “damn you all!”

Slowly, the man moved his hands down, the muscles of his face taut and his expression fearsome.

“Hen…shin!” he roared and leapt into the air, the centre of the belt whirring frantically as the wind that caught the blades at its centre sent a surge of energy rushing through the man’s limbs.

The figure that landed in a crouch in the road on the other side of the car, the two villains and their hostage, was clothed in armour, a red scarf hanging from his neck in much the same style as the first stranger.

Slowly, Tsukasa turned to face again the gaze of those bulging, lamplight eyes.

“Who are you?” he whispered softly.

There was a silence for a moment and then, beneath the wood, the owner of that archaic armour smiled calmly.

“Kamen Rider,” he answered softly, “Ðecade.”