DO KAIZO NINGEN DREAM OF ELECTRIC GRASSHOPPERS?
He looked down at the yellow gloves and the heavy armour, catching a glimpse of the ghastly masque that covered his face in the shattered mirror; smooth, curved metal and bulging red lamp-like eyes.
It was the masque of a monster; some hideous car crash of metal and flesh wrapped up in the design aesthetics of men who admired in insects everything of their uniformity and militaristic intent, yet cared nothing of the beauty of their song.
Yet beneath the reinforced breastplate, the ghost of a human heart still beat.
He had been alive in his new form, if alive it could be called, for little over a month; long enough to encounter all the other hungry ghosts trapped behind masques identical to his own and to have also been sorely trounced by the man after whom they had all been patterned.
"Ichigo," he whispered, tightening the gloved hand into a fist with a satisfying squeal of contracting leather, "damn you, Ichigo."
If it had not been for Hongo Takeshi – the man they colloquially referred to as Ichigo but whom both their masters, and Hongo himself, titled Kamen Rider – then he never would have doubted. He would never have been forced to admit his own inadequacy, never have awoken from his dream of dying to find himself trapped in a mechanised prison and hidden beneath the fearful skull-like masque he wore.
He was a Shocker Rider, just like all the others.
With rage, he slammed his fist forward, puncturing the shattered mirror and smashing it into the wall as the wooden frame and reflective shards came away about him.
The room remained silent, unresponsive to his rage.
Slowly, he dug his fist out of the wall and turned away, the fractured remains of the mirror crashing to the floor behind him.
Without comment, five other identical masques stared blankly back at him as he passed.