Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Kamen Rider series.
Author'sNote: This is a sequel to my story "Fall". It will mainly focus on the Decade characters and characters from the alternate-Double universe that I created in "Fall". The story will be PG-13 in rating for violence. The pairings will be Tsukasa/Natsumi and Kaitou/Yuusuke/Tsukasa/Natsumi. Hopefully someone enjoys!
Prologue: Acquainted with the Night
He runs.
It's something he's used to. Something he's done a hundred, a thousand, a million times before, because running's much simpler than fighting—safer for both him and whatever treasure he's trying to make off with.
The alarm follows wherever he goes, though, a harsh, shrieking, agonized wail, and doors that shouldn't be locked are. Doors that didn't exist when he infiltrated this place sprout from the walls, slam into place with deep metallic clangs, and he realizes after the first two that he's being herded.
He deals with it as he runs, slotting his cards into DienDriver, careful to keep the box of treasure tucked in tight to his side with his elbow as he uses both hands for his cards.
He spins and shoots the first of his summons behind him, using the trio of RioTroopers to guard against attack from behind. Barely breaking stride, he points DienDriver at the newest obstacle that's dropped down into his escape path, pulling the trigger with a fierce grin. Though he usually doesn't do more damage than necessary to any place he's stealing from, there are exceptions to every rule, and this place is right at the top of the exception list.
Except it doesn't work. Enough force to destroy an entire wall in most buildings, but the damn door doesn't even look scorched when the sparks clear.
Fine then. If the door doesn't work, he'll try the next best thing.
There's a satisfying crack and crackle of abused plaster as he aims and shoots, but his sense of victory is short-lived. Barely a half-inch under what looks like normal dry wall is a layer of the same damn metal that the door's made of.
He gets his armor on just before the lights go out, plunging his little strip of corridor into absolute darkness.
"Welcome back, little thief."
The voice starts in front of him, but its position seems to shift with each word, making it pointless trying to spin and face it. Instead he slowly, carefully slots his blast attack back into Diend. Attacks that don't need to be aimed really are the best.
"Steal from me once, shame on you."
Not really. No shame at all with these jobs, actually. More a sense of vindictive rightness, and Kaitou grins despite the darkness and the fact no one would be able to tell even if the lights were on. "Blame your security system, not me."
The man's voice continues, as though he hadn't said anything. "Steal from me eighttimes, and… well…"
There's a cold, smug note to the voice now that makes Kaitou's hair stand on end. Not good. Not good at all, and he palms two more cards, ready to summon Ouja and the Hopper boys as soon as his first attack finishes.
"Maybe you should start considering the possibility that you're being allowed to escape, until such time as I deem it better that you stay."
He pulls the trigger, and the pale blue light of Diend's shots finding their target shows inky darkness clinging to the walls, dripping from the ceiling, oozing up from the ground.
Run. He needs to run, because this isn't something he wants to fight. Breath catching in his throat, he stands perfectly still, hoping he can slide between worlds while leaving this monster behind.
Except it doesn't work.
No hint of the power, no tingle of static or thrill of cold, no sign of the wavering grayness that should carry him between worlds.
Cursing, he fires again at the darkness oozing around him.
He fights for all he's worth, because this thing's a monster that he hates more than just about anything else in the worlds. But there's nothing he can do about the ice crawling up his legs, oozing down his back, clinging to him until it seems to infest the core of all his bones.
The icy certainty that he's lost, that it's pointless, that nothing he does ever actually changes anything or makes a difference.
The bitter cold knowledge that what he's done doesn't matter… that the people he's done it for wouldn't appreciate it.
The numbing, empty conviction that no one will come for him.
He still strikes out at the hands that grasp him, but he's too slow to keep them from slamming something into his back. Something that hurts, burns away the cold as it burrows through Diend's armor and into his skin, and he screams in mixed anger and terror as he breaks away from the unseen things that have him.
Too late.
Far too late, and he sighs as the darkness closes over his thoughts, Diend's armor falling away with the last of his consciousness.