Hello, everyone. Since I'm cooped up in my house like I'm sure many of you are, I decided to write something in hopes of shaking the dust off what little writing skills I have. I hope you enjoy it. Stay safe, stay sane, we'll get through this together.
There's blood on my bottom lip, the acrid iron taste is filling my mouth so I assume it's mine. I hear laughing, guttural and evil, like it's coming from the mouth of Satan himself. The burning in my lungs and shortness of breath make me realize that I'm the one laughing.
It's an old trick. Someone talks shit, you talk more shit. Someone throws a punch, you throw a harder one. Someone laughs at your pain? You laugh at them like you're the Devil.
"You pathetic puddle of dog piss, still have some fight left in you, huh?"
I blink through the sweat that's running down my face and into my eyes and I see a ghost. At first he takes the shape of an old friend, someone who pulled me through the hardest points in my life, but then I see the imperfections in his face, the way his suit awkwardly clings to his frame. The green and red of his costume are muted and muddy, like a washed-out photograph. The antennae on his helmet are bent and uneven. I'm almost glad Kazami isn't here for this, seeing such a hastily constructed impostor would offend his ego.
"Get up, Joji. You get the honor of dying on your feet."
His voice has a metallic twinge, a scraping sound underlining his words. It's different, but I know who it is.
"Marshal Armor. Of course you'd blindside me, you coward."
Getting to my feet is nothing short of a Herculean effort, but I manage. My head is throbbing, I feel my lunch start to churn in my gut, probably have a concussion. Work through it. If I can just get to my bike, the extra helmet I keep locked in the storage case can stabilize me until this is over.
"Coward? Perish the thought. This is an invitation to a gentleman's duel."
"Your invitation was kicking me off my bike?"
I wipe the blood off my face with the right sleeve of my blazer. My left arm feels like it's full of needles and I can barely move it, but my right is fine. Of course it's fine, I do good work. Sometimes I wish both my arms were artificial, right now for instance.
The Marshal walks confidently over to the remains of my motorcycle, an '84 Suzuki Katana, and unceremoniously rips the storage container from its rear. I rebuilt that bike myself, I painted it myself, I even fabricated the bracket for the storage unit. I really liked that bike.
Marshal Armor slides the container across the asphalt with enough force to send tendrils of pain up my leg when I stop it with my foot.
"To show how much of a gentleman I am I'll even let you put on your real face for this fight."
The spasm in my back begs me not to, but I force myself to bend down and open the scraped black plastic case. Inside, protected by a thick layer of acoustic foam, sits a shimmering sapphire blue helmet with silver and green accents. Its two oval ruby lenses, like the compound eyes of some Great Old One, stare into the broken parts of me. It tells me what I need to do. Without betraying the panic in my chest, I slip the familiar contraption onto my skull and for an instant my world turns bright white. The black bodysuit forms around me, its crimson chestplate clamping around my torso. My hands and feet are bound in white gloves and boots while a yellow scarf snakes around my neck. The four miniature Typhoon power generators in my belt buckle whir to life and suddenly my body is assaulted with raw energy. I feel great, fantastic, like I could punch Mount Everest into the ocean.
"I'm so glad this is the last time I have to be blinded by your annoying light show, Joji."
Even though the inside of my mouth feels like it's made out of chopped ham I still crack a wicked grin.
"I'm so glad this is the last time I have to remind you that my name is Riderman."
I can't see it because of the lopsided helmet he's wearing, but I can feel Marshal Armor's smug grin spread across his face like a crack across a pane of glass.
"Well, if we're going to use our fancy names, you can call me The Destron Rider."
I laugh right in his ugly face, as loud and as mocking as I can muster.
"Hilarious! You? A Rider? You look like a turd left out in the sun!"
Oh, that did it. He harumphs like a child and strikes a pose, trying to imitate all us other insect men.
"You should have chosen a better insult as your last words!"
He stumbles into a sprint aimed right for me. I reach into the pouch on my belt and retrieve something that resembles a black cassette tape. The seam in my right glove opens and I slam the cassette into the hidden port. There's a moment right before my arm transmogrifies into what superficially resembles an M1917A1 machine gun when red-hot fire zips up my arm and into my brain. Most of my Cassette Arms are pretty simple in design and operation, a giant crescent blade, a grappling hook, but the more complicated ones need finer motor control to utilize. Every time I activate an Arm it pings my nervous system to see which pathways are needed to control the thing that replaces my hand. I've never told anyone, but it always hurts. The others might coddle me, Hongo would tell me we could work on the problem together, Yamamoto would say I don't need weapons when I can fight with what's in my heart, Tsukuba would say I've earned the right to sit a few fights out while everyone works on the problem. All nice sentiments, but if I couldn't get it to work any other way it just wouldn't work, period.
Marshal Armor covers a lot of ground, thump, thump, thumping like an elephant dancing the cha-cha, before my Arm is ready. I raise the surprisingly light contraption and unleash a flurry of .30-06 rounds in his direction. He dodges, of course he dodges. Even before getting jury-rigged into Hopper-type the Marshal was fast, even though he's clumsier I can't imagine he'd be any slower. He jumps like a leopard and thrusts his right fist in my direction.
"RIDER PUNCH!"
No time to move, but enough time to lift the machine gun between us. His metal-studded fist makes purchase and pushes the gun into my chest before it shatters into a million shards and transforms back into my regular arm. My ribs whine under the pressure, threatening to break like so many tortilla chips. Thankfully the Arm and my chestplate took most of the kinetic force. I've never been hit by one of my fellow Riders, but after this I can definitely say I never want to be.
I stumble backwards, trying to keep balance while simultaneously reaching for another Cassette. No time to pick one out, just gotta grab one and hope.
"I think I liked you better when you looked like a crab."
Glad to know that I have enough energy to make snarky comments in the face of doom. I eject the now sparking and crushed Cassette from my arm and insert a new one. A most familiar pain shoots into my head and I smile because somehow I managed to pick the Cassette I've utilized more than any other.
"I must admit, I enjoyed my previous form over this one, but I can't deny the power it's given me."
There's a wheeze in Marshal Armor's voice now, like air escaping a tire. His right hand is twitching like there's a glitch in his finer motor functions. If he's as slap-dash built as I think he is then maybe I can exploit that.
"Yeah, right. I've put you in the ground twice now, you clattering tin scarecrow, what makes you think a snazzy new jumper will make this time any different?"
He throws another punch in my direction, not quite as fast, but just as rage-fueled as the last one. I manage to barely sidestep his fumbled blow before raising the green gourd-shaped appendage my right arm has turned into. The end of the Rope Arm explodes into a giant spider net and cocoon the Marshal as he flies by me, removing his ability to control his momentum. He slams face-first into the ground with a cheap plastic crunch followed by numerous expletives. Using the majority of my strength I manage to pull the Marshal into a swinging motion, spinning him like a tornado, before launching him into a nearby parked car. I quickly replace the Cassette in my arm with one that's more appropriate for combat before trying to rush him down.
No good, Marshal Armor is already up and out of the net. There's a loud CLACK as he jumps into the air.
"RIDER KICK!"
Of course, why would it be anything else. I skid to a halt and cock back.
"You phony, I'll show you a real finisher! RIDER PUNCH!"
Heh, I've always wanted to say that. With every ounce of might left in me I thrust my now drill-shaped fist upwards in his direction just as the heel of his white-hot boot is about to collude with my face. There's a scream, a splatter of artificial blood, ribbons of lab-grown muscle and sinew, and then a thump, like a bag of potatoes hitting the floor. I'm not dead, so the thump isn't me. I wipe the viscous fluid from my helmet and turn around.
Marshal Armor is trying his best to get himself into some semblance of a sitting position, a surprisingly difficult task considering his left leg and part of his torso are now strewn about us like gory confetti. My Drill Arm is clogged with visceral gunk so I swap to something a bit more low tech. Through the crack in Marshal Armored helmet I can see his eyes go wide in fear. I can't blame him, if someone was shambling towards me with a giant crescent blade hand I'd be scared, too.
"Damn you, Yuki Joji! I swear, I'll crush you one day! I'll rip your guts out with my bare hands! I'll eat your face off your skull!"
He's posturing, trying to sound like a threatening lion instead of a de-clawed house cat. Gotta admit, he was never one to go quietly into defeat.
"Marshal Armor, when you get to Hell, tell them I sent you. Oh, and please try to stay dead this time. I'm growing tired of killing you."
The protesting yell turns into a violent escape of air as my bladed hand slashes horizontally through his neck. His head rolls to the side, the mechanical bits of his brain still contorting his face into vulgar positions. His body slumps and gushes whatever protein fluid was still left in his system like a nightmarish fondue fountain.
It's over. Again. For now. I let out the sigh I didn't know I was holding in and eject the Cassette, fiddling with it for a moment before returning it to the pouch on my belt. Every ache in my body suddenly raise their voices in a cacophony of pain and make me wish I hadn't given up smoking all those years ago.
I stumble over to my bike and prop it up on its kickstand. Thankfully it starts up just fine, a small bonus to the day. I remember now, I was on my way to a date before this. Anrietta will probably be mad, but the throbbing in my head tells me a hospital visit is in my near future. Finally, after what seems like forever, I remove my helmet.