What I Leave Behind
"Listen, mate, I get it, I really do, no one likes a snitch, do they?" He paused, inhaling deeply, exhaling loudly, a wry smile playing at the corner of his lips. "But I also know you've got a kid, yeah? Little boy, 10 years old, am I right? I am."
Again, he paused, a look of concern on his face.
"I know that shit can eat you up at night." Inhale. Exhale. "Being a parent, I mean. I know it gets to you. The worry."
Oogami Ryo lifted his head, looking back at the other man, the cigarette smouldering between his fingers, his jaw decorated with several days of stubble. He looked dirty, he thought, not just in appearance, the filthy trench coat he wore, the bitter cigarette smoke that clung to him, but in the way that he spoke, the way he carried himself.
Now, here he was, comparing the two of them, suggesting that they had something in common, and Oogami felt the downy hair on the back of his neck bristle, his stomach churning with dislike.
"The truth is though, we need you to help us protect the world for kids just like yours, little 10 year olds just like your boy, and without your Book Gate, we don't stand a chance. There ain't no way we're sneaking into the Fortress of Solitude with magic, and I think we can all agree that our boy in blue has got the whole place locked up tighter than Queene Bess's chastity belt, so we don't stand a chance of brute forcing our way in."
He paused, inhaling once more, exhaling once more.
"So that just leaves you, mate. You and your Book Gate."
Filthy as he was, he was right, Oogami thought. After Sophia's loss, after Kenta's death, the Order had been quick to side with Superman's new regime, the message coming down from Master Logos via the Southern Base's star pupil, Shindai Reika, that any swordsman standing against Superman would henceforth be considered apostate—that the regime represented hope, that it represented freedom from the threat of the Megid. To this end, Superman had delivered on his promises, yet the cost of such peace had left a bad taste in Oogami's mouth.
There had been a handful of those who had stood against the Southern Base's order, swordsmen such as Zweihänder and Claymore, and also the older men, Kamen Riders who had taken up the name but had never known of the Sword of Logos—Skyrider, Super-1, X, to name but a few—but for the most part, those who had inherited the title along with their blades had not transgressed, falling into line with the commandments of Master Logos, and by default, with the will of Superman.
He tried to tell himself that it was better this way, that it was better for his son, Sora, to grow up in a world free from the horror he had seen as a child, that this is what Nadeshiko would have wanted, and yet despite this, he could not bring himself to believe it.
He turned his attention to the man opposite him, the reason he had agreed to meet with the two of them, waiting for the other to offer some kind of reason for him to disbelieve what he was being told.
Begrudgingly, the Batman nodded.
"Constantine is not overstating his case," he said instead, his voice hoarse. "You are our only shot at getting into the Fortress of Solitude."
Anger flared up on Oogami's face. He knew that he was not being lied to, he simply did not want to accept it, to be the one that Batman and the resistance might turn to now all those Riders who had once stood against Superman had fallen.
"Damn it!" he proclaimed, slamming his fist down upon the oil drum before him, the sound of it echoing throughout the empty Blüdhaven warehouse. "All of this is easy for you to say, but I'm still a swordsman of the Order! I'm still a Kamen Rider!"
Turning, he hefted up the great weight of his mighty sword, Dogouken Gekido, and slung it over his shoulder, glaring first at Constantine and then at Batman, before striding away without a further word, his boots echoing heavily against the dirt and concrete.
Slowly, Constantine inhaled, and exhaled once more.
"Well, that didn't exactly go to plan," he muttered. "Guess, we'll try Plan B."
"Don't be so sure."
He turned, watching as Batman lifted up the small brown tome from where it had been left upon the oil drum, two simple words decorating its worn cover: Book Gate.
A smirk flittered across Constantine's lips.
"Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle."