Bleeding in the Blur
Three forms shimmered into existence, a blur of primary colours shifting into physical shapes, drawn from whatever world they had once inhabited, their likenesses now used as familiars of this young man with the trailing coat, his gun outstretched in Heuschrecke's direction.
Dressed in immaculately white armour seemingly untouched by age or use, he recognised the other as someone he had already defeated, someone his armour had already consumed.
"Dreamcaster," he murmured, his eyes wide.
Upon the ghost's belt were holstered two weapons, a gun on the right side and the handle of a fishing rod on the left whilst, likewise the right shoulder bore the pattern of a unique blue swirl just as the left bore an orange swirl. The helmet he wore was featureless save for a wide rectangular visor decorated along the line where his eyes would have been with four round ports, each one seemingly providing the option of connecting additional devices to the mask.
"Not quite," the boy smirked as the shapes of the other two heroes coalesced before him. "This one's just my puppet, a memory I pulled out of your head. Most people don't give me this kind of material to work with. I've got to say that I'm kind of impressed."
A second armoured hero gained permanence, a shimmer of gold and red, a featureless faceplate, that legendary JumpCrystal burning at the core of the breastplate.
Heuschrecke laughed coldly.
"JumpMan," he said dryly, "another ghost."
The boy glared at him but said nothing, and all the while, Heuschrecke was aware of Aquila, redundant now, clutching the stump of his severed arm, losing blood by the moment. In a way, he felt sorry for the other soldier. Had they met on different terms, perhaps they could have been friends. Yet this place was a battlefield, and the battlefield was where soldiers came to die.
The final form shuddered into existence, and, beneath his own armour, he felt a sudden sense of foreboding. Black plate armour, a royal purple cloak draped over his shoulders, an air of dread emanating from him as he advanced, reaching back and drawing a forth a colossal sword from behind him.
"Hell calls," he growled as he advanced, "the earth cries out, the crowds roar; all calling on me to end their undeserved lives."
About him, Heuschrecke felt his armour throb and pulse, twitching as the ghost advanced, an armoured gauntlet lifted up even as he hefting up his massive buster sword.
"The fist of Divine Right," he spat, "MONARCH!"
x
The shuddering weed creature leapt back, the skateboard around which its roots had curled shattering beneath the weight of it. Beneath the peeked witch's hat, the face blistered and burnt black, peeling back to reveal further knots of vine and ivy.
"Yeah," Rocket sneered, pulling his box of matches out from the inner pocket of his aged trench coat, "that's what I thought. Monsters like you are always shit when it comes to a proper fight."
He flipped the box open with his thumb and pulled free a single match, its red phosphorous tip waiting to be struck against the dark strip on the side of the box.
"Now, I might not be an armoured hero or anything, but, even for me, putting shitbags like you in the ground is a piece of piss."
At his back, he heard the growl of the motorcycle's approach, heard the soft chime of Kazama's tuning fork as it resounded through the air. He didn't need to turn to know that the younger man was poised and ready to transform, didn't need to worry about whether the approaching masked rider proved to be friend or foe. Whatever happened, Punk Rocket knew that Kazama had his back, experience had taught him that much.
The weed witch threw its arms wide and bellowed, lifting its burnt face to the skies. What kind of world has monsters like this but no actual people, Rocket thought. That Fictionsphere business that Kazama had been talking about, he couldn't claim to understand it, but surely there had to be more than just monsters here; surely somewhere there had to people, just normal people. Maybe that's what the man on the motorcycle would reveal to them, if he proved to be a friend.
The plant monster threw itself forward, arms wide, and Punk Rocket ducked, bringing up his fist in an uppercut that caught the creature under the chin and knocked it staggering back.
"Bloody creeper weed, you should be ashamed of yourself." He stopped, laughing as he unfolded his fist, the box of matches still in the palm of his hand. "Creeper Weed. Yeah, I like that. That's what I'm going to call you from now on."
Whether the creature understood his taunts or not, Rocket could not be certain, and yet it was clear that it had understood the blow he struck it, as, with a roar, it threw itself forward once more and this time it caught him, his hands fumbling with the matches as the vines broke away from one another and wrapped around his neck.
He let out a startled gasp, the matches tumbling from his grasp as he brought his hands up to clutch at the vines that strangled him.
The sound of the motorcycle grew louder.
"Rocket?" he heard Kazama call, the tuning fork trembling in his grasp. "Rocket, you doing okay back there?"
Digging his fingers into the vines, he managed to loosen them, his nails tearing into their pulpy flesh, sap staining his hands.
"Never better," he sputtered. "Don't you mind old Punk Rocket; he can look after himself."
With a considerable effort, he tore free of the Creeper Weed's grasp, pulling the creature forward and delivering a devastating head-butt, smashing its face into dishevelled ruins even as he tore the gathered vines from the monster's shoulders.
It screeched loudly, staggered wildly, its cloak billowing around it as it tossed its head. It was then that he noticed a further figure approaching, the fog parting around him, black under-armour, silver plates on the arms and legs, orange around the chest and the mask.
From the approaching stranger's back, two vast mechanical wings spread forth, and dimly, Rocket became aware of the fact that the motorcycle had fallen silent.
The Creeper Weed tossed its head again, bellowing loudly—and abruptly, its chest exploded open, sap and pulp exploding outwards and falling to the damp grass in sickening chunks.
Punk Rocket turned around, his eyes wide, to see Kazama on his knees, his head bowed, the masked rider standing on the hand that held his tuning fork, a double-barrelled shotgun pointing out towards the felled weed witch.
With deliberate slowness, the rider reached up and unbuckled his helmet, pulling it off with one hand and throwing it to the grass at his feet.
"This is a good start," he said calmly, looking from Kazama to the stranger behind the fallen Crepper Weed. "Two intruders in the same place, that makes my job easier."
He paused, looking towards Punk Rocket.
"But you, you I wasn't expecting." He narrowed his eyes, and then shrugged. "Ah well, it doesn't matter either way, I guess."
From within his jacket, he drew two simple cartridges of clear plastic and wrought iron, one white, one black., driving them down into the belt at his waist, exciting the mechanism at his core and stirring it into life, a rasping voice resounding from its built-in computer:
'Lilith! Samael! Death Match!'
x
It was a short walk from the industrial estate, his bike left under a tarpaulin, camouflaged by oil drums gathered around it, but Genki was surprised to discovered that this cold world possessed cities—or, at the very least, a city.
Led by the young girl, who seemed to possess some kind of preternatural knowledge of the terrain, some ability to see through the swarming mist, the churning fog, he tried to keep his anxiety in check. Perhaps it was that strange watch she wore, the one with the hologram of the solar system, he thought.
"Hey, kid," he said as he trailed along after her. "Hey kid, about that watch—"
"Did you know there is a story that Saturn once ruled the skies," Joan Smith, glancing over her shoulder up at him but not slowing her pace.
Tamashii Genki frowned.
"What like the god or the planet?"
"Yes," Joan answered.
She smiled mischievously.
"The suggestion is that the planets of the sky were once aligned in a direct row from Earth towards Saturn, its mass obscuring the sun, its surface covered in cosmic dust that made it something like a sun in the ancient sky. There is a story that when the planets were knocked out of line, when there was turmoil in the solar system and the cosmos was reshaped into the one familiar to us now, that is where our stories of the end of a golden age arise from."
Genki's frown deepened.
"Uh, no, I, ah, hadn't heard that before."
"You should acquaint yourself with the details. We're going to be seeing a lot of Saturn soon."
Following her through the silent streets of the empty city, Genki suddenly became somewhat nervous.
"Hey kid," he said again, "is that who we're going to see?"
She stopped abruptly and turned to look at him with a scowl, and he stumbled, trying his hardest not to walk into her.
"The god Saturn?" she asked.
He smiled weakly and put his hand behind his head.
"Yeah."
"No. Of course not. That would be absurd."
"Oh," Genki said, still frowning. "So where are we going?"
Joan Smith turned on her heel and strode again away.
"To hire a private detective, of course!" she called back to him.
x
Punk Rocket regarded the figure before him, the blackened armour, forearms adorned with spikes, the corpsepaint that surrounded the features of the mask.
Sliding a cigarette from its pack, he struck a match and offered the armoured figure a sour glance.
"Shouldn't you be off burning churches somewhere?" he asked.
Slowly, Kurogane Weiss turned the skeletal details of his mask towards Rocket, the swollen eyes, the bone bleach paint and black smears.
"I should ask you how you found your way to this place, but I find that I do not much care."
Punk Rocket nodded with mock sincerity.
"Yeah, yeah, that's really interesting," he said with a smirk, and then let the expression of his playful mirk drop, his voice cold, his expression firm. "Now, why don't you get your foot off my friend's wrist before I stuff that shotgun right up your arse?"
Kurogane looked down at the felled form of Kazama and then up at Punk Rocket and the approaching other, and slowly he stepped back.
"I would not wish you all to think that you were at a disadvantage fighting me one by one. Come, I shall take the three of you at once."
Punk Rocket sneered.
"Said the bishop to the actress," he remarked, as he tossed his cigarette away.
"No," Kazama snarled, pulling himself up and throwing his arm wide to gesture that Rocket hold back. "I'm taking this guy down on my own."
He reached up with the tuning fork once more—yet before he could transform, the approaching figure rushed forward, dashing past and shoulder barging Kurogane, sending the ominous armoured figure staggered backwards a step or two.
Twisting the buckle of his belt, the newcomer tensed and then launched himself up into the air, silver and orange light spinning out from him like a secondary set of wings.
"Dual Impact!" he shouted, seemingly gaining mass as he closed the distance between him and Kurogane, flames igniting as both feet slammed into the other's chest once, twice, and Kurogane was thrown backwards, tearing up the ground as he tumbled away into the fog.
The other landed on the ground, and turned away, looking back at Kazama and Rocket.
"Sorry to interrupt your fight, I just thought—"
His introduction was halted by the sudden bark of Kurogane's shotgun, the weight of both explosive shells slamming into his back.
"Insolent child," Kurogane roared, striding forth from the fog.
Rocket strode forward, standing between the other figure and Kazama, his expression full of anger.
"What's your name, new kid?" Rocket asked.
"Senkai," the boy said. "Mashuto Senkai."
Rocket nodded.
"Well, Matty, old boy, I think you just bit off more than you can chew."
Kazama did not hesitate again, tapping the fork against the back of his hand, he raised it to his forehead. Flames of spirit energy ignited about his body, blistering brightly and then faded just as quickly to reveal form fitting black armour, chains trailing from a skull etched into his chest.
He turned sharply towards the newcomer.
"Senkai," he growled, "no more messing around. Follow my lead. Rocket, fall back for now. If something bad happens, you know what to do."
Punk Rocket sighed and patted his coat for his box of cigarettes.
"Yeah, yeah, I get you."
"I mean it," Kazama said. "This guy is dangerous, we need to put a stop to him as soon as possible."
Rocket shrugged and fell back a step.
"So put him in the ground already. I'll be here when you get done playing."
He smirked, lit a fresh cigarette and looked at the oncoming figure in black.
"Break a leg and all that, I guess."
x
The streets were silent, the absence of human beings striking in the calm that seemed to settle over it. Looking around at the strange contrast between towering corporate buildings ahead, empty chain coffee shops, and quaint corner shops, Genki tried to guess where in the world it was; the signs were in English, there was construction work being done in the distance, silent now and forever halted, but he couldn't quite grasp where it was. Certainly, it wasn't Japan, and yet it didn't look like America either—so somewhere in Europe then?
There was another possibility, one he didn't care for: previously, wherever his bike had taken him had been some kind of version of the world he was familiar with, yet what if this place, with its strange absence of people, was a place that did not mirror his home? What if this place was a world that never was?
Ahead of him, Joan Smith, precocious and full of self-confidence, stopped between a newsagent's and what looked like a chicken shop of sorts, one of those off-brand KFCs that Genki had spent so much of his youth in. It took him a moment to realise that she was standing before a black door, its handle in rusted bronze, a faded number pinned high above the child's head.
Without waiting, without explaining, she pushed the door and it opened, revealing a carpeted stairway that led up to a grimy, single glazed window and another flight of stairs curling upwards.
"Hey, kid," Genki called out, following her uncertainly, "are you sure this is okay? This isn't someone's house, is it?"
"It's not someone's house, no," Joan called over her shoulder as she ascended the second flight of stairs.
"I don't know about this," Genki said, shaking his head and following her up the stairs, passing the old antique portraits of strange people with long beards, their eyes following him as he passed.
What kind of a world was this, he asked himself, what kind of a city contained places such as this?
At the top of the stairs, the girl reached another black door and tapped upon it with her knuckles. Genki waited several steps down, not knowing what to expect but attempting to prepare himself for anything—and yet when the door swung inwards and he found himself gazing into an antique study, the kind often inhabited by storybook wizards, replete with bubbling cauldron, ancient books, and slender black cat, watching him with one eye open, he was forced to admit that none of this was what he was expecting.
As Joan stepped forward into the room, he caught sight of its owner, tall and stately yet dressed in a somewhat dishevelled matter, like a man who has sunk from a noble profession into one that does not adequately suit his ambitions.
There was something disconcerting about him, his movements mechanical, short, dark hair, a fringe that fell over one eye. He turned slowly towards them, ignoring Genki and focusing solely on Joan as she stood before him amongst his gatherings of books and charms.
"You're the last person I expected to see again," he said with dispassion. "You look different."
"Hello, boy," Joan said sadly in reply.
He regarded her with what, to Genki, seemed to be controlled rage.
"Hello, Nimue."
x
The blast from the shotgun shattered against Kazama's armour yet still he advanced. From Kurogane's right, Senkai leapt up from nowhere, bringing his fist down and driving it into the armoured attacker's neck even as Kazama lashed out with a roundhouse kick that caught him under the chin and drove him backwards, his jaw aching despite the armour he wore.
"Nice work," Senkai called to his new companion.
"No time for niceties," Kazama snapped as he sprinted past, pulling two carved wooden drum sticks from behind them, their tips decorated in bleached skulls.
Without pause, he lifted his arms up, bringing them down in successive strikes against Kurogane's armour, a thunderous sound echoing out as he lifted his arms again, a brutal rhythm that hammered against his foe, trapped in place by the sonorous resonance of the sound.
"Now!" he shouted, his voice a roar above the thundering beat.
Senaki Mashuto did not need telling twice. 25-years-old, blue hair beneath the armour flecked with orange, he had been surviving hand-to-mouth ever since he wandered through the mist onto this dead world, fighting opponent after opponent, terrified of removing his armour for fear that this place was so remote from the satellite that transported his weapons to him that he would never get it back.
Had it not been for the appearance of a spectre, a girl in school uniform with a curious button badge decorated with a question mark, then Senkai would never have known where to head next, where to find others like him; where to find a chance of escape.
Rising up in the air, he prepared himself once more, flames igniting around his body.
"Dual impact!" he shouted again, his descent like that of a blistering comet.
At the last moment, Kazama leapt back and Senkai's kick slammed hard into their opponent once more, shattering his armour, steam pouring from his torn leather jacket.
In the warm grass, Senkai landed behind him, turning to see his felled opponent staring down at his bleeding hands, the shotgun resting before him in the dirt.
"I-I lost?" he murmured softly to himself.
"Now I want some answers," Senkai said as he marched back towards Kurogane.
"We all want answers," Kazama growled, "wait your turn."
Senkai turned towards the other armoured hero, lifting his fists.
"You need to stop telling me what to do. I don't even know who you or who you're working for."
Behind his mask, Kazama's eyes narrowed.
"Don't be an idiot, we're all in the same boat here, there's no need to fight."
Senkai laughed hollowly.
"That's what all the other dudes here say, but that kid I met told me that this guy knows the secret of this place, and I want some answers so you better not stand in my way."
"Other dudes?" Kazama asked. "What kid that you met?"
Senkai rolled his head and made an audible sound of frustration.
"I'm done talking to you!"
With a rush, he charged forward again, his fist pulled back and aimed at Kazama's head.
x
Each of the ghosts rushed forward, the royal cloak of the foremost flowing out with the swiftness of his movement as Heuschrecke struggled to compete against them, his bio-armour blistering and writhing, struggling to predict where next the attack would come from to harden itself against the predicted impact—struggling and failing.
"You might as well give up," the boy remarked, standing a short distance away, his hands deep in the pockets of his loose trowsers, as if Heuschrecke represented no threat to him whatsoever.
"There's no shame in saying you lost to me," he said, kicking at the dirt with his heavy workman's boots. "After all, I'm here to destroy this world."
Keep talking, Heuschrecke thought. Keep boasting, your kind always do.
He turned his head, enduring another blow as JumpMan lashed out with a savage kick and he was knocked back in the dirt, throwing his arms up to shield himself from a volley of blasts from Dreamcaster's light-gun. Yet still he kept his head turned, the flesh of his mask twisting, growing twitching antenna.
The boy continued to kick at the dirt, not really paying attention to Heuschrecke as the edge of MONARCH's blade caught him, a spurt of dark blood issuing forth. And if he had no interest in Heuschrecke, then certainly he was indifferent to Aquila, the other man's hunched form sinking slowly to the dirt, clutching the place where his arm had been, slowly losing consciousness.
"But just in case you do survive this," the boy continued, "then you'll want to tell your friends that Zackery Orion put you in your place. You should probably remember that."
Keep talking, he thought to himself, his antenna growing, twitching, reaching out.
Another blow from MONARCH's sword caught him but he managed to hold his ground, focusing entirely on the armour and its growth.
In the dirt, Aquila lifted his head, dazed, his face hidden behind the matte red mask.
"I guess you could say I'm just a passing through—"
From his mask, the antenna lashed out suddenly, extending like wires that wrapped around the severed chunk of his flesh, the remnants of Aquila's arm. It took moments, less than seconds, for the connexion between Heuschrecke and the severed limb to become final, and, on the ground, the raw material was consumed instantly, growing, transforming, mutating into a mockery of Aquila's ruined arm.
In the distance, he heard the boy, Orion, call out, but it was too late. Scuttling across the dirt, still bound to Heuschrecke by the antenna that wrapped around it, the arm reached the fallen Roman soldier with ease, its fingers becoming a sharp point that sliced through the man's other hand and drove deep into the gaping wound.
Flavius Furius Aquila screamed out in sudden wakefulness, stirred from the dim descent into unconsciousness as the thing that had once been his hand drove its way backwards into his body, pulling Heuschrecke up out of the battle with the three ghosts by merit of the bound antenna.
If the old Roman had any last thoughts, they were not pleasant. Sailing towards him, Heuschrecke's armour became bloated with spikes, shafts of hardened flesh and bone, new limbs sprouting from all over his body. With force, he slammed into Aquila and punctured him, armour and all, and binding them together, the bio-armour washing over his form like a tide of viscous rot, consuming him in more seconds.
In that space where Aquila had once crouched, in that space where Heuschrecke had flown to, there was only one figure now, the hideous locust, twice the size it had once been, steam pouring from its towering new form.
Slowly, Heuschrecke rose, turned and regarding Zackery Orion and his three ghosts.
"You were saying, if I recall, something about how there is no shame in defeat."
Orion swallowed hard, and, for the first time in a very long time, the young boy worried about the outcome of his next battle.
A/N: Genki Tamashii created by Rider09 ~ u/1938693
Punk Rocket and Ryunosuke "Ryan" Kazama created by Kamen Rider Chrome ~ u/676659
Zackery Masayoshi Orion created by Lewamus Prime 2019 ~ u/6878339
Merlin Seno created by Timelordkid ~ u/4006703
Mashuto Senkai created by Kamen Rider Yokai ~ u/4133255
