Super Scription of Data
"It's dangerous. You should reconsider."
The cape, top hat and mask rested on the chair, the former spread out for all the world as if it had a life of its own. His fingers fussed with the top button of his starched shirt, thinking about how they never got any easier, no matter how many times he did this.
"You don't know these people. You don't know the lengths they will go to."
Had it been easier before he had known exactly what the Imperium Silver Crystal was, Darien asked himself; had it been easier before he had met Serena, before he had remembered so much of the life he had lived a million years ago, a world older even than Artuga, than Loof Merrow.
"Think of what Serena will say when she discovers your plan."
He smiled thinly, aware that she had probably guessed the direction his thoughts were moving in but uncomfortable all the same that she was so good at doing so. Slowly, he turned away, still only partially dressed in his costume, black trowsers, white shirt, the bow tie still in his hand. Looking earnestly back at him, her hair short and dark, her eyes full of sincere intent, Amy stood silent, waiting, awkward and hesitant.
"I thought about that too," he said, his voice softening slightly, "that's why I need you to cover for me."
Amy's eyes widened, a look of alarm settling upon her face.
"You want me to lie to Serena for you?"
He smiled weakly in response.
"Something like that," he answered, turning back to the remainder of the uniform he had once worn—and next to it, the open box, a lump of plastic and metal imbedded in protective foam, the cartoonish image of a rabbit's face etched onto its surface.
It wasn't unfamiliar, the scenario at least. The means of delivery, the woman that had refused answers to his questions, a fringe of dark hair, a tight smile, she was new, but the idea of a tournament, a competition, that was no surprise. 14 years ago, across America—from Saagan Town in Michigan, through Detroit and Cleveland, to Pittsburgh in Pennsylvania—there had been an event held in which hugely complex suits of armour had been assigned participants by Professor Jack Ryker. It had been planned as a stress test of sorts for the continued use of such armour, as well as being the sales pitch for Ryker's academy. That had all ended in tears, he recalled the headlines, when Ryker's own son, David, had died in an accident on Hongo Island.
He stared hard at the image of the rabbit in the box before him. Now the tournaments had begun again, as he had always assumed they would, with or without Ryker's involvement.
"You're crazy if you think she won't notice something is going on," Amy continued her criticism of his decision. "You're not taking her feelings into consideration at all."
He tried to shrug off the sharpness of her reproach.
"I know, I know, but if there's a chance I can resolve this without putting Serena in danger, then I want to do that."
He thought back on the endless battles of the last year—Beryl and the Negaverse, the siblings of the Doom Tree, the Negamoon Family, the Dark Moon Circus—and without question, he knew that they would not be where they were now had it not been for her efforts, for her saving them. If he could spare her that, if he could resolve the situation presented to him by that girl with her dark fringe and tight smile, then he would do everything in his power to do so.
"I need to solve this alone," he said, his resolve strengthened.
Amy shook her head with sudden and fierce determination.
"No, you don't," she insisted.
Reaching past him, she snatched up his mask, placing it over her eyes.
"You're not the only one who feels they owe Serena," she said firmly, and he didn't ask, for he knew to what she was referring, the moment in which Amy had been consumed by the Negaverse's power, the moment in which Malachite had transformed her into Dark Mercury, and used her as a pawn against Serena and her fellow Sailor Scouts.
"Amy, you can't," he said instead.
That woman had insisted that there were qualifications for entering the tournament, the most significant being the appointment of a Desire Driver and a Rider Core ID to place within it, in his case, the rabbit etched in plastic and metal, imbedded in foam.
From the pocket of her denim jacket, she reached in and drew forth a device the size of her palm, identical to the item still resting in the box on the chair next to his cape save for the depiction of a rooster on its surface, head raised, cockscomb angled away from the sharpened beak and dark eyes.
Darien's expression softened slightly.
"Guess there's no stopping you."
Amy nodded, smiling warmly, suddenly looking her age, a teenage girl of 15-years-old.
"Guess there's not," she said with a smile, still wearing his mask.
He nodded, turning and gathering up his cloak and hat, gently lifting the core from the box.
"We're in this together then," he said, looking down at the face of the rabbit.
She nodded with enthusiasm, and he smiled, feeling a kind of relief that he had not wished to admit that he had been yearning for.
"Thank you," he said quietly, the words so soft that they were almost inaudible.
Beyond the window of his apartment, the world outside paused on the precipice of resetting once more.