With hearts toward none I
1992:
She kept getting it wrong. Every time they arrived in 2007, she was dressed for a different decade, a scarf about her long, dark hair, go-go boots, and a polo neck jumper; tailored shorts and a padded gilet with a suspect might-have-been-rabbit trim. She had been chided for that once, Hana recalled, a former girlfriend pouting and folding her arms across her chest and telling wearing fur was cruel, which it was, she conceded the point, it was just hard to remember what animals were really like, coming from where she had come from.
Growing up following the total ecological disaster that had resulted in the construction of a dome about the Earth, an artificial biosphere called the Firmament, there were few animals to be found in the wild. In fact, long before the Firmament had been erected, the majority of the planet's animals had died out, replaced only by crude, mechanical simulacra, or imported alien ferbi from the distant colony world of Edenoi.
Now, here she was in 1992, the original pass that the Owner had given her lost somewhere between here and 2007, leaving her with only a temporary pass in a faded, cracked holder, its power but a fraction of what the actual pass could invoke. Not, of course, that she would know, dressed in white jeans and whiter Nikes, a black leather jacket of the like that had not been unreasonably fashionable for a good many years, she was little more than the reminder of a dead world, a future that would never happen now that time had collapsed in upon itself.
Clumsily, she stumbled backwards, retreating from the swing of a rake, an old man with dull eyes and rage written large across his face, one of the countless members of the crowd that now surrounded her. It had been a mistake to come here, she thought unhappily, pulling free the temporary pass from the back pocket of her jeans, her hair in her face, her heart thundering in her chest; these people here weren't interested in talking, they were under some kind of spell, fixed in some kind of hypnotic trance that turned them against outsiders.
On the television, a week from now, relatively speaking, she had seen a programme, some exposé that she couldn't be sure of the truth of—and yet, glimpsed in the footage of the town, amidst the burning torches and the raised pitchforks, she had clearly seen the armour she wore, the silver and black that unfolded when the pass met the belt about her waist; Den-o, the Owner called it.
She had never intended to be Den-o, had never wanted to be Den-o, she had just wanted to be a normal girl, and yet, seated behind his white table, a mound of rice before him, a tiny flag on a cocktail stick laying sideways amidst the discarded food, the Owner of the Den Liner—a train that moved through the sands of time—had informed her without emotion that as the only person who remembered the world she came from before it had faded out of existence, she was now a singularity point, and, as such, was destined to take up the mantle of Den-o.
At least until someone else who met the same criteria might appear, the old man had said, not meeting her gaze. And who knows when that might happen, he had added wryly.
A flicker of anger crossed her face, and with unhappiness, she slid the pass down over the belt, a series of musical chimes excited by the motion.
"Henshin!" she called out.
That was when she first saw it, the black goat of the woods, rising up behind the villagers, its eyes glowing red, spirit energy gathering about its horns. Her armour coalesced about her, hiding her expression of fear. The villagers pushed forward, the goat behind them, urging them on. She lifted her hands up to protect herself, and then abruptly felt herself being pulled out of the way, staggering out of their path as another armoured figure took her place, the face black and grey, swollen red eyes, stripes of yellow receding back from them, curving, assumedly, about the skull.
"Another Den-o?" she asked herself uncertainly, the design of his armour so much like the silver and black that she wore, and yet so strikingly different.
The other turned and glanced back at her.
"Stay back!" cried a man's voice, youthful and full of anger and determination. "Whoever you are, stay back! This is my fight!"
He ducked, dodging the thrust of a pitchfork, shooting back up and landing a karate chop to the side of his assailant's neck, sending the man sprawling in the dirt, unconscious, even as others of the village approached, glass-eyed and dull of expression.
Behind them, the black goat lifted its cloven hooves, muttering dark prayers in a strange language.
"Get back!" shouted the other again. "Unless you're with Gorgom also, in which case do your worst."
Hastily, she shook her head.
"I'm not with Gorgom, I saw a TV show—"
He punched a hypnotised housewife in the gut, dropping the woman to her knees, and easing her to the ground, his actions making it clear that he wished to fight these people no more than she did.
"In that case get out of here!" he cried, throwing himself once more into the fray.
1999:
Sumire blinked in surprise.
"The world's going to end?" she asked with surprise.
The other woman nodded with enthusiasm.
"That's right. The Aztec calendar predicts it. And besides, all the computers are going to go haywire. Haven't you heard of the Millennium Bug? Jeez, where have you been?"
Four or five years older than her, Shimazaki Akane looked at Sumire with bewilderment, and, realising that she was expected to say something, that she was expected to answer, the younger girl hastily said:
"Well, you know, I've been around, so to speak."
"This is getting us nowhere," Geiz said, reaching out and taking hold of Sumire's arm.
The expression on the older woman's face seemed to change slightly.
"You know, there's a rumour that at the end of the world, a Demon King will rise up and take over the world."
Surprise filled Sumire's face.
"Demon King?" Tsukuyomi asked sharply, turning at the sound of the two words, his attention drawn from the discoloured tabloids of a newspaper stand.
"Rejoice!" a voice announced behind them.
All four turned to find themselves confronted by Pink Woz, the curls of her blonde hair framing her face, the heavy shape of her Time Note open in her grasp. Sumire felt her heart sink, her face suddenly flushed with embarrassment.
"Woz," she murmured.
"Rejoice!" the woman in her long, flowing dress declared once more. "The one to inherit all Rider powers, the time queene who will rule over the past and the future. And her name is—"
"No, that's not it," Shimazaki said, interrupting Woz's theatrical pretence, her expression firm.
They had been directed to Shimazaki by another woman the same age, a barista at a coffee shop, the familiar silhouette logo of the chain, that horned and bearded figure raising pipes to its lips in mid-song emblazoned on the wax paper cups. Akizuki Kyoko, she had introduced herself as. When they had inquired about strange stories, urban myths, anything to give them a suggestion as to what Spade might have done in this era, she had quickly told them of one of her old friends, formerly of Asahi Village, where one of the episodes of Strange World had been filmed, and that she had witnessed a monster once when they were still in high school.
With all her usual bluntness, Geiz had asked if they might be introduced to the barista's friend, and, thus, here they were, standing about opposite Harajuku station, the long length of the Yamanote Line slinking off towards Shibuya and Shinjuku.
Again, Shimazaki shook her head.
"No, they say this Demon King will reign under a black sun, that he will be the ghost of a grasshopper, a devil destined to hold sway in the ruins of the world." She stopped, shuddered, and seemed to come to her senses. "Sounds horrible, right? I think it's based on an old Australian myth, or something."
"This Demon King," Woz declared, pushing past Tsukuyomi and Geiz, pausing to curtsey at Sumire as she approached Shimazaki, "do you know who they might be?"
The other woman's eyes glazed over.
"I saw them once, or someone I think was them. I come from Asahi, you see, but I got really sick and had to be taken to a hospital in Tokyo. It was back when—"
From her clothes, sand and dust seemed suddenly to fall, as if all along she had been holding the stuff in her pockets and only now thought to let go of it. A light stirred in her eyes, her very form seemingly opening up, revealing nothing of her innards within but rather some inexplicable, unknowable morass of space and time.
Behind them, inexplicably, in the light of the midday sun, a hideous and blackened shape rose up from within the crowd, scattering those nearby, its cloven hooves lifted in defiance, its fur matted with blood, an aura of dread proceeding it. Smoke rose from its coarse fur, and a heavy staff was held firmly in its grasp, bound with leather to its limbs so it did not fall.
In horror, Shimazaki shuddered shut, her body whole once more as she stumbled, turned, her eyes growing wide, fear stirred deep within her. She opened her mouth to cry out, yet her scream was lost in the sudden panic of the crowd.
1992:
She watched in mild horror as the other figure punched his way through the crowd, careful not to wound them permanently, just effectively incapacitating them as they flooded towards him. Again, she could not help but think that the armour was so much like her own, that it was so much like the armour of Den-o—and yet, at the same time, it was so thoroughly different, somehow more monstrous, more sinister.
Abruptly, she became acutely aware of another voice, a young woman's voice providing commentary, and she turned to see the crew of Strange World, a blonde woman with a microphone standing before a hefty camera shouldered by a young man, accompanied by an older man, a cigarette hastily burning away between his lips.
They hadn't noticed her yet, despite her proximity to the action, and she realised they must have arrived after the other Den-o—for lack of a better term—had started repelling the villagers, making his way further through the crowd towards the goat creature that stood at the back, arms raised above its head, a large, winged staff held aloft, upon which two entwined serpents turned their heads to look at the scene with reptile curiosity.
This was the television programme she had witnessed being broadcast in the future, Hana realised, although whatever footage of the other Den-o the crew had captured had clearly been excised. Would that same caution in regards to the revelation of such a being apply to her as well, she asked herself? If the crew of Strange World were so inclined to not reveal the presence of the other Den-o, would they likewise refrain from sharing her presence with the world?
There was a brief flicker of annoyance beneath the bulbous, dark eyes of her mask. Why hadn't the Owner told her there were others who wore similar armour to Den-o? Wasn't it possible that these others could also be singularity points, that they might also be able to reverse the turning of time and restore what had been lost by the release of the Imajin?
Doubt consumed her, doubt and anxiety. She knew she was not the most effective user of the Den-o pass—after all, would the pass's true owner really have lost it as she had?—yet it felt too much like there was more that she did not know, that the Owner of the Den Liner had refrained from telling her.
She felt the tension stirring in her muscles, the need to do something. She might not have been the rightful owner of the Den-o belt, she might only be tenuously considered a singularity point, but she could not stand idly by this goat creature exerted control over the people of Asahi Village and used them as pawns in its dispute with the other Den-o.
Without further consideration, she waded in, rudely pushing aside housewives and farm labourers, her brow drawn in a frown beneath the silver and black of the mask, the goat monster illuminated by fire and moonlight, the winged staff in its grasp.
1999:
Light flashed, the Zi-o II armour coalesced as Sumire leapt through the air, the weight of the Zikan Girade manifesting in her outstretched hand. She landed effortlessly before the goat, turning her blade in an arc, striking aside the staff as it swung down.
At her back, she heard the ignition of Geiz's own transformation, and the echo of Tsukuyomi activating the Geiz RX RideWatch also, and she smiled despite herself, still amused by the idea of Geiz and Geiz.
Quickly, her amusement faded, and she became conscious of the crowd about her, the bustle of Harajuku during this time, the clatter of wedged heels and baseball boots upon the pavement as high school students, commuters, shoppers dispersed along Takeshita Street and as far up as Jingūbashi.
Before her, the goat creature groaned, its dark eyes wild with what seemed almost like confusion, the staff with its curled serpents swishing about through the air, repelled only by the edge of Sumire's sword.
"Sumire!" came Tsukuyomi's voice behind her.
She ducked instinctively, a shot from the man's Faizphone exploding across the creature's chest, sending it staggering backwards, the unpleasant aroma of burnt fur and injury filling the air. Behind her, she became aware of Shimazaki's screaming, of her panic, and she turned to see Woz holding her tight, and she hoped that such restraint was as a means of ensuring that she did not harm herself rather than some more sinister motive on Woz's part.
Despite their uneasy alliance, it was difficult to know where Woz's true loyalties lay. Once a courtier of the dread monarch, Oma Zi-o—the terrible ruler who Tsukuyomi and Geiz had insisted she would become when first they had met, when first she had received the Zi-o RideWatch—it was difficult to understand what Woz hoped to gain from siding with them, especially once Sumire had declared she had no intention of taking up the mantle of Oma Zi-o.
Yet despite that, here she was, she thought as she hastily blocked a swing of the creature's staff, dressed in armour so much like the obsidian and gold ostentation of the ruler Woz had served, eager to employ both the Zi-o and Zi-o II armours, alongside a host of others, in pursuit of her own goals, her own ambitions. She kept telling the others that she had no ambition of growing into Oma Zi-o, and yet she kept collecting and employing the powers of Kamen Riders who had gone before her.
The staff swung again, and she jumped back as Geiz rushed forward to take her place, Zikan Zax held aloft, swinging down with a grunt from its owner as she engaged the goat creature. Sumire pulled the Zi-o II from the Ziku Driver at her waist, driving in a new and different watch.
'Masked!' the belt announced in its sonorous voice, and she reached down and spun the mechanism, a further set of armour manifesting from the void, black plates sliding into place across the surface of her suit, her appearance momentarily resembling that of a sickly-strange grasshopper creature before coalescing into a new form, strengthened skin and taut muscle, a black veneer decorated with stripes of yellow and red, the lens of her helm turning blood red.
'Armour time!' bellowed the belt. 'Royal Edenoi! Masked!'
"Sumire!" she heard Tsukuyomi call again.
Hastily she turned to see her friend still dressed within the vermillion Geiz RX armour standing alongside Woz, who barely was able to restrain the struggling figure of Shimazaki, her face full of horror, her eyes wide and fixed upon the shade of the goat.
She felt caught between the need to aid Geiz and help Shimazaki, but it was clear that there was something wrong with the woman they had so recently been introduced to. Begrudgingly, she fell back, leaving her colleague to keep the goat at bay.
"What happened?" she asked.
Woz turned quickly to look at her, her piercing blue eyes seeming to betray some hidden emotion, despite the deference in her speech.
"Your majesty, this woman is not what she seems," the older woman said with earnest concern.
From behind her mask, Tsukuyomi seemed to begrudgingly agree.
"Sumire, she's drenched in time particles. I didn't notice it before, but as soon we armoured up, the sensors of this suit picked it up immediately."
Beneath the mask, Sumire's expression grew tight with concern. She had heard all three of them—Tsukuyomi, Geiz, even Woz—speak of the idea of time particles, of motes of unseen energy that clung to a person when they moved outside of the bounds of the usual flow of time, but she had never truly given much thought to what it had meant. She had accepted so much about her recent adventures simply on faith, simply because she wanted to believe the best of Geiz and Tsukuyomi.
"Your majesty," Woz said, her voice firm and level even as the other woman struggled with fury and fear in her arms, "this girl is a singularity point."
1992:
She pushed back against the horde, trying to be as gentle as possible whilst being firm enough to drive the hypnotised villagers back. Ahead, she saw the other figure, the man who might also have been a singularity point struggling to engage the goat, the creature's staff lashing out and knocking him back into the crowd every time he tried to reach the higher ground, to fight the beast on an equal footing.
Every time he fell, the villagers would swarm him like wild animals, pulling at his limbs, struggling to restrain him as flames of ghostly fire grew stronger around the outline of the monster, its presence so intense that Hana struggled to lift her head the closer she got to it.
In the distance, she could hear the call of the crew of the television programme, and with surprise, it occurred to her that this other Den-o was somehow their companion, their compatriot, that possibly their entire programme existed as a cover in order to reverse the grip the horned beast held the people of the village in.
She pushed another housewife aside, finally fighting her way forward until she was even with him, careful not to use too much force, moderating the strength with which she pushed back against the villagers.
"Who are you?" the figure in the black armour demanded, the light of the moon illuminating the red, swollen eyes of his mask. "What do you want here?"
"I'm on your side, idiot," she said angrily, frowning behind the black and silver of her own mask.
Why was this man so untrusting? What had happened to make him so suspicious of everyone who tried to help him?
"I need to know where you got your armour from though," she added, gently but firmly pushing back an old man with a pitchfork.
"I could ask the same thing of you!" he cried out, chopping through a broom that came sailing towards him, splintering it into pieces, sending an old man stumbling backwards. "If you're not with Gorgom, why is your armour so much like mine?"
She grunted with frustration, seizing a blow from an incoming fist and using the momentum to turn the owner aside.
"Did you make a pact with an Imajin?" she demanded. "Did the Den Liner's Owner give you your pass?"
"What's an Imajin?" he demanded.
Without waiting for her to reply, he leapt up into the air, crying out as he landed at the top of the hill, his fist coming down and striking the goat in the side of the head, sending its staggering backwards with a howl, a cloud of dust and sand exploding from its coarse fur.
Wasting no further time with the villagers, Hana leapt up after him, her silver boots landing amidst the grass and dirt. Before them, the goat shuddered and twisted, leaking sand from its being. Hana's eyes grew wide with shock.
"T-That's an Imajin," she said, her voice wavering in alarm.
1988:
Sleep did not come easily. These recent nights, Shimazaki Akane had been haunted by nightmares, dreams in which she was bathed in sickly green light, in which her body, limp and unresponsive, was carried out amongst the trees of the woodlands. It was always the same dream, although every time she experienced it, it was as if it was happening for the first time.
When first she awoke, and found herself paralysed, the night air stirring about her, the light of the moon shining down upon her, she was not afraid. With what little strength she possessed, she was able each time to lift her head slightly, and each time she saw that she was surrounded by her family, held in her father's strong arms as he carried her through the silent forest.
It did not seem strange to her in the dream that her parents and her older brother were all dressed in long white robes, nor did it seem strange that, the further into the forest they went, the more she recognised the presence of others around them, other familiar faces from the village—the grocer, the librarian, the mayor even—each one falling into line behind her father, their footfalls breaking the twigs, trampling the falling leaves and pine needles.
The further on they went, the more she became aware of voices, the low chant of songs escaping the lips of those who marched in solemnity after her father, his strong arms holding up her prone form.
A thrill of fear ran through her, though she remained immobile, incapable of moving, her body suddenly heavy and uncommunicative with the needs and desires of her heart, the gathering fear exciting the fragile organ into swifter rhythms within her chest. Around her, the chants grew louder and louder, the words became clearer and clearer, yet even though she heard them, she could not understand.
"Pape Gorgom, pape Gorgom aleppe!"
At last, she was brought into a clearing, and though she could not move, it seemed as if she could sense the entire village around her, hidden within their white robes, as her father laid her down upon a cold stone table in the centre of the clearing.
Each time she had the dream, she gave a start to recall the chill of that stone, yet never did she awake, never did her body rise from the nightmare.
Around her, the voices grew louder in song, rising up through the branches of the trees, the moonlight falling upon her prone form.
"Pape Gorgom—"
She felt them grew close, felt the bodies closing in a circle about them, and then, with horror, she realised that amongst them were three people she did not know, their faces peering down at her, two men and a woman, the shapes beneath their hoods decorated in paint, glistening and synthetic, as if somehow their very faces were masks.
The chants of the villagers grew louder and louder.
"—pape Gorgom aleppe!"
Although she could not move, her head fell to the side, and through the gaps in the crowd she saw a terrible figure, a being made of black sand and fur, bisected abnormally, its torso and legs suspended in the air, its barrel chest and horned head rising up out of the ground.
She could not open in her mouth, within her, a scream of thorough terror welled up.