Resist Psychic Death
It could have been him standing where now the other man stood, he thought with dispassion, turning the serrated edge of his blade, bringing it down in a brutal strike, the teeth of the weapon tearing at the glistening silver armour.
Sparks ignited, smoke curdling, the other stumbling backwards, clutching at his chest, the tassels of his gauntlets swaying. He did not pause, pushing forward, grinding gravel with the heel of his boots, the GaohGasher lifted once more, the sunlight catching the gilt edge of the weapon.
On another Earth, in another branch of the timeline, it had been he who had volunteered for the International Space Development Programme, his son smiling at him, waving as he had boarded the Jupiter-1, as he had prepared for the long journey into the stars.
How could he have known that, in his absence, the world would have crumbled? How could he have known that in the year in which he was alone in space, from Dark Nebula B-26, the Dogma Kingdom would reach out and sterilise the world he had left behind?
The blade fell, this time connecting with the other's left forearm, once silver, now red, an indication of his opponent's intent.
The right fist came forward, knuckles curled inwards, the gesture telegraphing loud and clear Oki Kazuya's Megaton Punch.
With his free hand, he reached out and caught the punch in his palm, feeling the shockwave of impact rattle through him as he wrapped his fingers about the fist, as he stood unshaken.
They had both undergone the same surgery, they had both been prepared for endurance amongst the cold vacuum of spaceāthe difference was that the man before him, this Earth's Super-1, had never known loss like he had.
Oh, of course the men he had worked with in the programme had died, that was true of both worlds, but Oki had never had a family, had never had a wife and son waving to him as he boarded the shuttle.
The teeth of his blade churned the space between the silver armour and the mask, a weakness in the armour that he knew too well, and from beneath the helm, he heard the other cry out in pain, blood darkening the gold of his sword.
In this world, the Dogma Kingdom had attacked before Jupiter-1 had been able to leave the planet. All around him had died, yet his presence had been the vital difference needed to push back against the extra-terrestrial invaders after that initial assault. Oki Kazuya had, in the long run, saved those he loved, whilst he, in the cold depths of space, had found only the Imajin crawling slowly back from the end of time towards the present.
He struck out with his foot, a savage kick sending the other man sprawling onto his back, blood seeping into the gravel and sand. Dispassionately, he shook his blade, beads of red spattering upon his golden boots.
"It's nothing personal," he lied, advancing towards the other, bringing the Gaohgasher again, "it's just that you're in my way."
It was easier with such men as Oki Kazuya to make them believe they were important, to feed their idea of self-worth. It made the fight so much more rewarding, he thought, a smile forming on his lips, concealed by the gold and steel of his own mask.
He did not need to hurt Oki Kazuya, did not need to kill him, but it would give him infinite satisfaction to do so, to know that ultimately someone had paid the price for the tragedy that had befallen him alone.
It was not Oki's fault, he reflected, lifting the sword again, and yet, at the same time, he made an easy target for his rage.
A crack like thunder resounded through the valley, and he felt his body reverberate with the impact, thrown backwards, his golden breastplate scorched back, his heart hammering, his breath laboured, pain flooding his system, a rib or two broken he estimated.
He lifted his masked head, eyes wide beneath the jagged teeth of his visor, and to his surprise, saw a HumaGear, bobbed hair, smart uniform of white and mint green, satin and cotton, her right arm lifted, the limb absent from the elbow down, replaced by the wicked curve of a glistening silver blaster. He recognised it instantly as one of Yuuki Jouji's Cassette Arms, modified for HumaGear use.
"Nothing personal," the secretary announced emotionlessly, the Blaster Arm still levelled at him.
His words, he realised angrily. She was repeating his words back at him!
His heart struggled in his chest, his muscles tensed, adrenaline holding the pain at bay for the moment. He lifted the Gaohgasher and she adjusted her aim accordingly, Oki slowly clambering to his feet between them.
"Thank you, Izu," he growled, annoyance more than pain in his voice. "I've got it from here."
No, he thought. No, not yet. It was too early for him to fall. There was still much to do, his rage at the world around him still burning in his chest, fuelling his desire. There would be all the time in the world to settle the score with Oki and his HumaGear, he thought.
Her hand remained still, as he lowered the blade, but as he brought up his Rider Pass to his belt, he could tell, with a certain smug satisfaction, that such had not been her expectation, that such a device was new to her, unknown.
Of course it was! How could a mere machine and a failed astronaut have any understanding of the divine tool he had seized with his two hands.
The Blaster Arm went off, a second shot fired, but it was too late, already the GaohLiner was between, chrome and steel, gold and black obscuring him from their line of vision.
He reached out, the door parted, and he tumbled inside, the great shape of the machine never once stopping.
He hit the floor hard, the armour peeling back, his heart heavy, hands clutching at his chest.
The train rattled about him, another shot from the HumaGear's Blaster Arm, but it did nothing to derail the progress of the divine engine.
There would be time later, he told himself again. The power of time, the power of every singularity amidst the sprawling map of possibility was his to command; he was Gaoh now, his old identity buried alongside those he had lost. He was Gaoh, and he would have his retribution, and there was nothing that men like Oki Kazuya could do to stop him.
With determination, he lifted his head, grinding his teeth together, and ignored the warmth of the tears running down his cheeks.
