Ta-daaa, part two is here.
The beginning text of Chris' letter is from episode 20: Letter From the Front Line.
This is the end. Thanks for riding along!
Regimen
Len didn't specify where Chris was supposed to meet him, nor did the man really have any frequent haunts besides Kit's apartment and 'wherever mirror monsters might be'. This meant Chris ended up staggering out of his apartment at half past four in the morning and wandering in the direction of Maya's bookstore, hoping for the best.
Fortunately someone caught his shoulder just as he was about to bump into some groggy kid fresh off his night shift.
"Didn't the Marines have you up at the crack of dawn all the time?" Len asked him. He wasn't smiling, but his eyes were definitely amused.
"I had a long night," Chris deflected, feeling safe enough to yawn now that someone had his back in the predawn.
"Well, I hope you at least had breakfast. We're going straight up to my roof and getting started from there."
Unfortunately, it was not in Len's nature to joke. They retrieved their bikes, and within fifteen minutes had reached the nondescript rooftop of the nearby building Len had long ago claimed as his own practice space.
The only way to dawdle was to throw his pack down and rifle through it for breakfast substitutes, which was exactly what Chris did for as long as he could.
"Quit stalling," Len admonished. He'd already stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside for the duration. "I know you aren't afraid of sparring with me."
"You underestimate how far the legend of your 'training sessions' has spread. - Hey, do you fight Kit when you're shirtless too?"
"Ha ha. You'll pay for that."
And Chris did - seconds later he'd been sucker-punched and then tripped so fast he fell hard on his ass.
"Hey!"
Len stepped back, getting into a ready stance. "Don't complain, soldier - get me back."
He got up and dusted himself off, immediately feinting for Len's side and following up with a kick to the midsection. Len blocked the blow but it took some work - enough that Chris was able to attempt a trip-up of his own.
The older Rider barely stumbled. He made two fists and came back for Chris, using his punches and his presence to back him into a corner - be that the rooftop's edge, or the door they had come through earlier. But Chris just focused on his breathing as he ducked and dodged, lunged and twisted, trying to land solid hits and then make those hits count without sapping too much of his strength or making too many unnecessary moves.
His asthma, most constant compatriot and tormentor, required him to take a few steps back to use his inhaler every few times after he pressed an attack, but that too became its own kind of rhythm: fight, borrow air, borrow strength, press the fight, breathe again. Len was remarkably kind about fitting himself in to that rhythm too, even though he reminded Chris after every pull of air that his enemies would offer him no such favor.
And after about two times of that generosity, even Len decided that the inhaler was no longer a free action and started making moves to distract or disrupt his efforts to get back to the fight. His hits were brutal: knife hands to the neck, twisting kicks to Chris's knees, arms and legs, and fists that Chris came to dread even when they were feints for worse moves.
Even so, in the stillness of the morning he gave as good as he got. He hadn't trained on the playground, and his blows reflected the past and present of his experience on every kind of battlefield.
Len didn't speak again until Chris had succeeded in delivering a one-two punch that knocked him back way more than a couple of steps - then, he added claps to his words.
"Well done, Chris."
"I should've done better," Chris protested, shaking his head. "I missed your last two openings. Made the fight longer."
"It took you eight minutes to get through my guard, yes. But it took Kit eight days."
"Yeah - well... I might not always have eight minutes."
In the abrupt quiet, the wind whistled as though to admonish the words. Yet Chris, used to being chastised by someone about one thing or another, paid the sudden chill in the air no mind.
From one moment to the next, Len put his stony trainer's mask back on, frowning and beckoning his comrade. "If you won't have eight minutes, then do it in four."
The ex-Marine stepped forward, happy to oblige.
Four minutes later, he'd done midair flips, drop kicks and torso bends along with other more standard military maneuvers, which led to him giving Len a hard collarbone tap that the older man still rubbed at as he praised Chris' form.
"Yep, you're good. There's stuff that was drilled into you that makes our training together much smoother than it would be otherwise. It'll also help you in lasting longer when you transform into Kamen Rider Sting. Now - can you beat me in two minutes?"
He wasn't wheezing - not quite - but his breathing was still a bit heavier than he liked. "Maybe not right now."
"That's okay. We can sit and rest for a bit. Plan a schedule for future sessions."
"You really want to do this again?" Chris asked. He was stunned by the mix of playfulness and patience that even his old commanders and brothers-in-arms hadn't quite managed to give off.
"Sure I do... if you do."
"Don't worry about me!"
Len chuckled.
"How do you do all this, anyway? Fight so flawlessly, train so easily..."
The older man shrugged. "I'm not so great. I had training, just like you."
"Rooftop showdowns?" Chris joked.
"Among other things. On Ventara, once you're selected as a Kamen Rider, your life is the fight. I was trained by my mentor Nolan the same way I'm training you and Kit - but he was worse. Unpredictable. Relentless. Long hours, when you least expected it, where you least expected it. By the time he was done with me, I was a paranoid one-man army - just like the rest."
Chris shivered.
It sounds perfect - thrilling and terrible. Like my dad's drills before I left to join the Marines.
Abruptly Len added, "It's not exactly the same, though."
"Hmm?"
"My training. It's what worked for me and the other Ventarans, but... you guys don't need that. Not the brutality of it. Our trainers were cruel to us to make sure protecting everyone for life was what we really wanted - "
"That's horrible!"
"That's what it took to get the best protectors in the world. A lot of kids signed up thinking it'd be a big picnic, you know, hanging out with other people their age, having no parents around to tell them what to do, getting to eat as much as they wanted because they'd burn all the calories out training the next morning... that first week was quite the wake-up call for them. But at the same time, some of my comrades who ended up forming the main team didn't exactly have a choice - they were orphans, or always getting into trouble, and it was be conscripted into protecting Ventara or be locked up. But here... both you and Kit jumped at the chance to be Kamen Riders and protect the Earth, even when you only knew a fraction of what I did going in."
Chris nodded. "It was a no-brainer for me. My - my dad would say, The call is strong. He meant the call to serve our country, but to me it meant the call to protect is always strong, no matter who you're shielding. America, the Earth, Ventara... I'd lay down my life for any and all."
Len patted his shoulder. "That's why I'm proud to fight beside you."
The air suddenly got warmer. "Len..."
"It's true. You may drive me crazy sometimes with your pessimistic outlook on your helpfulness in a fight, but there's no one else I'd rather motivate on the battlefield, or off." He got a knowing look in his dark eyes. "Don't let Kamen Rider Strike, or anyone, reduce you to asthma. Fighters just like you lived with asthma in my world. They led armies and fought toe-to-toe with Xaviax's armies and dealt killing blows to our enemies. You're just like them."
Heat was still strong around them, but Chris managed to choke out a thanks as he listened to that and then more fighting tips and tricks from Len.
After a time they got up and sparred again, continuing on until Chris could land a blow on Len in two minutes - then continuing again with different goals, extending the time Chris could last in a fight to ten minutes, then twelve, then fifteen, then eighteen.
Finally Chris shoved Len away, flopping down and befriending his inhaler for not the first time that morning. "Okay... whew... that's enough."
"Not unless I say so," Len warned; but then he smirked. It was one of his rare jokes. "Nah, we're done. Same time and place tomorrow, and the day after, and on and on until you're satisfied with your progress."
Chris glanced over at him, and then at his watch: 7:00 A.M. on the dot. Two-hour training every morning sounded unforgiving and brutal... and also comforting and familiar.
And hell, if it turns out I'm too tired to fight for real later, I'll start grabbing a nap.
"Sounds good," he finally replied. "Just so you know though, I don't satisfy easily."
"Good." Len's eyes gleamed. "I like a challenge."
Late that Thursday night (or early Friday morning, more likely), Chris knew with lightning-bolt clarity that he would never text his father back again.
For now, his family was Len and Kit, and Maya - but that didn't mean he wouldn't try and offer his father an honest explanation for his disappearance. Maybe reading it over his father's shoulder as he inevitably raged would bring his mother some form of peace, too.
Yeah. A letter sounds good. Just thoughtful enough.
But it took Chris three more hours, several torn sheets and lots of editing and meditation to start and finish this summary of his new life and his old failures. It was straightforward, stoic and detailed. Hopefully it would be believed. And honestly, hopefully it would never have to be read.
Dear Dad,
I know you're probably pretty angry at me right now...