Tokyo Incidents
"A spider?"
He looked up, standing the other side of the burnt orange Volvo, the boot open, his hands still on a suitcase, the back seats lowered so that the rest of the equipment could be slid in.
Opposite the car, Ruriko nodded, her eyebrows drawn close together in a frown, a look of concern on her face.
"That's right. That's what it said."
He took a moment to take in her concern, the evidence of her anxiety, the way she shied away from looking directly at him, and he knew what she was thinking, he recalled too easily the eerie shape of the creature that had killed her father, the shivering, stuttering moments of arachnid gestures, the foam and dust into which he had dissolved.
He straightened up.
"A spider in Tokyo?"
Again, she nodded, and his eyes moved down to the folded magazine that she held in her hands.
Reaching out, he gestured, and, unwillingly at first, she came around the side of the car, holding out the magazine, keeping him at arm's length. Suddenly, all that had passed between them since the death of Professor Midorikawa was as nothing, and again she was the frightened woman he had first met in those final moments before the older man's demise, foam and dust.
He took it from her, unfolding it to find a grainy photograph of what might have been a comet, a litany of strange occurrences that followed after its descent. Now it was his time to frown, folding the magazine back in on itself, looking at the cover, the glaring block letters of the periodical's name, Weekly Woman.
Their eyes met once again.
"It's not much to go on."
He tried to let her down gently, to explain his reluctance without coming across as dismissive.
She looked away again, arms wrapped about her shoulders as if she was suddenly cold. He felt the weight of the magazine still in his grasp.
"Please, Takeshi, just promise you'll look into it."
Behind him, he felt the presence of the old car, half-filled with the things needed for his camping trip. A weekend away, a weekend to be someone other than Kamen Rider.
He held back a sigh, smiling gently.
"Sure," he answered. "I'll find out what I can."
The noise and bustle never failed to unnerve, the light and sound, the automated voices calling out, 'Welcome, welcome' through speakers behind the plastic curtains in doorways. You could hear the sound of the soft, lazy piano from the street outside, he thought, reaching out to make his way through the divide, the smoke rising up to meet him, the smell of expensive spirits, the hushed exchange of characters sitting far from the dim lights that hung from the chandelier of bone and cartilage.
Perhaps that was to do the bar a disservice, Hongo Takeshi thought. In Kabukicho, the overpass above their heads, the ceaseless rattle of the trains, you could hear the sound of every bar from the street.
He reached for the collar of his turtleneck jumper, feeling uneasy, the wool of his tweed jacket weighing too heavily upon him. From secluded tables and chairs in darkness, a number of eyes turned to watch him as he approached.
Behind the bar, a thin figure stood polishing glasses, an effeminate man, a boyish woman, bottles of spirits obscuring the mirror at their back, eyes, like the rest of the crowd, watching his movement, breath held, tension.
Hongo pulled up a stool and sat down, not bothering to look up.
"Goro," he said, addressing the bartender. "Keeping out of trouble?"
Long fingers placed a fresh glass down in front of him, amber liquid, the slow drift of ice cubes towards one another.
"Unless you've heard otherwise, Mr Hongo, then yes, of course."
He lifted his head, taking hold of the glass, and nodded in the direction of the bartender.
"On the house?" he asked.
The bartender, thin, waifish blond hair smoothed back from a pale face, lips that smiled mischievously in reply.
"As per our arrangement, Mr Hongo."
ANTLERs was the kind of establishment that did not desire or appreciate the patronage of men like Hongo Takeshi. It was a gathering place for those fallen from grace, those touting for work, those forever changed by adherence to the ideologies of empires that had soon fallen, leaving them aimless and directionless in their wake.
He lifted the glass, tilting his head, feeling the taste of expensive whiskey burn his lips, wash down his throat. Lowering the glass, he licked his lips. No trace of poison, he thought, marginally disappointed.
At the other end of the bar, a man sat hunched over his highball, his head engorged, swollen up and fashioned like a baseball, eyes staring balefully in Hongo's direction.
He held the other's gaze, waiting out the moment, daring the other to say something, to speak the disgust he felt, yet it never came, the man turning back to his drink, Hongo returning his attention to the young man behind the bar.
As if on cue, Goro offered an immediate reminder of his purpose in such an establishment.
"And what it is that brings you here this night, Mr Hongo?"
The smile never faltered, an expression so fixed that it could only be insincere.
"I heard something I didn't much like," Hongo said flatly, "and I thought I'd pay you all a visit here to find out if any of you had heard the same sort of story."
Goro blinked, but the smile still did not falter.
"Now what kind of a story might that be?"
Hongo felt his lips twitch.
"People say they've seen a spider-man about."
Again, the chatter of fellow patrons dropped off.
"Hmm," Goro said with pretend consideration. "A spider-man? That does sound like quite the story."
Hongo looked at him carefully, watching the coyness of his expression, and then lifting the glass, pointing to the mirror, he said, "You're holding out on me."
He left the statement open to interpretation, but the meaning was clearly.
Gently, Goro placed his well-manicured hands over Hongo's own, easing the glass from his grip.
Turning away, Hongo was treated to a display of the efficiency of his movements, a slender figure in satin waistcoat and crisp white shirt, the old glass placed in the dishwasher beneath the bar, a new one reached for from the shelf.
Amber liquid in generous measures, the slow drift of ice cubes towards one another.
If he hadn't known, Hongo thought, he might even have mistaken the bartender for a human.
"I am assuming, Mr Hongo, that you are too good to read trashy women's periodicals, so I won't infer that we have such a poorly written editorial to thank for your presence amongst us this night."
He placed the glass down on the bar between them, a silent dare.
"Despite a lack of knowledge of said article, I will also assume that you have reached the same conclusion as did the staff of that particular magazine: that there is a man with the powers of a spider at large in Tokyo, that he has been sighted numerous times in both daylight and night, and that, at present, no one knows of his identity."
Hongo nodded, lifting the glass to his lips, sipping gently this time. Once again, he was surprised by the absent taste of any recognisable poison.
"However," Goro continued, waiting until the moment Hongo was drinking, "just because our friend doesn't want to be seen, does not mean he has not been seen."
Hongo suppressed a cough, lowering the glass again, looking sternly at the other man.
"Get to the point," he said, the only words he could manage without spluttering wildly.
Goro offered him a smile of consolation, reaching out to pat his hand, a gesture from which Hongo recoiled.
"400 years ago, I am told, a certain visitor arrived on Earth following the destruction of a planet in the M77 nebula. He's been very busy in the interim, apparently."
The sound of the music through the speakers became irritating, the smoke that drifted across the bar exciting once more the urge to cough.
"And then what?"
Palms up, Goro shrugged.
"That's all I know, I'm afraid."
"You're sure?" Hongo pushed.
Goro lifted his head, both hands on his chest, the picture of a saint, untroubled by evil thoughts.
"Our agreement stipulates that I be honest with you, Mr Hongo. After all, I wouldn't want to lose my license."
The ice in the glass diminished, the quality of the whiskey lessened by the dilution of water.
He placed his hands on the bar, rising from the stool.
"Oh, Mr Hongo," Goro said, and he stopped mid-gesture, shooting the other a questioning look.
A low mournful saxophone sang softly to him from the speakers above the bar.
"If you leave the matter of our 400-year-old visitor alone, perhaps you won't hear anything more about a spider-man."
Hongo's lips twitched unhappily once more.
"Thanks," he growled. "I'll try to keep that in mind."
It felt longer because he'd been away. After returning from abroad, he hadn't gone back to Tokyo, moving instead to the coast in Odawara, the sound of the sea reassuring, the noise of others less than in the crowds of the capital, yet not diminished to such a degree that he was alone.
He dug his hands into the pockets of his jacket, the early onset of autumn, the threat of snow by October.
The world had changed whilst he had been away. There were others now, not just Hayato and Shiro, but a whole host of men displaced by the ideals of extremists, a generation of young men left with their identities in question, unwilling to acknowledge what had been done to them, desperate that someone else might pay the final price.
It had been he and Hayato who had done that to Shiro, who had set him apart forever, made him what they were. Whilst Shiro's cause had been just, whilst his anger had been righteous, still he felt it in his heart, the diminishing space between himself and what he thought of when he considered men like Ruriko's father, men who had transformed him into Kamen Rider.
Beneath the chirp of the flashing lights, he crossed over, approaching the station, the row of payphones leading up to the concourse, narrowly avoiding the shape of an American woman with auburn hair as she sighed with exasperation, pulling the cord of the phone as far as it would stretch, and stepping out in front of him.
"Peter, that's not what I said!"
Wooden wedge heels on the pavement, the lights of Shinjuku behind her, she mouthed apologies before turning away again, resuming her conversation, the shape of the receiver pulled close to her ear, a voice sternly continuing in her ear despite the distance between them.
"But if they've seen him in Hong Kong, then why not Tokyo?"
He gave her a wide berth to avoid further collision, moving on in the chill with the flow of the crowd, heading towards the turnstiles of the station—and finding a familiar presence standing ahead, legs planted firmly apart, hands deep in the pockets of a heavy overcoat.
With a smile, Hongo quickened his pace, offering a hand.
"Taki, long time, no see."
The other man smiled warmly, a pencil thin moustache on his top lip bristling as he pulled a hand out of his coat pocket and took hold of Hongo's own.
"Hongo. Nothing gets by you, does it?"
He laughed, taking in the other's look, his hair combed upwards like a brush, the moustache, the lines on his face that had not been there the last time they met; signs of age, signs of change.
"You've heard about this spider-man business, too?" he asked, only surprised by his own lack of anticipation.
Taki Kazuya nodded.
"That's why I'm here." He made to continue, and then stopped abruptly.
Behind him, Hongo felt the presence of another, and he turned quickly, releasing Taki's grip, expecting a fight, and instead finding the American woman from the payphone smiling broadly, waving her arms.
"Oh, excuse me," she said in English, "but just now, did you two gentlemen mention—"
She stopped, and Hongo could see her practicing the words in her head before, falteringly, she began again in Japanese.
"Excuse me, but were you just talking about Bear-Man?"
Hongo frowned.
"Bear?"
She nodded, thrusting her own hand out.
"Bear!"
Gingerly, he took her hand.
"Spider," Taki said with a sigh.
"That's right!"
She turned to him with a smile, and offered her hand.
With more reluctance than Hongo, he accepted, and then seconds later, she was reached for her handbag, rummaging about before producing a handful of cards, handing one to each of them.
"I'm Julie Masters from The Reporter in New York. I'd like to ask you some questions."
From his coat, Taki brought forth his own credentials, the leather wallet falling open to reveal a passport photo in black and white, his own face, stern and uninterested, three large letters in blue and a familiar seal.
"Taki Kazuya, Federal Bureau of Investigation." He offered her a thin smile. "Sorry, Ms Masters, you lucked out. I'm going to need you to drop this story for now."
He was conscious once more of the sound of the soft, lazy piano, the smell of cigarette smoke once again, and he regretted drinking earlier.
As they approached, the woman waiting for them stood up abruptly, saluting swiftly, her expression full of anxiety, her uniform deep blue, crumpled from hours of sitting alone in a café, waiting, presumably, for Taki to find him.
On the table before her, a ceramic cup rested in its saucer, the dregs of sour coffee at the bottom, the press of lipstick on the rim.
She was in her early '20s, he guessed, maybe younger, maybe only 18 or 19, dark hair bobbed at the chin, the silver chain of a necklace visible just above the colour of her white blouse.
Taki gestured at the woman with nonchalance.
"Hongo, this is Warrant Officer Odagiri from the JASDF."
She seemed to put even more effort into her salute.
"She's been assigned to me by the powers that be as my aide, I suppose."
"It's a pleasure to meet you—"
Taki cut her off.
"Warrant Officer."
She looked at him questioningly.
"You want another coffee?"
"Y-Yes, sir!"
He nodded, patted Hongo on the shoulder.
"She'll fill you in. I'll be back in five."
Hongo nodded his agreement, pulling out a chair as Taki left, watching as the young woman on the other side of the table waited for him to sit down before doing likewise.
Around them, the chatter of others filled the space, fingers drifting lazily over piano keys in recordings.
She coughed nervously, sitting up straight in her chair, dark hair against the whiteness of her complexion.
"Hongo-san. The Israeli ambassador speaks highly of you."
He frowned deeply. He had never been to Israel.
"They want to give you an award," she continued.
Then he remembered the men from Mossad, the soldiers in the jungle, meeting them first in Brazil, and then later in Paraguay, and he remembered the sad old men who had been living in the shade of palm trees on great, lonely farms, hidden amidst their riches, children who never knew the real names of their fathers.
Again, he remembered the haunted faces of those old men, their weak protests as he seized hold of them by their lapels, unable to transform themselves like the later elite of Shocker yet still somehow no less monstrous.
He shook his head, the recollection of blood on gloves of turquoise-blue, shinbashi-iro.
"I don't need an award."
Again, she coughed, turning and rummaging about in her handbag before dropping a beige file on the table, papers filled with detailed equations, the grainy photograph he had seen in Weekly Woman, antique illustrations of life upon other worlds.
From within, she took forth the photograph, leaving it there on top of the file between them.
"We caught sight of the object falling on the afternoon of May 17th. We can confirm it was not a meteorite."
He looked at it with apprehension.
"We were going to contact you ourselves." She looked away, pouting slightly. "But Agent Taki suggested it would be best to wait for you to get here on your own."
As if summoned, Taki returned, and Odagiri hastily reached for the file as he placed a dull orange plastic tray down between them.
"We don't know what it is, but we can tell you what it isn't," Taki said as he sat down, joining the conversation as if he had never been away.
Hongo took his coffee from the tray and nodded his thanks.
"Go on, then. I'll bite."
"It's artificial."
"Clearly," Hongo agreed.
"And it's far more sophisticated than anything built on this planet."
Hongo raised an eyebrow.
"So we're dealing with little green men?"
"Little black spiders," Taki said, a wry smile on his lips.
"Spiders are from space?" Hongo asked, smiling with equal wryness.
"Ones that can call giant starships from other planets are."
The young woman coughed once more, drawing his attention back from Taki.
"The National Defence Ministry believes that if we were to obtain this starship, we might be able to reverse engineer the technology as a deterrent to aggression."
Hongo tried to bury his feelings of scepticism.
Odagiri continued, unaware.
"There is a story that 400 years ago a—" She glanced at the notes in the file before looking up again. "—a leopard star passed over Sekigahara during the conflict between the Tokugawa and the Toyotomi clan. After that, it was never seen again, and yet the victor, Tokugawa Ieyasu, well known for his distrust of foreigners, still entertained a mysterious adviser who wielded terrible magics."
He felt the expression on his face tighten, the feelings of discomfort rising, the memory of Goro's words.
"Every time that the starship appears, there are new sightings of this spider-man."
Above them, the sound of the piano seemed somehow haunting.
"We're putting together a team," Taki said at last.
He reached inside his jacket and placed a card down on the table, two magpies, their legs entwined, flanking a shield that detailed the four minor arcana suits of the tarot deck.
"Who's we?" Hongo asked instinctively.
Taki shrugged.
"The FBI. Interpol. Anyone in the game."
Slowly, Hongo inclined his head.
"I said I'd ask you."
Again, he nodded.
"And if I say no?"
There was silence save for the piano, the conversation of others.
"Then I said that I'd ask you not to get involved."
He felt a sting of something, resentment perhaps, jealousy maybe, the idea that he was getting too old, that he was already obsolete.
"A lot of big players have got a lot of big stakes in this," Taki continued. "No one wants a rogue agent doing things his own way. They want to control the script."
He felt it in his heart; this was a warning.
"The spider-man—" he began.
"Leave him to us. Interpol have a man close to him."
On the table before him, Hongo caught his own reflection in the black surface of the coffee. He didn't look older, he didn't feel older, and yet how long did he have until the machines that had replaced his guts rusted and fell silent forever?
He looked up, his expression firm.
"I don't think you need to worry about this spider-man."
He held the phone close against his ear, brown Bakelite plastic unyielding as he kept the receiver in place with his shoulder, digging through his pockets in search of change, looking out at the taxi rank outside the station.
"No. I'll stay here tonight and come back in the morning."
On the other end, Ruriko made quiet apologies, a sense of shame in her voice, the sound of Hiromi in the background, a kettle boiling.
"There's nothing to worry about," he said, and then again, "I'll be back tomorrow."
It was a lie, but it was also what she needed to hear. The receiver clicked off and he hung up, making his way to the nearest taxi, waiting for eye contact with the driver, the rear door opening.
He slid inside, the glass screen between him and the driver.
"Where's the nearest hotel? Somewhere cheap."
He reached for the door, and abruptly there was someone else climbing into the back of the taxi, forcing him to move along to allow her to sit down.
"Hi!"
She smiled happily, seemingly very pleased with herself. It took a moment for him to recognise her as the American woman at the payphone, the reporter that Taki had warned off.
"I'm staying at the Prince, driver. Please take us there."
The driver offered Hongo a questioning look. He sighed and nodded as Julie Masters pulled the door shut, fumbling in her handbag for a notepad and pencil.
"So, would you like to tell me what you and Special Agent Taki were talking about? The American people really do want to know."
The taxi pulled away from the curb, heading out into the sea of traffic below the shifting lights.
He smiled, catching his own reflection in the glass.
"No. No, I'm not going to tell you what we were talking about." Behind him, he caught sight of the journalist's expression of frustration. "But if it's a story you want to hear, then let me tell you about those men targeted by a black shadow, men who have sworn to protect the peace of the world."
He watched her frustration turn to confusion.
"Let me tell you about Kamen Rider."