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The Kamen Rider Series is created by Shotaro Ishinomori, Ishimori Productions, and Toei Company.
Kamen Rider Goji: Hello, welcome to the story of a military general dealing with harsh realities of war.
General Ambitions
Chapter 1: Soldiers
It was a bright day in Connecticut, yet heavy with sorrow.
A military cargo plane had just touched down on the runway of a U.S. Army base. As its doors opened, personnel stepped forward in solemn silence, unloading caskets draped in American flags.
Watching from the tarmac stood a middle-aged, rugged-looking Caucasian man in a dress blue uniform. His attire mirrored that of every U.S. Army officer, with a few notable exceptions: the black background of his shoulder boards, the distinct piping on his sleeves and trousers, and the absence of branch insignia — reserved only for chaplains and medical officers. Four stars adorned each epaulette. He was a general.
Standing at 5'10", General Ambitions kept his expression cold as he observed the scene. Flanking him were two officers: one of Latvian descent, the other German.
"How many this time, Ingus?" the general asked, his Connecticut accent clear in the precise pronunciation of his 'r's.
"Twelve, sir," answered Ingus.
"And there are more," the German officer, Dingus, added hesitantly. "Still in medical care overseas. Some won't make it."
General Ambitions exhaled sharply, turning a sharp glare on Dingus.
"Damn it, Dingus! Why the hell would you tell me that now?" His voice cut through the air, making Dingus flinch.
"I—I just thought you should know, sir," Dingus stammered.
Ambitions pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated. "Not only do I have to inform grieving families that their sons and daughters are dead, now I have to brace for even more casualties? Christ!" His fist clenched at his side. "When the hell will this end?"
"When terrorism is eradicated from the Middle East," Ingus replied, his voice steady.
Ambitions shot him a look. "And how many more of our soldiers do you think we have to lose to make that happen?"
Ingus hesitated.
"Uh…thousands?" Dingus guessed weakly.
Ambitions sighed, rubbing his temples. "God, I hope not. I need a drink."
In his office, General Ambitions sat at his desk, staring at a bottle of whiskey and a glass filled with ice. He poured himself a generous amount, the amber liquid swirling under the fluorescent lights. He took a slow sip, savoring the burn before slamming the glass onto the desk.
Being born ugly hadn't done him any favors. No friends. No lovers. Just mockery from the day he could remember. And when he fought back, when he bloodied the noses of those who ridiculed him, he was the one who got in trouble. But it was worth it. His father had admired his toughness, told him to channel his anger into something useful.
So he did.
The moment he turned 17 — July 4, 1967 — he enlisted in the U.S. Army, eager to serve his country and, if he was honest, to find an outlet for the rage that burned inside him. Vietnam was his crucible. He belonged in the military, even if the ridicule followed him there. But he shut up the bastards who mocked him. Made them regret it.
Yet, despite his loyalty, despite his service, it hadn't been enough.
The U.S. lost the war in Vietnam. April 30, 1975 — his darkest day. America had retreated. Defeated. And him? He had been furious.
What made it worse was coming home.
He had expected parades, cheers, gratitude. Instead, Vietnam veterans were treated like a stain on America's history. Protesters spat on him. Called him a murderer. He had wanted to kill every last one of them. But he forced himself to swallow his rage and soldier on.
And now? Now, history was repeating itself.
The war on terror was dragging on. The losses kept piling up. More dead soldiers. More grieving families. More failures that landed on his desk. His superiors breathing down his neck. His nation looking weaker by the day.
No. He wouldn't let that happen.
The U.S. lost in Vietnam because they failed to adapt. And now, they were losing again. Unless…
His grip tightened around the glass.
If America had a super soldier back then, Vietnam would've been the 51st state by now. If they had a super soldier now, the war on terror would already be won.
Extreme measures had to be taken.
He downed the rest of his drink.
"Looks like I have no choice," he muttered.
He had to see that man.
A military jeep pulled up outside a secluded estate. It was a large Middle German-style house, standing isolated against the Connecticut landscape.
Ambitions stepped out of the vehicle. Ingus and Dingus followed, standing at attention.
"You two, stay here," Ambitions ordered.
"Yes, sir," they said in unison as he marched toward the house.
Inside, an elderly Northern German man sat in his office, hunched over his laptop. The screen displayed ancient writings: symbols, markings, texts that had been long forgotten by history. One stood out among the rest: a sigil depicting a pair of main horns, joined by two additional pairs unfolding from them.
The printer on his desk whirred to life, spitting out pages of decoded text.
*Ding-dong!*
The doorbell rang.
The old man adjusted his black-rimmed glasses, glancing toward the door. With a satisfied click of his tongue, he gave a command to the printer, ensuring all necessary documents were printed. Then, he rose from his chair and made his way to the entrance.
When he opened the door, there stood General Ambitions, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"Ah, General Ambitions. Long time no see," the German greeted, his accent thick but refined.
"Hello, Alban Albert." Ambitions' voice was polite, but his eyes were cold. "We need to talk."
"Of course, of course. Come in." Alban stepped aside, ushering him in.
Ambitions took a glance around the luxurious office.
"I see you've been spending my father's payments well — for a failed project." His tone dripped with disdain.
Alban chuckled, settling into his chair, "Who am I to refuse a generous investment?"
Ambitions wasn't amused. He leaned forward, placing both hands on the desk. "Let's cut the bullshit. My father may have been charmed by your Nazi rhetoric, but I'm not so easy to impress. You were a Nazi scientist, joined in 1941, tried and failed to create super soldiers. Then World War II ended, and Operation Paperclip scooped you up. My father recruited you. Paid you. And you delivered nothing."
Alban sighed, "I failed to produce super soldiers."
"Damn right, you did." Ambitions glared at him. "That's not happening again. I want results. And I want them now."
Alban smirked, "You know, I expected this conversation. And I've been preparing."
He turned, grabbing the freshly printed documents from the tray and handing them over.
Ambitions skimmed through them, brow furrowing. "What the hell is this?"
"Myths. Legends. Agitos."
Ambitions looked up, skeptical. "Did you just say magic?"
"Yes. I have found compelling evidence that Agitos — true superhumans — exist."
Ambitions scoffed, flipping through the papers, "You expect me to believe this crap?" He held up a photo: Kamen Rider Agito, locked in combat with inhuman creatures. "This could be fake."
"It's not."
Ambitions stared at him.
"You seriously expect me to go on a damn scavenger hunt for mythical super soldiers?"
"Yes," Alban said firmly. "Give me resources, and I will find them. If I fail, you can throw me in prison or take back every cent."
…
Ambitions was silent for a long moment. Then, he smirked.
"Fine. But if you fail me again…" He leaned in, voice low and dangerous. "I'll personally feed you to the wolves."
Alban grinned, "You won't regret this."
END
Kamen Rider Goji: There you have it, a United States military general goes to a Nazi scientist to find super soldiers. How do you think it will work out?
Thank you, Dr. Exposition, for making this story better with AI.