Chat room (weekend, evening)
<I’m telling you, Ikebukuro’s all about the Dollars right now!>
[The Dollars are that team people are talking about these days? I’ve never seen them.]
<Sounds like they’re keeping it on the DL in public. But people on the Net are all into it!>
{Oh, really? Sounds like you know a lot about Ikebukuro, Kanra.}
<Not that much really!>
<Oh, how about this? Have you ever heard of the Black Rider?>
{Black Rider?}
[Ahh.]
<The one people are talking about in Shinjuku and Ikebukuro. It was even in the news yesterday.>
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Location in Bunkyo Ward, Tokyo (weekday, late night)
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“Muh…muh…monsterrrrr!”
The man screamed in rage, lifted his metal pipe—and ran for his life.
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The man dashed through the late-night parking garage. In his right hand, the pipe was not cold, but skin temperature. Even that sensation became indistinct and uncertain as sweat flooded his palm.
There were no people around, only cars waiting patiently for their owners.
All sound had vanished from around him, leaving only the pounding of his footsteps, his ragged breath, and the steadily rising drumbeat of his heart.
As he tore past the ugly concrete pillars, the thug practically shouted under his breath, “Sh-sh-sh-shit! Shit! Shit! S-s-s-s-screw this, man!”
The light in his eyes took on a glint of anger, but the only breath that escaped his mouth was the panting of sheer terror.
He’d gotten that neck tattoo to inspire fear in others. Now that tattoo was distorted with the tension of his own fear. Soon the purplish pattern, devoid of any kind of belief or meaning, was covered by a pitch-black boot.
<It’s been around as an urban legend for years, but now that all the cell phones have cameras, people have started getting shots of the Rider, and the story’s famous again.>
[Oh yeah, I’ve heard about that. Actually, it’s not even an urban legend, but a regular old motorcycle gangster. Just not the kind that rides in an actual gang.]
<Anyone riding around on two wheels without their lights on has to be an idiot.>
<Assuming they’re human.>
{I’m afraid I don’t see your meaning.}
<Oh well… I’m saying the Rider’s basically a monster!>
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With an eerie crikkle sound, the thug’s body flew through the air at an odd angle, half rotating.
Slammed hard sideways, he desperately scrabbled with what remained of his wits. The air was freezing, but the numbness throughout his body shut out the chill of the concrete. Trapped in a nightmare, he turned back to the approaching source of his terror.
The shadow of a figure stood over him. Not metaphorically, either—it was a shadow.
The figure was dressed in a black full-body riding suit without a single pattern or logo on it, making it look as though the black material had been dipped into even darker ink. Only the reflection of the parking garage lights signified that there was even something physical there at all.
From the neck upward was even stranger. An oddly designed helmet sat atop the figure’s neck. In comparison to the uniform blackness of the body, the shape and patterning of the helmet seemed somehow artistic. It didn’t clash with the overall dark look, however.
The faceplate of the helmet was like the dark mirrored glass of a luxury car. It showed nothing of what lay behind the glass, only the distorted reflection of the lights overhead.
“…”
The shadow was completely silent. It exuded no signs of life whatsoever. The man’s face twisted with fear and hatred.
“I-I-I didn’t do nothin’ to deserve gettin’ chased by a T-t-t-terminator!”
It might have passed as a one-liner, but there was no humor in his expression.
“Wh-wh-why don’t you say something? What’s your problem? What the hell are you?!”
From his perspective, the figure was incomprehensible. They were supposed to meet up in the underground parking garage like usual, do an easy job, then leave. Deliver the product to the client and load up on a new product. That was it. Nothing different from the usual. Where did they screw up? What had they done to call such a monster down upon themselves?