"John," Peter asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the sterile silence of the interrogation room like a knife through butter. A thoughtful look crossed his face, the kind of expression that usually preceded either brilliant insights or catastrophic realizations. The harsh fluorescent lights cast sharp shadows under his brow, making his features seem older than his years. "Isn't your armor called Kuuga? Why is your codename Kamen Rider? Why not just Kuuga?"
John glanced up from where he'd been absently studying the grain pattern in the metal table, his fingers drumming a quiet rhythm against the surface. The sound echoed softly in the small room, mixing with the distant hum of the building's ventilation system. "This armor is called Kuuga," he confirmed, his tone carrying the casual certainty of someone stating an obvious fact.
"Oh," Peter responded, his attention already drifting as his mind processed the information. He leaned back in his chair, the metal creaking softly under his weight, and went back to spacing out. His eyes unfocused as he stared at the blank white wall, lost in whatever teenage thoughts occupied the spaces between world-saving activities.
A second later, his brain caught up to what John had actually said. The words hit him like a delayed-reaction explosive, and he snapped his head back toward John so fast that Sergeant Marlene could practically hear his neck vertebrae protest. His eyes went wide with the kind of shock that comes from realizing you've completely misunderstood something fundamental about reality. "Wait. What do you mean this armor is called Kuuga?"
The emphasis on the word 'this' hung in the air like a loaded gun, heavy with implications that made the temperature in the room seem to drop several degrees.
"Uh, yeah. There are other armors," John said casually, as if he were discussing different flavors of ice cream rather than revealing the existence of multiple sets of world-changing technology.
Peter looked at the transformation device on John's belt—that innocuous-looking piece of equipment that had already redefined what was possible in their world—and a deep frown formed under his mask. The fabric wrinkled around his features as his expression shifted from confusion to something approaching existential dread. "Other... armors?"
The way he said it made it sound like he was testing the words, seeing if they would make more sense if he spoke them aloud. They didn't.
"There are too many to list on the report," John explained with the patient tone of someone who'd clearly had this conversation before, though perhaps not in quite these circumstances. The air conditioning kicked on overhead, adding a low mechanical hum to the atmosphere as he continued. "I'm most suited to use Kuuga for now. The others put a bit too much strain on my body."
Peter's breathing became slightly more rapid, visible in the way his chest rose and fell beneath the red and blue fabric. His hands, which had been resting casually on the table, began to clench and unclench unconsciously. "How many is 'too many'?" he pressed, his voice carrying a note of desperate hope that maybe—just maybe—John was talking about two or three additional suits.
"Let's see..." John started counting on his fingers with the methodical precision of someone working through a mental inventory. The gesture was so normal, so human, that it made what came next all the more surreal. "There's Kabuto, Ryuki, Faiz, Blade, Hibiki, Gaim, Kiva..." He trailed off, his expression becoming thoughtful as he seemed to lose track of the count.
The truth was more staggering than he was willing to admit in this small room with its institutional lighting and government-issued furniture. The Knight Watch gave him access to the powers of almost every main Kamen Rider in history—a collection of abilities that spanned decades of heroic legacy and represented power that could reshape civilizations. But even he understood that some truths were too large for casual conversation.
"Anyway, there are a lot," he concluded with a shrug that somehow managed to be both modest and earth-shaking.
Peter's world tilted sideways. The familiar weight of his own powers—strength that could lift cars, agility that let him dance across skyscrapers, spider-sense that had saved his life countless times—suddenly felt insignificant. The metal chair beneath him seemed less solid, as if reality itself was becoming negotiable.
"Wait a minute," Peter said, holding up his hands in a gesture that was part plea, part desperate attempt to slow down the conversation before it completely shattered his understanding of how the universe worked. His voice cracked slightly, betraying his age and the emotional weight of what he was processing. "Is this some kind of joke? Are you messing with me?"
"No. Why would I be?" John's response carried the genuine confusion of someone who couldn't understand why anyone would find this information particularly surprising. His expression was completely nonchalant, as if they were discussing homework assignments rather than abilities that redefined the possible.
Peter stared at John's face—that perfectly sincere, utterly calm expression that belonged on someone discussing the weather—and finally broke. His mind short-circuited like an overloaded electrical system, sparks flying as every assumption he'd made about fairness, balance, and how the world worked went up in smoke.
Are you even human?! he complained frantically in his head, his internal voice rising to a pitch that would have shattered glass if thoughts could make sound. You have got to be kidding me! One set of armor is a miracle, but you have a whole collection?!
The thoughts tumbled through his consciousness like an avalanche of incredulity. Here he was, thinking he was special because he could stick to walls and bench press a small truck, and his friend was apparently walking around with access to what sounded like an entire arsenal of reality-bending technology. It was like showing up to a knife fight and discovering your opponent had not just a gun, but an entire military arsenal.
Sergeant Marlene listened to their conversation, her coffee cup frozen halfway to her lips as a wave of profound speechlessness washed over her like a tsunami of professional inadequacy. The bitter taste of department coffee seemed suddenly irrelevant in the face of revelations that were making her twenty years of law enforcement experience feel like kindergarten preparation.
Today, she truly understood that the gap between some people wasn't just significant—it was greater than the gap between a person and their dog. Hell, it might be greater than the gap between a person and a particularly intelligent houseplant. It was the first time in her life she had even met a super-powered individual, and she was witnessing this absurd situation unfold like some cosmic joke played at the expense of everyone who thought they understood how the world worked.
Peter's incredible array of abilities was already the stuff of dreams—the kind of powers that military strategists would kill for and that comic book fans could only fantasize about. But this kid... this kid was on a completely different level. He wasn't just playing by different rules; he seemed to have access to an entirely different rulebook that the rest of humanity had never seen.
She decided, with the firm conviction of someone who had reached the absolute limit of their ability to process new information, that she didn't want to know any more. Her sanity couldn't handle additional revelations about the nature of reality and her place in it. Her police department had stumbled upon the deal of the century—possibly the deal of the millennium. Wherever Captain Stacy had found these two, the outcome was overwhelmingly positive for everyone involved except her peace of mind.
They were both children, despite their extraordinary abilities—children with a strong sense of justice and what appeared to be decent upbringings. For now, that was enough. She would cling to that simple truth like a life preserver in an ocean of impossible revelations.
"I have two more forms here with a few questions," she said, her voice carefully controlled as she fought to regain some measure of professional composure. She pulled two papers from a drawer, the mundane sound of rustling documents somehow reassuring in its normalcy. "Please complete them. I need to better understand your psychological profiles."
The two nodded with the automatic obedience of young people accustomed to following adult instructions, took the papers with hands that seemed almost normal despite everything she now knew about what those hands could do, and began to read. The soft scratching of pens against paper filled the room, a sound so ordinary it felt surreal.
There were only three questions, but Marlene knew from experience that the most profound insights often came from the simplest queries.
If someone asks for your help to save a life, what is your choice?
If a superhuman crime occurs, but the U.S. government explicitly forbids you from intervening, what do you do?
If a criminal you personally apprehended is released due to insufficient evidence, what do you do?
Marlene watched them write, her trained eyes noting the different ways they approached the task. Peter attacked the questions with youthful enthusiasm, his pen moving quickly across the paper as if the answers were obvious and waiting just beneath the surface. John, by contrast, paused frequently, his brow furrowed in concentration as he seemed to consider angles and implications that weren't immediately apparent.
The questions were designed to be difficult, crafted through years of experience evaluating personnel who would be given significant responsibility and authority. The first was to test their procedural discipline and vigilance, not just their goodness—any decent person would want to help save a life, but could they do so effectively? The second was to test their adaptability and their approach to political power; there would always be a reason for such an order, legitimate or not, and how they handled it would reveal their character. The third was a raw, realistic problem they would inevitably face: what happens when the legal system fails?
She had been worried they were just two lucky, idealistic kids who had stumbled into power they didn't understand. But after seeing their true capabilities, and John's mention of a technology conglomerate backing them, she knew they represented a major new force in the world—one that could shift the balance of power in ways that made her head spin.
I just hope they aren't too rigid in their thinking, she thought, watching John's pen pause as he considered some complex angle to the questions. With their power, they can solve so many problems if they're just a little bit clever. In this world, a bigger fist was always more effective than good intentions alone.
The two finished at roughly the same time, setting down their pens with the satisfied air of students completing a test. Marlene reached for the answer sheets with hands that were steadier than they had any right to be, while John and Peter curiously leaned over to see each other's responses, their natural teenage competitiveness overriding the serious nature of the exercise.
For the first question, Peter had answered like a textbook hero, his response carrying all the noble simplicity of someone who saw the world in clear moral terms: I would go help, try to save the person, and pay attention to hostage safety. It was pure, direct, and exactly what she would have expected from someone his age with his obvious moral compass.
John's answer, however, read like a tactical field manual written by someone with far more experience than his apparent age should have allowed: Assess the credibility of the source, report to the NYPD, verify the information, request official support, disperse surrounding crowds upon arrival, and observe the situation before engaging. He had even listed several possible scenarios and appropriate responses, complete with decision trees and contingency plans.
The difference was already clear, stark as the contrast between a spotlight and a laser. Peter was a classic, hot-blooded hero, prone to acting on impulse and trusting his instincts—the kind of person who would run into a burning building without hesitation. John was a seasoned, mature warrior who thought through every angle, considered every variable, and planned for every contingency before taking action.
For the second question, Peter had clearly struggled. His handwriting showed the hesitation, with several false starts and crossed-out phrases scattered across the page like evidence of internal conflict. He'd written a few well-intentioned but ultimately useless phrases about trying to figure out why the government had given such an order and attempting to communicate with officials to change their minds. By the time he'd done all that diplomatic dancing, any crisis would be over and any lives that could have been saved would be lost.
At the end, seeming to recognize the inadequacy of his diplomatic approach, he had simply written in bold letters: I would go anyway, even if I'm not allowed. It was a pure, if naive, answer that spoke to his fundamental unwillingness to let people suffer while he followed bureaucratic procedures.
Marlene then looked at John's answer, and her eyes widened as if she'd been slapped. She looked up from the paper, stared at John's innocuous face with its gentle expression and kind eyes, then back down at the paper, unable to believe that the words she was reading had come from the same person she'd been talking to for the past hour.
Throughout her interactions with him, she had seen John as an upright, gentle, and stable young man—the kind of person who would help elderly people cross streets and return lost wallets without expecting rewards. His demeanor radiated quiet competence and moral certainty, the aura of someone who had never met a problem he couldn't solve through careful planning and good intentions.
But the answer written on this page, in handwriting that was neat and confident and completely matter-of-fact... it was something only a cunning, shameless politician would have come up with. The kind of response that would have made Machiavelli nod in approval while simultaneously making her question everything she thought she knew about the young man sitting across from her.
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