The two responding police officers, Anthony and Garcia, walked up to John with the confident stride of veteran cops who'd seen it all. Their heavy utility belts jingled with each step, radio chatter crackling from their shoulder mics in a steady stream of dispatch calls. Anthony extended his hand first, his weathered palm meeting John's armored gauntlet with a firm grip that spoke of mutual respect between fellow officers.
"Hello, Kamen Rider," Anthony said with a genuine grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. The morning sun caught the silver of his badge, and John could smell the lingering scent of coffee and aftershave that seemed to follow all early-shift cops. "I can't believe we're running into you so soon."
"Hello, Officer Anthony." John's voice carried warmth despite the mechanical filter of his helmet, and he could see Anthony's surprise at being remembered by name.
Garcia, a shorter man with keen dark eyes that missed nothing, gestured toward the two young men still pressed against the brick wall. "Are these the two?" His voice carried the practiced neutrality of someone who'd processed a thousand similar situations, but John caught the slight softening around his eyes as he looked at Jamie and Sari—two kids who looked more scared than dangerous.
"Yes. They tried to steal my combat partner," John said, pointing up at Golem hovering in the air above them. The mechanical beetle's shadow shifted across the pavement as it maintained its position, sensor arrays dim but watchful.
Anthony followed his gaze upward, squinting against the morning light, and let out a genuine chuckle that made his whole body shake. "Oh. That's really stupid." The comment was delivered without malice, more amazed than critical, as if he were marveling at the sheer audacity of the attempt.
Garcia pulled out his citation book, then paused, pen hovering over the blank form as realization dawned on his face. "How am I supposed to write this report?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His brow furrowed as he stared up at the hovering machine. "I don't even know how to assess the value of that thing."
John could hear the frustration in the officer's voice—the eternal struggle of trying to fit extraordinary circumstances into ordinary paperwork. "They're just kids," John said quietly, his tone gentle but firm. "It's not a big deal. Five days in detention should be enough to teach them a lesson. Is that a problem?"
Anthony and Garcia exchanged a quick glance, one of those wordless communications between partners who'd worked together for years. Garcia shrugged, closing his citation book with a soft slap. "If you're not pressing charges, it's up to you," he replied, relief evident in his voice. Less paperwork was always welcome.
The two young men stood nearby, their backs still against the brick wall, watching this familiar, friendly interaction unfold with growing amazement. The easy camaraderie between the armored figure and the police officers spoke volumes about John's legitimacy and connections. They realized this wasn't just some costumed vigilante—this armored man had significant background and genuine authority within the system.
Jamie felt a complex mixture of emotions swirling in his chest. Fear was still there, cold and sharp, but it was being slowly displaced by growing gratitude and a grudging respect for someone who could have thrown the book at them but chose not to.
Sari remained outwardly defiant, his jaw set in stubborn lines, but John could see the slight tremor in his hands and the way his eyes kept darting between the officers and their handcuffs. The reality of their situation was finally sinking in.
As Anthony moved forward with the handcuffs—the metal catching the sunlight with small flashes—their familiar ritual of arrest began. But just as the cold steel touched Jamie's wrist, John's voice cut through the morning air.
"Wait."
Everyone froze. Anthony's hand paused mid-motion, Garcia looked up from his paperwork, and both young men turned toward John with expressions of confused hope.
John walked over to Golem with measured steps, his armored boots clicking against the asphalt in a steady rhythm. The mechanical beetle lowered slightly as he approached, and John reached into one of the storage compartments built into its side. He withdrew a worn black backpack that looked oddly mundane against the creature's alien technology.
From within the backpack, he pulled out a thick wad of cash—crisp bills bound with a simple rubber band that spoke of practical preparation rather than show. Without hesitation, he peeled off a substantial portion and stuffed the money into Jamie's front pocket, the bills creating a noticeable bulge against the thin fabric of his jeans.
"This is for you. Split it between the two of you," John said, his voice carrying a gentleness that seemed to wrap around the words like a warm embrace. The mechanical filter couldn't disguise the genuine care in his tone. "Consider it some personal help. I hope you can use it to get on your feet."
Jamie's eyes widened as he felt the weight of the money in his pocket—more cash than he'd held in his entire life, enough to change everything. His breath caught in his throat, and he could feel his heart hammering against his ribs.
John stepped back and raised his armored hand, giving them a firm thumbs-up that somehow managed to convey both encouragement and solidarity. "No matter how hard life gets, you have to keep going."
Jamie stared at his bulging pocket, completely stunned. The morning sun felt warmer on his face, and the sounds of the city seemed to fade into background noise as the magnitude of this gesture hit him. People like them—young, Black, poor, living on the margins—were looked down on by everyone. Store owners watched them with suspicious eyes, potential employers dismissed them before they even spoke, and police officers usually saw them as problems to be solved rather than people to be helped.
He had assumed John was the same, just maybe a bit soft-hearted beneath the intimidating armor. He never expected that this stranger—this armored cop with his flying metal companion—genuinely wanted to help them not just avoid trouble, but actually improve their lives.
Jamie looked up at the armored man's faceplate, his own reflection staring back at him from the polished surface. His eyes were shimmering with tears that threatened to spill over, his voice thick with emotion when he finally found the words.
"Thank you," he said, the simple phrase carrying the weight of desperate gratitude and newfound hope. "You're a good person."
Beside him, Sari, who had been sulking and defiant throughout the entire encounter, felt something crack inside his chest—some hard shell of cynicism and anger that he'd built up over years of disappointment. He couldn't bring himself to speak, his throat too tight with unexpected emotion, but his expression softened. The hardness around his eyes melted away, replaced by something vulnerable and almost childlike.
Anthony and Garcia watched this exchange with the kind of quiet respect that comes from years of seeing both the worst and best of humanity. They'd witnessed countless acts of cruelty and kindness on these streets, but there was something particularly moving about watching hope being literally handed to someone who needed it most.
After taking a quick photo with John—Anthony insisting on it for the precinct bulletin board, "This is going to be legendary," he said with a grin—the two officers gently guided Jamie and Sari toward their patrol car. The handcuffs felt less like shackles now, more like a temporary inconvenience on the way to a better future.
"You two are really lucky," Anthony told them as they settled into the back seat, his voice carrying genuine warmth. Through the rear window, they could see John watching them go, Golem's shadow still hovering protectively overhead.
After lunch—a quick sandwich eaten while perched on a rooftop, watching the city pulse with afternoon energy—John continued his patrol. The sun had climbed higher, warming the concrete and asphalt until the air shimmered with heat waves. As the day wore on, the streets grew more chaotic, as if the rising temperature brought out the worst in people.
Petty thieves skulked in shadowed doorways, their eyes tracking potential victims with predatory patience. Brawls erupted outside bars and on street corners over trivial disputes magnified by heat and frustration. Strangely dressed people wandered the sidewalks—some clearly mentally ill, others just eccentric, all adding to the rich tapestry of urban dysfunction that made up a typical afternoon in Queens.
John saw it all through his enhanced sensors, cataloging threats and disturbances with mechanical precision. The police in Queens were diligent—he could see squad cars racing from call to call, officers doing their best to maintain order—but they were simply overwhelmed. Too many problems, not enough resources, the eternal equation of urban law enforcement.
The radio chatter from his police band scanner was constant: domestic disputes, shoplifting calls, reports of suspicious persons, and the endless stream of minor emergencies that made up city life. Each call represented someone's worst day, and there weren't enough cops to handle them all promptly.
Sure enough, as John ducked into a narrow alley between two tenement buildings—the kind of place where shadows lingered even at midday and the air always smelled of garbage and desperation—he encountered exactly the kind of situation that was all too common.
Two thugs, both wearing stained hoodies despite the heat, had cornered a young man in a business suit. The victim looked like he'd taken a wrong turn somewhere, probably cutting through the alley to save time and ending up in the wrong place at the wrong time. His white shirt was already torn, his tie askew, and there was blood on his lip from where one of them had obviously hit him.
"Quick, grab his wallet!" The taller thug's voice was harsh with excitement and adrenaline, his hands already rifling through the victim's jacket pockets with practiced efficiency.
"Help! Somebody, help!" The young man's voice cracked with terror and desperation, echoing off the brick walls that hemmed them in. His eyes darted toward the alley entrance, but the thugs had positioned themselves to block any escape route.
John walked up behind them with deliberate casualness, his armored boots making soft clicking sounds against the broken asphalt. The two thugs were so immersed in the joy of their petty robbery—so focused on their victim's fear and the promise of easy money—that they didn't even notice the heavily armored figure approaching from behind.
"Ahem." John cleared his throat politely, the sound amplified slightly by his helmet's speakers. Nothing. The thugs continued their assault, completely absorbed in their work.
"Excuse me." His voice was louder this time, carrying the kind of authority that should have made anyone pause. Still nothing. They were either deaf, incredibly focused, or criminally stupid.
A vein throbbed on John's forehead under his helmet, invisible but definitely felt. Was he being ignored? By common street thugs? The sheer disrespect of it rankled more than any physical threat could have. To hell with 'don't be angry,' he thought. Sometimes a more direct approach is necessary.
He kicked each of them in the side with perfectly controlled force—not enough to cause serious injury, but definitely enough to send them tumbling across the alley like ragdolls. The impact made satisfying thud sounds as they hit the brick walls, and John immediately felt much better. There was something deeply therapeutic about direct action after being ignored.
The two thugs clutched their stomachs and rolled on the ground, gasping for breath and trying to process what had just happened. Only then did they notice the armored man standing over them, his red form blocking out most of the light from the alley entrance. Golem descended from above with the whisper of mechanical wings, its shadow falling across them like the promise of further consequences.
John reached into one of Golem's storage compartments and withdrew a pair of standard police handcuffs, the metal gleaming dully in the filtered sunlight. He restrained the two thugs with efficient movements, their whimpering protests ignored as thoroughly as they had ignored his polite requests for attention.
The young man who had been mugged scrambled up from the ground, his suit jacket torn and dirty, briefcase clutched protectively against his chest. He looked around nervously, clearly trying to assess whether his rescuer was better or worse than his attackers. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, he tried to tiptoe toward the alley entrance, moving with exaggerated stealth as if he could somehow become invisible.
"You. Come here," John said, pointing at him with one armored finger. His voice wasn't threatening, but it carried unmistakable authority.
The young man froze in place like a deer caught in headlights, as if thinking that if he didn't move, he would somehow become invisible. The logic was endearing in its childishness, but ultimately flawed.
John sighed—a sound that somehow carried through his helmet's filters—and beckoned him over with a gentler gesture. "It's alright. You're not in trouble."
"Sir, I didn't do anything," the young man said with a forced smile that looked more like a grimace. His voice shook slightly, and there was sweat beading on his forehead despite the shade of the alley. "They were robbing me."
"I know." John's tone was patient, almost paternal. "The police will be here in a moment. You just need to give a statement."
The man visibly relaxed, his shoulders dropping as the tension left his body. "Oh. Right. Of course." He looked down at the two handcuffed thugs, who were still groaning and trying to figure out what had hit them. "Thank you. I thought... well, I thought I was going to lose everything."
"Not today," John said simply.
After dealing with that situation—waiting for the patrol car to arrive, ensuring the witness gave his statement, and watching the thugs get loaded into the back seat with appropriate lack of ceremony—John walked out of the alley and immediately heard the familiar wail of sirens in the distance.
The sound was getting closer, multiple units by the sound of it, which usually meant either a major crime in progress or a high-speed chase. In Queens, it was usually the latter.
"I'm really getting fed up with this," he muttered to himself, his voice carrying a note of genuine exhaustion. The afternoon sun was beating down mercilessly now, turning his armor into an oven, and the constant stream of criminal activity was beginning to wear on his patience. "It never stops."
As he reached the main road, the source of the sirens became clear. Several patrol cars were engaged in a high-speed chase with a bright red convertible, their black and white cruisers weaving through traffic with lights flashing and horns blaring. The convertible was moving erratically, swerving between lanes and running red lights with complete disregard for public safety.
Even worse, a man in the passenger seat was firing a shotgun at the pursuing police cars, the weapon bucking in his hands as he emptied shell after shell. Pedestrians on both sides of the street were diving for cover behind parked cars and into storefronts, screams mixing with the sound of breaking glass as stray buckshot shattered windows.
"This is too dangerous," John complained, watching a young mother grab her child and run for cover as another blast from the shotgun peppered the sidewalk where they'd been standing. Innocent people were going to get hurt, and the police couldn't return fire without risking even more civilian casualties. "Golem!"
The mechanical beetle immediately swooped down from its patrol altitude, its wings creating a shadow that passed over the street like a cloud. John leaped onto its back with practiced ease, feeling the familiar sensation of Golem's systems responding to his presence. The creature's wings beat with increased power, lifting them both into the air with smooth acceleration.
Golem weaved between the city's buildings with mechanical precision, navigating around fire escapes and water towers, power lines and cell phone antennas. The wind whipped around them as they gained speed, John's cape streaming behind him like a red banner. Below, the chase continued, but from this aerial vantage point, John could see everything—the police formation, the convertible's likely escape routes, and most importantly, the innocent bystanders who were in danger.
They quickly caught up to the convertible and began paralleling it from above, Golem's shadow racing along the street beside the speeding car. John could see the gunman clearly now—a middle-aged man with wild eyes and the jerky movements of someone high on adrenaline or drugs. The driver was younger, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he fought to control the car at dangerous speeds.
John swept his hand across his belt, fingers finding the familiar control mechanisms with muscle memory born of countless transformations. The change was always exhilarating, like stepping through a doorway into a different version of himself.
"FORM CHANGE—DRAGON FORM!"
In a brilliant flash of blue light that briefly outshone the afternoon sun, his red armor transformed. The heavy, defensive plating of his Mighty Form flowed like liquid metal, reshaping itself into something sleeker, more aerodynamic. Blue replaced red, and his helmet's optical sensors shifted to compound eyes that could track multiple targets simultaneously. He felt lighter, faster, more agile—perfect for what he was about to do.
He locked onto the front seat of the car with his enhanced targeting systems and leaped from Golem's back, diving toward the speeding convertible like a blue comet.
The fugitive in the passenger seat saw a large shadow descending from above and instinctively raised his shotgun, the barrel tracking upward. He fired without thinking, the blast echoing between the buildings like thunder. But the buckshot only splashed like harmless sparks against John's blue armor, the pellets bouncing off the advanced materials with tiny pinging sounds.
As John landed between the two men with a impact that made the entire car shudder, the fugitive's eyes went wide with terror. He ejected the spent shell with shaking hands and aimed again, but an armored gauntlet clamped down on the shotgun's barrel with inexorable force. The metal began to crumple under the pressure, and when the man pulled the trigger in desperation, there was only a hollow click. The gun had been crushed into uselessness, its barrel now compressed into a twisted sculpture of bent steel.
The gunman looked up into two large, flashing blue compound eyes that seemed to peer directly into his soul. He couldn't see a face behind that alien mask, but he could feel the being's utter lack of concern for his weapons, his threats, or his very existence. It was like staring into the face of a force of nature—implacable, unstoppable, and completely beyond his ability to intimidate or harm.
"What the hell is going on?!" the driver yelled, his voice cracking with panic as he felt strong hands grab him by the shoulders. Before he could even scream, a solid punch to his jaw knocked him unconscious, and he was unceremoniously tossed into the back seat like a sack of laundry.
John slid into the driver's seat with fluid grace, his armored form somehow fitting into the space despite its bulk. He slammed on the brakes with mechanical precision, and the convertible came to a screeching halt, leaving black rubber marks on the asphalt and filling the air with the smell of burning tires.
The panicked fugitive in the passenger seat, now fully aware that his partner was unconscious and his weapon was destroyed, pulled another gun from somewhere in his jacket—a small pistol that looked pathetic in his shaking hands. He started firing wildly, the reports echoing off nearby buildings as he emptied the clip in John's direction.
The bullets were useless, striking John's armor and bouncing off like pebbles thrown at a tank. John didn't even flinch, simply reached over with his left hand and grabbed the man by the neck. His grip was firm but controlled—enough pressure to immobilize, not enough to cause permanent damage. He pinned the struggling fugitive against the dashboard while Golem hovered watchfully overhead, its optical sensors tracking every movement in case additional threats emerged.
A moment later, police cars surrounded the convertible from all directions, their sirens finally winding down as officers poured out and took cover behind their vehicles. Guns were drawn and aimed, but John noticed with professional satisfaction that none of them were pointed at him. The NYPD was learning to work with their new ally.
John released the fugitive, who immediately slumped forward gasping for breath, and stepped out of the car with casual grace. The man offered no further resistance as police officers swarmed in and handcuffed both criminals—the unconscious driver and his panicked accomplice.
A precinct captain—an older man with graying hair and the weathered look of someone who'd seen everything the city could throw at him—walked up to John with obvious relief written across his face. He gripped John's armored hand tightly with both of his own, the gesture speaking volumes about his gratitude.
"Thank you so much," the captain said, his voice rough with emotion. "You helped us a great deal. We couldn't have stopped them without risking civilian casualties."
John could hear the weight of responsibility in the man's voice—the burden that came with protecting innocent people while following rules of engagement that sometimes made the job nearly impossible. "What did they do?" John asked, genuinely curious about what could drive men to such reckless desperation. "That chase was incredibly reckless."
The captain's expression darkened, his jaw tightening with barely controlled anger. "They shot and injured several civilians during a robbery. Armed robbery of a jewelry store that went bad—they panicked when the silent alarm went off and started shooting at anyone who moved."
John nodded grimly. The math was simple: people who were willing to shoot innocent bystanders during a robbery wouldn't hesitate to kill cops during a chase. The captain and his officers had shown remarkable restraint.
"Do you need me to give a statement?" John asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to be thorough.
"If you're willing," the captain replied hopefully.
John was already turning to leave, raising one hand in casual dismissal. "Then forget it. I'll continue my stroll."
He gave a casual wave to the assembled officers with his back to them and walked away with unhurried steps, Golem falling into formation overhead. There were still hours left in his shift, and if the afternoon was any indication, Queens had plenty more problems that needed solving.
The precinct captain watched him go, shook his head with a mixture of amusement and respect, then turned to yell at his stunned officers who were still staring after the departing figure. "Stop gawking! Get these two back to the station and process them. We've still got a lot of work to do, and the day's not over yet."
The sound of his voice echoed off the surrounding buildings, mixing with the normal sounds of the city—traffic resuming its normal flow, pedestrians emerging from their hiding places, and life slowly returning to its usual chaotic rhythm. Just another afternoon in New York, except for the two criminals who would be spending a very long time thinking about the day they tried to outrun justice and ran into something much more dangerous than they'd ever imagined.
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