Chapter Text
Ace isn't expecting to see Michinaga during his stroll around town. To be fair, he isn't expecting to see Michinaga at all. He died, and the dead don't come back, especially not if they're failures of the Desire Grand Prix. Those souls are blotted out of existence, their corpses rendered to glitches, then into total and absolute nothingness. At least until Keiwa's wish comes true, all dead participants are supposed to stay deceased, obliterated things.
Save for Michinaga Azuma, apparently. Everyone wants to pull one over the fox trickster these days.
The dead man is staring from across the park. Ace can't help but notice the lack of heat behind his self-appointed rival's eyes - it almost makes him wonder if Michinaga is even looking at him. But the Jyamato attacks did tend to clear out areas, so even though Ace de-transformed a few minutes ago, it's not like anyone's itching to get back to the site of unknown dangers. He knows he's the only other living soul around.
It's a shame. It is a nice day for a walk in the park.
The sunlight pierces through the trees' leaves easily, so even Michinaga, from his distant, shaded spot, glistens from the rays. He's wearing the DGP participant uniform still, the same one he died in - the dirt stains and tears make that much obvious. Yet the man himself is perfectly uninjured.
The scars without the pain: a perfect contradiction. How very Michinaga of him. Ace doesn’t hesitate to close the distance between them and get a closer look at the walking conundrum.
"Zombies really don't die, huh?" he says as way of greeting.
Michinaga's eyebrows scrunch up ever so slightly, but he stays silent.
Right, Ace reminds himself, Michinaga was the sort to respond to anything other than an outright attack with an aloof attitude. He's not star-struck or jumping down his throat with questions, so the DGP board must not require memory erasing before euthanizing a Kamen Rider - either that, or the zombie nullified that effect, too. It's unfortunate that Ace can't make any new inferences out of this revelation (yet), but at least they're back to business as usual. Not friends, but not outright enemies, at least not to the extreme extent the DGP board is.
Without warning, Michinaga raises both his hands. Rather than balling them into fists, or trying to grab Ace's collar to threaten him, his hands flit through many rapid signals - flat, curved, fingers pointed inward, outward. It's a series that's devoid of any meaning to Ace. Yet when his arms fall again, Michinaga looks at him expectantly.
But Ace Ukiyo, Star of the Stars of the Stars, is not one to admit defeat. He takes a stab in the dark at what the shorter man could possibly want from him.
"I don't have the Zombie buckle anymore," he says, slipping his own hands into his pockets to help feign casualness. "We already finished the last game - rather, it was declared a tournament with no winner. You haven't met with Tsumuri, have you? She can confirm that a new Desire Grand Prix is already underway."
It's unnerving for Michinaga not to frown nor glare nor huff at him after those words. His hands repeat one gesture: right over left, then the left one breaks through. Again and again. Then they still and eyes meet, the shorter man's gaze cold and stubborn and urging.
Ace suddenly wishes for Keiwa: he could be more friendly and inquisitive without endangering any common ground that remains. Hell, Keiwa might even know what was going on. After all, he'd partnered with Michinaga before, which was more than anyone else still breathing could claim. But Keiwa's not here, so Michinaga will get no such grand sympathy or understanding, only veiled kindness, if Ace's actions could even qualify as that.
"I don't have time to play with you," he lies. With a wave of mooks gone, Ace has nothing but time, and Michinaga should know as much. The stubborn bull would usually react with annoyance, call him out for treating him like a childish invalid, maybe even angrily grab at him as he demanded whatever it was he wanted. But the man before him only frowns, a fraction of the emotional storm that Ace knows the other is capable of producing.
"If you're bored," Ace continues, because his brain insists on digging himself deeper into this ditch, "go find Keiwa or Neon. Those rookies are probably still dealing with their own waves of Jyamatos."
Michinaga’s eyes spark for a second, but someone on Ace’s level can easily clock the brief flame. Ace briefly wonders what exactly is going on in the other’s head, what could possibly dull the latter to such a degree. But it’s not as if he can read minds.
As if on cue, the dead man opens his mouth. Slowly, he asks, “Jyamato?” Even without the slight head tilt, the hesitance in his voice marks it clearly as a question.
“Jyamato,” Ace echoes back. Stronger, because even now, the mask can’t drop.
There's always an audience he has to be wary of. He’s not quite sure when viewers turn their attention elsewhere, if there’s any lingering shots after he’s demorphed and away from the lounge. He imagines not, but keeping up appearances is never a bad call. Showing concern for the man who died in his arms is not going to lead to anything good.
Buffa didn’t get pulled for this tournament. He’s got his memories and he’s miraculously alive - Ace feels a short stab of guilt for steering the man back onto the battlefield. But he sternly reminds himself that Michinaga can make his own decisions, that he’d probably be diving headfirst into a fight if he wasn’t doing… whatever he’s doing with Ace right now.
The Star of the Stars of the Stars of the Stars does not feel little things as regret, empathy, or remorse. He is above them. Ace turns to leave.
Michinaga's arm stops him.
The shorter man opens his mouth. And what comes out can only be described as urgent nonsense.
“What?’ Ace asks dumbly. Michinaga’s grip, like always, is nothing he couldn’t break out of, but the man finds himself too stunned to do so.
He speaks slower, but it does no good. “Dlfa, fvv rhu zwllr Jyamato, avv? Aobo nhoykuly pg bow avv zbotaopun klfuqlyboz. Fvv rhu olsw, yhofa?” Michinaga releases Ace suddenly. His eyes search for something in his eyes. “Geats?”
Ace dons his signature smile, but it feels shaky. “Only two words of all that were actual words, but good effort, I guess.”
He takes a step closer, lifting a hand to the other’s forehead. “You concussed?”
Michinaga endures the touch for a moment, which is a moment too long. It’s official: something screwy is going on. The younger man slaps away Ace’s offending hand, stepping backwards. He eyes Ace like he’s the one acting oddly.
It’s not like Michinaga has any obvious injuries Ace can spot, and he didn’t feel feverish. Should he take him to a hospital? The odds of the dead man cooperating aren’t good, and while Ace can take him in a fight, he may cause more harm than help at that point. Taking him back to his place is much the same case - plus the DGP board would know Michinaga’s alive then (if they didn’t already).
Michinaga’s head snaps, like a dog hearing a high-pitched whistle. His expression smoothes out, back to that neutral look that doesn’t fit his face.
Before Ace can react, Michinaga’s hands stray across his torso, feeling around fabric that doesn't belong to him. He’s faster, much faster than Ace remembers him being. At least Ace doesn’t splutter so much as abort some choice words, much too stunned and a tad curious to stop him.
Just as quickly, the hands are removed. Michinaga holds up a marker - Ace had taken to carrying several after his wish for stardom. Too many autographs that needed to be given away at a moment’s notice for it not to have become an essential. So that’s why Michinaga would deign to touch him.
Michinaga plucks a leaf from an overhanging tree branch. He takes the marker’s cap between his teeth and opens it, then uses his free hand to scribble something onto the leaf. Ace can only silently observe.
The man pushes the pen and leaf at Ace until he takes them. It’s his turn to scrutinize Ace as the fox inspects the handiwork: two strange symbols written on one side of the leaf, four on the other. When Ace looks back up from the leaf, Michinaga nods once and turns his back to Ace.
Ace does not chase after him nor yell at him to stop. He doubts Michinaga would listen to him if he did. Obstinate little buffalo.
Ace turns on his heels and heads away from Michinaga, away from the park. He flips the leaf between his fingers, burning holes into the nonsense scribbles. None of them match, but they all have a sort of curved design to them and some sharp flourishes here and there. Something about them strikes him as strangely familiar…
He abruptly changes streets and alters his destination.
Luckily, Tsumuri is the only one home. Ace’s smile dazzles to its full brilliance in an instance.
“Sister,” he says, nauseously sweet, “could you do your favorite brother a small favor? Pretty please?”
Immediately, she frowns. “I am not your sister,” she insists. “Furthermore, I cannot reveal information about management, nor how to win this round of the game.”
“But a past round is fair game, right?”
Tsumuri narrows her eyes. “Ace Ukiyo, what are you trying to pull?”
“The escort mission, from one Grand Prix ago - do you still have the cipher book we found?” When his sister only looks conflicted yet guarded at his words, he presses on. “May I borrow it, dearest sister? I’ve already seen it before, and it’s not like it’s needed for any more games, so there’s no rule against it, is there?”
Tsumuri plays with her lip. “I can’t produce it from thin air. It could take a bit to locate.” She rises to her full height, small smile returning. “I can find it by the start of the next round, if you survive this first elimination round, that is.”
“Well, if my sister demands it, who am I to deny her?”
“Still not your sister!”
___
Of course there’s a trick to this round’s game, and it doesn’t take Ace long to find it. As if there was ever any doubt. The same day he cracks the puzzle, he finds the cipher book waiting in his bedroom.
Ace retrieves the leaf Michinaga gave him that day in the park. He flips through the book and slowly but surely is rewarded with two words.
Garden. Help.