Chapter Text
"Buffa."
That was his name. Buffa was the name of the Kamen Rider he once was, but he’s dead now, and dead things don't get names, that much he's gathered from his time in the Garden. Other Jyamatos don’t have them. They do not need to be singled out. The Gardener will sometimes call him An Experiment or something similar, but that’s also rare. He doesn’t hold a purpose, not yet fully a monster, not yet an applicable, different kind of tool for the Desire Grand Prix to use in the name of entertainment, so there is little need to get his attention. In those rare circumstances, a well-placed glance or shout more than suffices. When the Gardener is done with him, when he’s fully grown, he will be called A Jyamato like any of the other monsters. That is the only name that will ever fit him, but for now, that name doesn’t belong to him any more than that of a dead participant.
But even if he's not a Kamen Rider, Geats still uses the name, so the corpse looks up.
Geats is… odd. His face is too malleable, easily squishing into a variety of expressions. Right now, it's a self-satisfied smirk (it's one of his more frequent expressions). When other Jyamatos take on human skin, it's to deceive competitors and bystanders. Their faces are more rigid, rotating between a handful of dulled emotions. Even the Gardener has a rather impassive face.
But Geats wears his emotions openly, and they leak through his eyes and lips like water from an open spout. Easy smiles, calculating eyes, brows that shoot up and down - how do living people put up with so many shifting features and changing feelings? The corpse has seen glimpses of Tycoon and Na-Go before they transform, and they’re even more expressive than Geats, rotating different postures to go with each minute facial shift. It's all so dizzying to keep track of.
Like right now, Geats is smiling but his eyes are doing that strange thing where they stay cold. So, that means… he's thinking, probably trying to solve some problem or other, but he wants to come off friendly - or, rather, he doesn't want anyone to comment on what he's scheming up.
"You're out late," Geats says. "What happened to your curfew?"
He's not being literal. Rather, he's observing a pattern: the corpse normally sneaks out during the day rather than the night. It stems from the fact that it is simply easier to leave during daylight hours - after all, that's when Jyamatos are often out and about. No one will notice if one dead thing isn't exactly where it was left then. Too many plants to keep track of to not miscount.
Geats often isn't literal. He exaggerates and minimizes frequently. The corpse still understands, it just takes a moment to decipher. The Jyamato language is more straightforward, and the Gardener rarely talks beyond simple orders and short praise, so it's not like there's much practice with it outside these meetings.
So what Geats is really asking is, "Why are you breaking our established pattern? Is everything okay?"
The corpse would tell him that he's not the one who's being odd, that Geats hasn't been outside without his entourage in days, that he hasn't been back at his house either and the corpse has now almost run into the Navigator twice while trying to wait up for him.
But the corpse can't talk. His tongue has decayed and atrophied since death and the Gardener's meddling. It is only suitable for conversing with other Jyamatos (not that the plants are notorious chatterboxes). He can write at least, both in Jyamato and the human's code.
The corpse shrugs before holding out a hand.
Geats frowns. "Pen's out of ink."
Geats does not understand hand movements like the Gardener does, so there's no point in signing. Furthermore, Geats is plainly inept at charades. So the corpse will not be able to tell him anything tonight. He retracts his hand, shoving it into his jacket pocket.
"Don't give me that look. If you didn’t write your letters so big or press down so aggressively, they’d last longer.”
The corpse isn’t giving the rider a look. He is only looking. There’s a difference, and a man capable of twisting his face so drastically should know that.
Geats sighs suddenly. “There’s a convenience store on the corner,” he says, fixing his jacket. “I’ll see if they have anything to write with. Do you want to come along, or are you staying here?”
The corpse tilts his head to the nearby benches.
Geats doesn’t frown but he doesn’t smile either. It’s easy to tell he’s disappointed, but not very. Maybe he’s trying to hide it (a foolish choice when his visage betrays him) or maybe he already knew how the corpse would answer. Regardless, he nods and walks off.
The corpse presses his back against an empty bench and looks out at the night sky. He doesn’t remember the last time he saw the stars.
The streets are quiet. The corpse finds himself preferring the quiet these days. Maybe he always did. It’s hard to say. All his memories of before the Garden feel more like impressions than solid things, rough outlines rather than the full story. He can feel the echoes of hatred for games, for the Desire Grand Prix, and for those who participate, but he can’t recall the rationale behind them. He feels a flurry of emotions he can’t parse out whenever he spots Geats, Na-Go, or Tycoon fighting on the frontlines, and figuring out how that came to be is just another mystery he can’t solve. And there’s a mostly forgotten name that rests on his tongue, the same tongue that can’t speak properly anymore and that curves and twists and rolls the wrong way. But it’s a name that begs to be spoken, to be remembered, to be carved into his dead, unbeating heart. It feels like the key to unraveling everything, or at least everything that's important, but it remains just out of reach. Yet no matter how many times the corpse can’t form the right sounds, it stays stubbornly stuck in his throat like a shard of glass.
The closest thing the corpse has to a vivid recollection is the moment he died. Barely perceiving the hand cupping his neck as the overwhelming sensation of fiery pain spread throughout his body. His own hands clutching fabric he could no longer feel, gripping with strength that threatened to peter out at any moment. Hearing the cracking of his ID Core and feeling it resonate with his flesh, tearing every atom of his body apart. Shoving a Driver into the person’s hands, a person he hated, despised, respected, would kill at the first opportunity, wanted to crush without remorse, tried to emulate, could never match, wouldn’t sabotage, couldn’t stand, trusted to be enough. Words forming on his lips as he knew he wouldn’t make it, as he still fought, still clawed and clung to life, like stubbornly fighting the inevitable would make a difference: Was that all a lie? Were you just fooling us this entire time? If you weren’t, then prove it to me. Make me believe in you .
Then, nothing. The corpse overtook the man.
“Buffa.”
The corpse looks up in time to catch a small cardboard box aimed at his chest. He glances at Geats before inspecting the thrown item: the box is helpfully covered in scribbles. It takes a moment for the corpse to unscramble the word “crayons” - it’s not like it’s a word that’s come up before.
Geats saunters over, hands lazily sticking out of his pockets. A plastic bag slides up and down his right elbow. He hands the corpse a notepad (Why throw one thing and not the other?) and flashes a quick grin.
The corpse opens the box and picks a colorful wax stick at random - purple. And yes, he could write out his thoughts “properly” but the Jyamato letters look nicer, and Geats has been getting on his nerves, so he can deal.
Why crayons?
To his delight, Geats does stumble at translating the second word. “They’re all the convenience store had,” he replies innocently.
So they had a twenty-four box set of crayons but not a single pen nor pencil?
Geats shifts the bag to his hand as he leans in closer to read. “I thought it was strange, too, but they must’ve sold out. Y’know, you could have whatever writing implement you wanted if you just carried it on you-”
The corpse shakes his head. The dead only get what they’re buried with, nothing more. Besides, if he’s spotted with new possessions, there will be questions, and that could easily topple what they’re working towards.
It’s an old argument, one that Geats has already mostly conceded.
Will get caught, the corpse writes out. He hesitates before adding, There’s rumors of a Jyamato sponsor visiting.
Geats’ eyes widen. He smooths his expression out before speaking. “So you do have sponsors then, same as us riders.”
A comfortable silence falls over them. The corpse sees no reason to break it. Geats is probably rotating the new information in his brain, finding the best place for it to slip into his already complicated plan.
Geats looks up at the sky. “Is that the reason behind your visit? I haven’t seen you in a while, so I thought you’d have more intel.”
It’s not meant to be a harsh barb; it’s obvious from his voice that he’s teasing. But it still feels wrong to the corpse. If Geats wanted to talk, he shouldn’t make it so hard.
If he was alive, he could walk up and talk to him. He would not have to care about who sees him and how likely it is that their conversation is overheard. Hell, if history is to be believed, he would probably still be a Kamen Rider, and thus could easily intercept the other in between or even during rounds. But he’s dead, so the corpse has limited options.
You haven’t been home in the past week. He writes it coded in the human’s script, too, for some stupid reason. Maybe so Geats can’t take the easy out of pretending to misunderstand, but that feels like more of an afterthought. He wants the other to instantly comprehend the situation.
"Oh, yeah, I guess I haven't," Geats says casually. "The new Game Master is going for more of a 'reality tv' angle, so between that, daily life, and the actual game round, I've mostly just popped in and out to pick up clothes."
Almost as an afterthought he asks, "Why?"
Harder to meet.
Geats taps his fingers. "That's… true. I can try meandering a bit in Jyamar Areas, though that might paint a target on my back. Unless you're eager to take up night walking?"
He grins, and the corpse is almost certain he's missing some kind of joke. But, knowing Geats, he could just be messing around.
The corpse takes a moment to really consider. How likely is it that he'll be missed? Maybe, if he's careful to observe the others' patterns around this time, especially Archimedel, then he could figure out how to slip away unnoticed. But it's easier to do so before or after Jyamato attacks, when everyone is busy planning out their next steps.
He taps the crayon against the paper a few times before writing out, Maybe. No promises.
Geats holds back a laugh, or maybe it's surprise again - he cycles through too many emotions to keep track.
"As thanks then…" Geats rummages around in the plastic bag before pulling out a mechanical pencil. He holds it out like a trophy to the corpse.
The corpse does not move.
"Hey now, I thought we agreed to retire that look. You don't need to get cross over this - I'm merely keeping you on your toes."
The corpse snatches the pencil and switches back to the Jyamato script to write down a choice insult.
"You say that a lot nowadays."
It describes you well.
"Rude." Geats places a hand over his heart, feigning a dramatic injury. He isn't a dedicated actor though, lightening up his posture almost immediately - it's hard to believe for even a second that he's truly wounded.
The corpse's indifference must not be the response Geats was hoping for, since he immediately switches gears. He sticks a hand into the bag and takes out a triangular-shaped, fist-sized object - rice ball, wrapped in seaweed, if fleeting, scrambled memories are to be believed. He keeps it aloft for some undisclosed reason.
The corpse long ago gave up trying to parse out the enigma that is Kamen Rider Geats.
"Hungry? You look like a twig - even more so than usual."
The corpse bares his teeth, not willing to summon enough energy to growl. He turns instead to physically block the other man from his sight - that's sure to get on the spotlight maniac's nerves. Something hits the back of the corpse's head.
Ah, the onigiri. Good thing it's plastic wrapped, if Geats is just going to throw it.
The corpse makes a concentrated effort to convey, through his eyes alone, what the hell's wrong with you?
"Can't take down management on an empty stomach," is his only defense.
The corpse looks back down at the rice ball. There's more scribbles along its packaging… "rice"… “wrapped in seaweed”.. "beef center"… Right, because if Geats ever does anything nice, there has to be a punchline. The corpse does not feel bothered enough to roll his eyes as he unwraps his meal, though the temptation to do so is strong. He relies on muscle memory and takes a bite.
"Y'know, you haven't ever told me much beyond the layout of the Garden. What's it like, for example," Geats prods.
That's on purpose, of course. The corpse chews slowly. The flavor's okay. He mostly just likes that it's hot. The night air can get cold, and he doesn't have the Jyamato's thick, protective, almost bark-like outer layer, only skin and a battered thin jacket, still bearing the signs of the battle that killed him.
"Or what exactly Archimedel is doing to you?"
Also a chosen topic to be ignored. Geats really can’t afford to be nosy about such things. Not when they’re both working on borrowed time. The corpse takes another bite, reaching the meat center - it’s strangely paste-like. Is that normal for this dish? Whatever, it’s easily the warmest part, so it doesn’t really matter.
"Are they looking after you, at least?"
Obviously. They can’t have him expire before they’ve finished creating him into some new monster. But Geats is unlikely to see it that way. Jyamatos don’t need “looking after” in the traditional sense. Like any plant, they can find nourishment from the ground and their wounds heal on their own. If injuries are too extreme, they become fertilizer for those that remain. That's just how Jyamatos are. And with each passing day, each trial, each experiment, the corpse is becoming more like them.
Geats isn't an idiot. He's probably guessed as much for himself, but so long as it's a hunch and not a fact, he won't act on it. It's already a near impossible task to outsmart the Desire Grand Prix and follow the trail that leads back to Geats' mother - adding new objectives means dividing their attention, time, and resources when they're already running thin as it is. The corpse sought out Geats over the other riders because he knew he'd be motivated but also calculating, cautious, and clever. He won't risk anything on maybe's. Their whole relationship works off plausible deniability. So the corpse does not need to mention the vines that have begun to overtake his veins: he just pulls his jacket tighter and eats the remaining bit of rice.
"You heading out, Buffa? Or do you have time to go over the Garden's layout? Your map leaves much to be desired."
He's baiting him. Maybe to get him to spill more secrets, maybe because Geats just wants the company. Who knows, who cares. The Gardener already measured the vine growth for today - so long as he's back before sunrise, he should be fine.
The corpse can stay. He's not worried about saying anything he shouldn't about the experiments: dead men tell no tales, after all.
If the fox can't puzzle it out himself, I'll lend a hand. What part is confusing you?