Eye of the Night

Warlord Guyver

Authors Note: This story is based in two perspectives. This may be difficult for readers so I will quickly explain. Any short sentences in bold that are spaced apart from the normal paragraphs are thoughts inside of Greg’s mind.

New York City

            “From up here it looks so perfect” a voice says. Warrior Guyver floats above the city looking down. The entire east coast of the United States is under his arm now.

            He looks down on the city. From up high the city looks perfect, a finely tuned machine of sorts. Everything working together in unison to operate it’s function.

            Warrior Guyvers gravity orb glows and he floats down to the top of a city building. He changes his armor into clothes as not to attract attention.

            From here you see the true beauty of the city. Beauty and perfection from the chaos that inhabits it. A police officer getting tipped by the local drug dealer for him to conduct his business. The whore across the street selling herself, fifty bucks a pop, in an attempt to feed her two children who are result from her business.

            He looks down to see a newspaper. His hyper senses allow him to zoom in and read the headline.

CHRONOS BUILDING ATTACKED BY UNKNOWN MILITIA

            That was his and Ira’s doing. The War Clan did their part by distracting the Zoanoids outside the building while they went to the core research facility and destroyed the inner chambers.

The CEO of Chronos New York, Fredrick Purgstein commented, “We at Chronos have always faced persecution. We are a scientific corporation founded to help, yet we are attacked at every turn”.

            Fredrick Purgstein? Those stupid reporters. They have no idea they were standing next to the Zoalord Fried’Riech Von Purgstall. He could have killed them without a thought.

            Fools, rot in your ignorance.

            Chronos continues to gain support from the public. The big corporation and all their money, truly money is power. Lucky for him Chronos does not know of his existence. He’s made sure of that. Using a device Josh made for him, he can prevent the Zoanoids from sending in reports in the battle. It screws up any radio contact of any sort, including Infrared Ports.

            So far they think it is a militia group that knows of the Zoanoid Project. They have named them the War Clan, a name that Josh and Greg liked enough to adopt. Although he has remained separate for the moment. His life has gotten too weird and he needs to cool down.

            Currently he has decided to take a stroll across New York. In his armor he is able to detect a Zoanoid in even their human form. Therefore he is completely safe. Although what startles him is the fact that there are many people who are Zoanoids that are not part of the Chronos Corporation. They have been placed all over the USA, but he does not know the current situation of other areas of the world.

            Are they fighting too?

            The most active aside from his side is Japan. Word has it there were Guyvers there as well. Although he does not know at all about them, he doesn’t care. Besides they say one of them died and the third unit is unknown in location. The first Guyver is reported dead from an Enzyme Prototype. The Enzyme was supposed to be able to breakdown the Bio Booster Armor with acid; he would not like to face that.

            His actions have been very discrete. Only allowing the enemy to see him before they die, or not at all. He’s also been spreading his attacks around the area. Hit a base in Orlando, hit a base in Seattle and then Milwaukee. If he concentrates on one area they will learn that that is where he is.

            He looks down an alley. A homeless man with a dog. The dog sits next to him, starved to death. His ribs show under a shaggy gray coat. The dog sniffs the air and seeks a chicken bone from the trash behind him. But instead of eating it he brings it to the man.

            “Such loyalty” Greg says moving on. A rare thing anymore. This world is full of deceit and trickery. Greed is the cause, that alone. Did the creators endow us with this trait? The want to be greater than your fellows, the need to be wealthy. Wealthy in different ways sure, but in the end the need is the same. Was this given to us as a warrior trait, or was it something we created our own, with our need to feel special and unique in a world of filth.

            Or was it both.

            “It does not matter,” he says flinging his hair back. It begins to rain, only a drizzle.

            His life has fell to this. Wandering around aimlessly. He searches for a purpose. So far the only logical thing is to fight Chronos. They are the cause of much grief. In essence he feels like a Crusader, battling blindly against an enemy with only a belief to hold on to. But unlike the Crusaders of the old Roman Catholic Church, his murders have reason. They attacked him first, not the contrary.

            Is that what I will do?

            His thoughts blind him. Cold they are, caring not for his emotions. The feeling of emptiness grows in him. Funny, with a weapon of unimaginable power inside of him, he feels empty. Derisory.

            He flings back his wet hair. It’s the start of winter here, mid December. The year is 1999. He’s been a guyver for about 2 months now. Only now is he finally able to control the power he was endowed with. But does one truly need the power to destroy everything? Is that truly necessary? Why has Ira so obsessed in battling Chronos? They murdered her parents, her sister is growing up without a mother or father, and the world is going to hell.

            What other reason does she need?

            How about justifying the murder. She may be able to live with the fact she is killing people but he can’t. He knows that Zoanoids are human. Humans have the right to choose their own path. She stalks them, killing them before they attack her.

            She’s an Assassin, a stealth killer. She has shown herself hoping from tree to tree, moving quickly around objects and slashing them to bits. Her face shines happier after the slaughter of a Govbilva or Ramotith.

            Him, he thinks twice. Often that is what makes him hurt. His strength has always relied in his ability to reason the situation, to contemplate the causes and effects. He was a goddamn intellectual!

            Seems that has changed.

            Now he fights. His sociality has suffered greatly from this. His mind snapped. He feels it everyday when he wakes up. Every life he takes brings him that much closer to his brain death. Staring in the face of the monsters, his blades rammed in their chest, their blood pouring over his arms. His only thought is, “I’m sorry”.

            Sorry for what, for protecting myself?

            But he never attacked him. The Zoanoid was with his friends enjoying a drink. Speaking of cars and hot women. Mainly of the one he supposedly ‘Nailed’ the night before. Typical speech for this world.

            He killed them all, with Ira.

            He steps out from downtown and looks in the harbor towards Ellis Island. He’s too far away to really see the statue now, but his hyper senses compensate and show him. The Statue of Liberty, a gift from the French if he remembers his history right. Such graceful looks.

            He jumps the railing of the park and goes to the nearest bench and sits. He looks out across the water, rain pouring on his face. He’s cold, the armor compensates once again.

            To never feel again, that is his curse. Already he feels loss. Not the kind of loss you normally get, such as sadness of losing a friend or relative. This is different, bland.

            It’s hell.

            That’s the only phrase capable of summing it up. Hell, according to theologians a place of pain a misery where the beings of evil torment each other and bid the living to follow.

            Not for him. That would be release; maybe then he could actually feel something. His hell has begun, no feelings. He lost his love, he lost his hate, and he lost his soul. Ira says it was probably a side effect of the unit. Her and his units are very different.

            Yeah, mine made me dead.

            The side effect is worse than anything. His heart, it used to be full of emotion. Endless portions of love and wonder and happiness. He was not without hate though, all objects have two sides.

            He’d rather hate it all than lose all interest.

            He reaches his hand down and picks up a hand full of sand. It’s cool, untouched by the water.

            Nightfall.

            The sun has begun to hang low. It sets behind him as he looks out east. His face shadowed and cold. The armor compensates.

            “Damn armor,” he says. He stands up and scans the area with his senses, no one in the area. He disengages his armor to reveal his clothing. A red shirt and black jeans with a long trench coat.

            How gothic.

            His thoughts invade him again, this time making him smile. Although this is no more than a reaction to his own foolish sarcasm of himself.

            The rain stops as the moon rises from behind the curtain of day.

            In olden days they thought the moon and the sun were perfect orbs, completely smooth and equal to Pi. Although he knows this is not true now it still seems as though that is so.

            Simple days were much better, he wishes he could go back 1000 or so years and be a baker’s son, or a blacksmiths daughter.

            Why would I want to be a girl?

            Once again the mind plays with him. Its callous attitude right now is not very favorable. It must understand his dilemma, why do I toy with myself so.

            A young couple passes by. The boy is the stocky type, more man than boy anymore. Clad in a sports jacket of what Greg guesses to be his High School, or his favorite college team.

            The woman is a cream of the crop. Slender build, skin tanned perfectly for her. Smooth skin a cream colored hair, covering her with a blue dress, cut deep in the back.

            They hold hands and speak of their future together. Unknowing to them both the female is a Zoanoid, although he cannot tell which type. This is an ability he seems to have sensed, possibly another side effect of his bonding.

            They stop for a moment and lean against the railing. The female with her back turned and her face hanging over the side, the male with her hand around her stomach and his face buried deep in her neck.

            Every once in awhile a picture happens. A piece of art captured in real life. A moment in time that all beings stop at once to observe. Every living thing has this at one moment in their lives happen.

            As a man cowers at the alter with the words “I do”.

            As a child takes their first step.

            As an old man dies, with a smile on his face.

            All of these are pictures in themselves.

            I have none.

            Must I ruin everything for myself?

            No, you enjoy the pain.

            No I don’t. The knowing that for now on my life will be empty of life, my death will be full of death. How can I find pleasure in knowing that my fate is to live and die alone, without emotion because of this damn being inside me!

            I was alive once, now it’s all gone. I shall live no more. No more can I find pleasure in art, no more can I find pleasure in flesh, and no more can I find life.

            You please yourself in pain.

            That he must agree with. If he truly wished to stop feeling like this he could stop using the guyver unit and begin exploring his mind again.

            I am the cause of my own vex.

            A small girl, about 12 or 13, comes strolling along and sits next to him. She is dressed in a ruined coat and is crying.

            He looks over at her, she’s a pretty girl. Very developed for as young as she is.

            “Are you okay?” he asks her.

            She sniffles and rubs her eyes. “Yeah I’m fine. Sorry about that but there is no other place to sit”.

            “For as young as you are you shouldn’t be out so late,” he tells her. The girl looks at him.

            “I’m 14 years old. Your not much older than me” she says.

            No denying that. But I can protect myself, this girl cannot.

            He turns away from her.

            “I’m sorry, I was just over my boyfriends house and we had a bit of an argument,” she says.

            He nods his head. “Must have been pretty bad for you to run out crying”.

            She nods. “I found him in bed with some college chick”.

            “Does he not know that girls over 18 can get in trouble for that”.

            “Well that doesn’t count for him; he’s 20” she says.

            “Oh” he says and looks back to the ground.

            Slut, trailer trash, jail bait.

            Not so, people can be confused easily by their emotions. Sometimes it is their emotions that cloud their judgment.

            Of course for me it’s my judgment clouding my emotions.

            “…He’s just thinks he’s such hot shit. I mean not every girl wants to fuck him” the girl rambles.

            “You might find it better to date people your own age, it would be a lot less trouble too” he says.

            “No guy my age would come near me, I’m too ugly. They joke me cause I have a large ass,” she says.

            He almost laughs.

            Ignorant child

            “If a 20 year old man would date you based on your looks why wouldn’t a 14 year old. If anything a 14 year old would find you more attractive” he says.

            You’re being nice, stop it.

            Shut up!

            She sits in silence for a few moments. “Thanks” she says before walking away.

            “If I didn’t know any better I would swear you were coming on to that girl,” a voice says from behind.

            Hello Ira

            “How did you find me?” he says making a picture of a star in the sand.

            Ira steps up near him and reaches in his coat pocket. She pulls out a small pebble. A homing device.

            “Besides, you were born in New York before going to Florida, I know you’ve been coming here a lot” she says.

            “Sly devil” he says with a half forced smile.

            “You’ve been depressed lately, what’s the matter,” she asks.

            Let’s see, you made me lose everything I had. I am a murderer thanks to you.

            “Nothing, been thinking a lot” he says sitting back up. He looks her in the face.

            “Thinking is bad for you”, Ira says with a smile. Evil woman, beautiful woman, I wonder which is worse?

            Greg shakes his head. “Thinking too much is bad, thinking too little is as well. Balance thought”.

            “Another one of your intellectual escapades” she asks?

            “No”.

            “How about this. Thinking spends time that action can better utilize,” she says.

            “I guess were both Philosophers tonight” Greg says.

            I love her, but she loves to hate

            She hates Chronos, who can blame her. She wants to see them suffer, who can blame her. But do I love her, that’s a matter worth thinking of.

            Ira is a beautiful person. Not just physically but in many ways. She is smart, caring and witty. But she’s too stern about subjects and her hunger after for battle is too much. Must she struggle for everything?

            Greg turns his head back towards the ground. Ira looks up to the sky.

            “My father used to call the moon ‘The Eye of the Night’. He said that it was a great gods eyeball in which they looked over us while we sleeped” Ira says. Greg looks up at the moon.

            And she calls me crazy

            “He was wrong”.