An anomaly in Kamen rider geats

Speaking with the fox (84)

The dimly lit room embraced a silent tension as Aaron and Ace settled onto a worn-out couch. Aaron's posture exuded nonchalance, his form laid back with an air of carefree ease. On the contrary, Ace remained composed, his demeanor revealing a subtle curiosity beneath the surface.

The conversation unfolded like a delicate dance between shadows and history. Ace, ever the poised figure, broke the silence, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken questions. "How did you survive that battle?" he inquired, eyes studying Aaron with a measured intensity.

A carefree grin crossed Aaron's face as he chuckled. "Ah, simple really," he drawls, stretching languidly. "Stuck a taser right on my chest, set it for five minutes. Figured by the time it went off, I'd either be pushing up daisies or back amongst the living."

He winks, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Lucky for me, it must've given me a good kick, 'cause here I am, breathing and all." His tone remains light, almost cavalier, as if describing the weather rather than a near-death experience.

The tension crackles in the air as Ace's words hang heavy. He turns to Aaron, his gaze searching, skeptical. "If I didn't know any better, I would've thought you were insane," he says, his voice laced with a mix of concern and disbelief.

Aaron meets his gaze, the carefree grin morphing into a sly, knowing smirk. "And you wouldn't be wrong for thinking that," he retorts, his voice a playful drawl. He leans back, eyes gleaming with a mischievous challenge. "Maybe a touch of crazy is what keeps things interesting, wouldn't you say?"

Ace scoffs, but a sliver of amusement flickers in his eyes. "Interesting, or just plain suicidal?" he counters, unable to mask his underlying worry.

Aaron throws his head back and laughs, a booming sound that fills the room. "Semantics, my friend, semantics," he winks. "Besides, a little danger never hurt anyone... well, almost anyone."

A beat of silence follows, charged with unspoken emotions. Ace seems torn between exasperation and grudging admiration for his friend's recklessness.

"Tell me, Aaron," he finally asks, his voice softer now, "Was it worth it... All this... close calls, brushes with death?"

Aaron's nonchalant response hangs heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the gravity of his words. Ace stares at him, a flicker of concern replacing his initial skepticism. "Worked out just fine?" he echoes, his voice laced with disbelief. "Just fine?"

Aaron meets his gaze, his face unreadable. He shrugs, a movement that speaks volumes. "Hey, I'm still breathing, ain't I? That's gotta count for something, right?"

Ace doesn't reply, his gaze dropping to Aaron's hands, clenched into fists at his sides. The tension in the room is palpable. Finally, he breaks the silence. "Show me," he says, his voice low and firm.

Aaron hesitates for a beat, then nods curtly. He stands up, slowly, deliberately, peeling his shirt off in one fluid motion. The air hangs heavy as the fabric falls away, revealing the raw truth beneath.

Aaron's bared body unveiled a mosaic of bruises, each mark telling a story of battles fought and endured. The canvas of his skin displayed a spectrum of hues, ranging from faded purples to deep blues.On his chest, a constellation of bruises formed a chaotic pattern, evidence of blows absorbed in the heat of combat.

A particularly vivid one adorned his left shoulder, a testament to the impact of a forceful strike. The lines of his abdomen cradled shadows of discoloration, reminiscent of clashes that tested his endurance.

His arms, strong and weathered, bore the aftermath of numerous encounters. The knuckles, calloused and marked, hinted at the fierce strikes he had delivered in return. A map of bruises adorned his forearms, mapping out the trajectory of struggles that unfolded in the relentless dance of conflict.