Disclaimer/Author's Note: I do not own Digimon (V-Tamers, 01, 02, Tamers, or Frontiers), or any of the characters in this story (unless otherwise stated). For example, no one in this chapter belongs to me. I do not own the series' creator, and I'm not making any money off this story. All original concepts in this story are original (duh) and belong to me, or have had all rights handed over to me. If you steal anything, then I will kill you. A lot. This story is. . .massively AC (Alternate Continuity), and takes place three years after 02, five years after Tamers and Frontiers, and almost thirty years after V-Tamers. It contains violence, language, angst in varying forms, psychological/emotional trauma, religious references/criticism, crude humor, pseudo-realistic liberties, and possibly sex and some sexual references. If you're not mature enough to handle all that, then just leave now. But for those of you who are, please enjoy.
N. E. O.
Prologue -- Access Granted
Doctor Victor Frankenstein would have been proud to see the patchwork abomination that crouched low on the degeterate legs of an immense grey wolf before the young boy. The creature was made from parts of its fallen fellows; the main body being the corpse of a large Mesozoic reptile with scales of tarnished fire, a series of dark blue stripes patterning its back. From that torso, two sets of arms were "sewed" on -- one above where the original should have gone and slightly farther back, and the other below and slightly forward.
The upper pair had belonged to some homid demon prior to their relocation, looking ever-so freshly removed with the black leather gloves that encompassed the entirety of each limb still intact from their rightful owner. They were impossibly long though, and the only thing that stopped them from dragging along the ground was the fact that they had been added at an upward angle atop the monster's shoulders, and that the joints were currently locked above its armored head.
Nothing adorned the lower arm, right side, not even skin or muscle tissue. The bone gleamed barren white in the room's dim lighting, the junctions of the naked extremity shadowing to a near-tangible black. On the left, however, the lower arm was insectoid in nature; colored like old blood, such a deep rust that it seemed brown. They, too, had been affixed at that same upward angle, both arms curling out more so that they did not trail through the dust and broken machinery littering the ground beneath them.
The boy briefly remembered the wings that the monster had once had: a large double set growing out from mid-back, always shifting and twitching as if of their own accord. It had been a mass of ardent feathers, a rustling collection of stained virtue. If he closed his eyes, the boy could remember the sound as well, like a thousand doves had been held captive in the room. But he opened his eyes, resolution hardening as he looked back up, trembling as his gaze came to rest on the final horror behind where those mock-angel wings should have gone.
Rising up above, towering over both the boy and chimera, was a dark shadow, thick and oily with evil. It was partially translucent, all hard edges, the rounded double-cannon sitting atop its back with the power cables going nowhere. The shadow, the long-lost ghost of genocide, tossed its head, mouth opening with the release of pressure valves, though none could be seen. Its white eyes met the boy's blue, and it took all of his strength to swallow the scream that wished to follow.
Slowly, the spasm of muscles in the creature's jaw caught the boy's attention. Its mouth was pulled taut across a massive wall of white, blood and bodies still caught in the gaps between each jagged tooth. A moment later, and the boy realized that he was being laughed at, though the only sound in the room was that of breathing.
"I was wondering where you'd gone," it said, the words almost purred out. There was something. . .odd about the tone, something strange and out of place in that harsh voice. It almost sounded like love, some deep-seated obsession wrapped in anger, perhaps. Whatever it was, it dripped with hate. ". . .I was waiting for you, Ryo."
"Shut up! We're here to end this: right here, right now," he didn't sound like the little boy he was when he shouted back, slicing the air with one hand in a broad sweeping gesture. When he spoke, he commanded; when he commanded, he was obeyed. He was not the same little boy he had been when he came into this world, alone and confused, though strangely at home. "I will destroy you."
It laughed, the ghost joining in a second later and continuing long after the creature had stopped.
"How, Ryo? How do you propose to kill a god?"
"Don't kid yourself, Milleniu. You're no god, not this time."
"But what," the monster began to ask, straightened as it slammed its skeletal hand into the ground. "Are you going to defeat me with, Savior?"
Ryo looked down to the device in his other hand, and took a deep, shaky breath. The Digivice was not his own, nor was the partner at his side, blue reptile with its white scales and rough attitude. None of it was his. He felt alone, though he knew that he was not. Zeromaru, the partner that was not, and never truly be, his, was here with him, would fight with him to protect the memory of another who had already died to save this world. His hand clenched around the Digivice, and he glared up at the snickering demon.
". . .With the spirit of courage, Milleniu. And one fighting soul."
There was something wrong with the message. Not something like a wording error, a grammatical mistake or mistranslation of some paramount topic. No, it was nothing as simple as any of that, but there was definitely something wrong with it. Koushiro certainly felt like there was something wrong with it. Perhaps it was simply the fact that it existed, because he had never before received a note like this: so full of contradictory mixed signals, leaving him feeling both barren and confused, a jumble of emotions catching painfully in his throat. He did not know what to do with such a message, did not know how to respond or even if he should. Out of habit, he picked up the phone from its resting place beside his computer. He dialed a number without thinking, the same set that he dialed every time there was a crisis of this magnitude. . .
"Hello, can I talk to Taichi?"