The Mon Within
It had been raining all day in Shinjuku, but as evening fell it lightened to a misty drizzle that wrapped the city in its white blanket. The entertainment district set the horizon on fire nightly, even—or, especially—tonight; the light intensified in the damp air. Yamaki stared out through his rain-streaked window, seeing his own face juxtaposed over the familiar Tokyo lights that glowed softly through the illuminated fog. Big drops still spattered on the edge of his empty balcony from the one above it, the water running eventually down to patter gently on one of the countless umbrellas that comprised the only difference of Tokyo in the rain.
Somewhere out there, Riley was one such umbrella. Sometimes, a lot of the time, Yamaki seriously wondered what disorder she had that made her attracted to him. It was worse in recent times, he couldn't remember more than maybe two nights she had spent with him in the last few weeks. The rest, like tonight, consisted of an exchange of not-quite-angry words followed by Yamaki pouring a single drink. If only she wasn't so stubborn, he was sure that one of these times she wouldn't come back.
He thought he had changed. He truly did. What normal person didn't change after the type of stuff he'd just lived through? The youthfully arrogant, egotistical leader of nonexistent millions had been abandoned, he thought. The overpowering spirit of the Digidestined for their friends and their fight had softened him, put him back in touch with humanity. But perhaps with the return of the Digimon to the Digitalworld, Yamaki's monster had returned to him.
Feeling the chill through the window, Yamaki let himself fall away from it, finally to sag against the low back of his couch. He raised his glass to the watery view of the city, downing the dregs of his aloneness. Slowly he moved around the couch, running his free hand along the top, turning away from the lights. Placing the glass on the low table with slightly more force than necessary, he slumped down with the intent of refilling it from the insultingly full bottle that stood nearby.
Instead, he sprawled out immediately onto his back, his left arm dropping off the side just out of reach of the items on the table. His other hand passed across his face, still cool from the glass he had been holding. Shifting a little, he tucked the dangling arm under his head before sliding the other down to dig his plain silver lighter from his pants pocket. This he flicked open and shut a few times without lighting it—his nervous habit. He wasn't going to smoke; his pack lay in the far corner of the table, next to his dark shades. After a few more flicks, he tossed it clattering over the wood to rest near his other affects.
That's what she had called him, a monster. And who was he to deny it. He hadn't changed one bit; hey, maybe tomorrow he'd go and pick on little kids again. He had no hope anymore, he was a horrible person, and he wasn't the only one who knew it. Yamaki lay dejectedly on his couch, thinking depressed thoughts up at the blank ceiling. What he wouldn't give to have another world-threatening evil pop up and proclaim its violent intentions. Then, maybe, he'd have another chance to pretend at normality. If only he had those kids and their "monsters" to help him to see who he could be.
Digital Monsters. No, the only monster was himself. Consumed with similar dark thoughts, Yamaki fell asleep.
The field was wide and full of bright flowers. Little Mitsuo stared with sparkling eyes at its grand openness. The whole of the landscape was awash with a soft sheen of warm color and light. Never before had he seen any place so...magical.
Tottering on legs barely accustomed to walking, the small boy set out into the wondrous plain. Not far ahead, he stumbled into a strange object nestled amid the vibrant grasses. Coarse and brown and unfamiliar, it nonetheless brought images of safety and home to Mitsuo's mind. He peered into the cradle only to find a single large egg standing on one end wrapped horizontally in happy yellow stripes.
A round hand reached out to the egg. His fingers brushed the shell—an unexpectedly loud noise exploded out of the cradle, sending Mitsuo toppling backward. With wide eyes he watched the rim of the volatile object and the small cloud of smoke already dissipating from the scene.
"Poyo," a small voice called out. Curiosity overcame the boy's fear, and he slowly rose and peaked over the edge. Inside he found not the exploding egg, but a tiny white creature wobbling about. Perfectly round ebony eyes looked up. "Poyo," it repeated.
A wide child's smile brimming with utter happiness spread across Mitsuo's face. Somehow, deep inside, he knew that this little snowy jello-creature belonged to him. And it was more than that—he was meant for this Digimon, too. Without fear he reached for his partner, who met him with an enthusiastic leap into his arms.
Time was indiscernible to the boy and his Digimon. Suddenly he noticed that both himself and Poyomon were older. But it wasn't Poyomon, not exactly. Like the boy, he had aged, but had taken on an entire new form. Tokomon.
Mitsuo paused in mid-play. "Tokomon! Why did you get so pink and howcome you got so many teeths?" He stooped to poke his friend experimentally.
Tokomon giggled, displaying his fangs and the full sets of sharp teeth behind. "I don't know, Mitsuo! That's just the way it is!" Playfully, he took aim at the boy. "Bubble Blow!" he exclaimed, shooting an innocuous stream of bubbles that sent him bouncing backwards through the color as Mitsuo scooted giddily the other way.
It was the same sort of situation when Mitsuo collapsed into the grass, Patamon circling down through the sapphire sky to land gently on his stomach. Breathing deeply, the teen tucked his arms under his head and relaxed in the idyllic warmth.
"This is great, Patamon," he spoke with a deepening voice, "I wish that we could stay this way forever."
The small orange Digimon flapped his ear-wings gently, creating a quiet breeze. "I dunno, Mitsuo, I don't think I've ever seen forever before. What do you think it's like?"
"Oh, it must be just like this!" To accent his bliss, he scooped up Patamon, and standing, tossed his friend into the air before hurling himself at the ground to start a long cycle of cartwheels.
Falling back into the grass as he had done just moments—days?—before, he laughed up at the spiraling Patamon. "No matter what forever's like, promise we'll always stick together? Just you an' me."
With a slight bounce, Patamon took his familiar place on top of the boy. "Of course we'll always be together. We're the same, we can't be apart."
Mitsuo pulled up a stalk of grass and began to chew on the end. His eyes slipped shut. "Yeah, we are the same. Just I don't Digivolve."
"But you do change."
One human eye slowly opened to peer at the Digimon who's voice sounded slightly different. Then both flew wide as Mitsuo sat up in the long grass, holding a darker version of Patamon in his lap.
"Pa—Tsukaimon! You didn't Digivolve again, did you?" To his ear his own voice sounded deeper, too. Older.
The purply Digimon flapped his wings experimentally. "No...I don't think so. Not this time. I'm just different." His black eyes looked up curiously at Mitsuo, who found himself missing the innocent blue ones.
Tsukaimon launched up into the air, and Mitsuo stood. His tall form towered above even the grasses now, and the flowers seemed to dim around him. A chill breath of wind swept by his bare arms, making him wish he had some sort of jacket. The sky's blue, too, had dulled, and the beginnings of thunderclouds were forming on the horizon.
Suddenly, in the first change he had ever actually noticed, Yamaki found the world drastically darkened. He tore the sunglasses off his face, but found that they were not the only cause of the deepening darkness. After an uncertain pause amid the wilting field, he stuffed the shades into his jacket-pocket. His fingers brushed the cold metal of his lighter, and another explosion sounded behind him.
Yamaki whirled, jacket whipping around him, facing the newest monster to be born of the old. His blood turned to ice as the wind picked up, and thunder rumbled hesitantly in the distance. The creature that stood before him was not his cuddly soft playmate any longer. With horror he staggered back, hardly able to comprehend the quicksilver events that were so rapidly leaving him behind.
Devimon hefted his massive hands, as if testing their weight, glancing briefly at the single blood-red finger on his right hand. His torn wings rustled dryly in the strengthening wind. Glaring down at the petrified Yamaki, he stepped forward, moving his dark belted body with ominous and merciless grace.
"Do you know who I am?" His lethally silken voice seeped powerfully over the empty plain.
Yamaki had no answer, trapped by fear and shock in his ironically helpless adult body.
Devimon drew a breath that sucked every last shred of goodness from their world. In the freezing darkness, he bellowed, "I am you!"
Yamaki awoke with a violent gasp. He couldn't even remember sitting up, so vivid and close was the memory of his nightmare. He swung his legs weakly off the couch, knocking into the table. Instinctively, he grabbed at the empty glass and full bottle, settling them with disbelief that so little in the real world had changed. Leaning back again into the couch, the man breathed loudly, struggling to regain some form of peace.
His hands rubbed his face, similar to an action he had performed so long ago, and came away wet. Yamaki stared at the salty water that coated his fingertips. When was the last time he had cried? He had no memory if ever in his adult life. Upset, he rose unsteadily and turned back to his window.
Seeing the untouched panorama stopped him short. In the little space of time while Yamaki slept, the world had not changed. There Tokyo glittered in the fog, unaffected by one man's nightmares. Somehow this revelation gripped Yamaki at his heart, making him feel like the smallest, insignificant, overlooked particle in the universe. All that had happened to him—the plain, growing up with his partner Digimon, the ultimate confrontation with his inner darkness—all of it had happened to him and him alone, and the rest of the world would never know.
No one would ever know just how the soul of a monster lived within him. The man and the demon, they were one and the same. His temporary change of heart while in the company of the Digidestined amounted to an incredibly convincing fluke. He would always be the monster, just as he had always been. But it was the words of the deceivingly innocent Tokomon that echoed through his mind.
"That's just the way it is!"