Howdy. Yesh, tis me, the former Heykyra13. I am a neurotic freak that likes creating new accounts every few years or so. Don't ask me why... if I were capable of coming up with an answer, chances are you wouldn't like it.

Anywho, yeah. Got to thinking about digimon for the first time in ages... and what a new season would be like. After I was done thinking, I started writing. And took a pause about forty pages later...

Right now, I'm hungry, sleepy, and desiring my tv to work so I can continue playing FFXII. But, in lieu of that, I shall offer this chapter.

Enjoy.

Standard Disclaimer: Nearly all of the characters in this fiction are the property of whoever created the Digimon series (because I'm too lazy to go look it up myself). There are a few characters present that are my own originals, but they should be obvious enough to not require pointing out. Please don't sue me because you won't get much. I promise.

Chapter One

A Day in the Life

No matter the point in history, there is one defining characteristic of all truly great heroes- destiny.

Ulysses the Great. Joan of Arc. King Arthur. Frodo Baggins.

Men and women whose heroic actions were written in the stars and read by the mystics long before their birth. Born with star-shaped birth marks or on astronomically significant dates, smuggled away in the dead of the night to be raised by fairies, wolves, or the foster care system. All raised to respect the ways of the sword, to stand for justice, and prepare themselves to change the world. Nearly every hero was nurtured in just such a system.

But is that necessarily a… a prerequisite of heroism?

What if someone wasn't born with special markings or on a significant day? Even if that person checked online through the calendars of every ancient culture they could think of? Does that mean the stars didn't think there was anything special about that person? Does a single mom and a bratty little sister count as being raised by wolves? What if that person wasn't meant to learn about justice and truth and standing up for the little people until their junior year in high school? Does the hero system take exceptions? Who do you turn to in order to ask these things, anyway? Is there a person in charge of hero-picking? Does anyone know?

There are songs written that cry in high sopranos, "There is a hero in all of us". But, if that were the case, then what is a hero but an ordinary person? Is there really nothing uniquely special about them?

Can an ordinary person really be a hero even if it's not in their destiny?

Can someone be a hero by accident?

Even someone like… me?

"Sara! Get up!"

No. I'm in the middle of a terrific dream. You're interrupting.

"I mean it, Sara. Don't make me come up there."

Where you will find a mine field of smelly clothes and board game pieces awaiting you.

"That's it! I've had enough!"

Then, silence.

I stared at the ceiling through the small hole in my comforter. Glow-in-the-dark stars were scattered liberally over the vast expanse of white. It looked impressive at night, when the darkness was almost tangibly thick and their light rained down like an army of light sabers. In the daytime, though, I tended to shy away from their pathetic plasticky-ness.

I was trying to listen for the growl of contempt amidst the tea kettle whistle and the television. Whatever paper, journal, or notebook was in her hands would be thrown atop the counter, the chair would screech loudly, and her thunderous footsteps would work their way towards my sanctuary, heavy and sincere in their foreboding promise of doom. These were the sounds I expected to hear, that my ears strained for.

But… nothing.

I lay in my bed, blinking up at the putrescent green stars, overwhelmed with shock. Could I have possibly… won? No, banish the thought. My mother did not simply give up. The inclination to let things lie was to be found on a lonely little set of genes that she had thrust out of her growing body during development. But surely, she would have made some gesture toward retaliation by now, right? Don't let your guard down. She's plotting. She's scheming. But still…

So busy was I in conducting this debate with myself that I had completely missed the telltale squeak of pressure on the wooden floor in front of my door.

Didn't miss the sudden banging, though.

"Sara Angelina Warren, you get out of that bed right now!"

I was so taken off-guard that I failed to respond in a mature and laid back way. In one panic-stricken moment, I screamed and fumbled out of bed, taking half of the bed-covering things with me. A loud thump heralded my successful landing.

I craned my head over my shoulder to look at my bruised tailbone. "Ow," I told it.

I heard laughter outside my window. "Graceful. Very."

I took a quick moment to put together a fierce scowl before I turned to face the speaker. "So glad you were here to witness my demonstration, Biyomon. Now, every time you fall, you'll know how to do it with style."

Biyomon's expression soured. She lifted her beak in an ultra-dignified manner and turned to fluff her tail feathers at me. "And to think, I thought Mr. Monochromon was a grouch! No need to get your feathers in a bunch, Warren." And she raised her stubby little wings and took off, obviously to tell the rest of the neighborhood about my blunder.

"Stupid, stuffy, nosy digimon!" I shouted after her.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

"Sara!"

"I'm coming, already!" I shouted back. "Gimme a few minutes!"

The door heaved an exasperated sigh. "You had a few minutes a few minutes ago!"

I peeled myself out of the bed debris on the floor and maneuvered around the minefield to my closet. "Unless you want me showing up to school in my red satin lingerie, my few minutes will start right now."

There were a few more bangs. "Very funny. I think you mean to say that unless you want to show up to school in your old t-shirt and boxers, you will find yourself out of this room completely dressed in sixty seconds!" And, before I had a chance to come up with a rebuttal, I heard the thunderous footsteps I had been waiting for.

I sighed. "Well, at least I bought myself sixty sec-"

"Fifty-nine!" came my mother's slightly faded voice.

Wonderful.

In exactly ninety-two seconds, I was rushing after my mom who was power walking to the parking garage. The three of us- Mom, me, and the runt- lived in an apartment complex called Forest Creek. Don't ask me where the name came from. It's on the outskirts of an American metropolis and the closest creek was whatever happened to be in the little stream of questionable liquids that ran along the curb to the sewer drain. The buildings themselves were nice- kind of gothic inspired with arched doorways, spiked steeples and beautiful iron scrollwork on the balconies and windows. The manager is a Togemon who applied for a business visa to run this place nearly ten years ago, and she can make peanut butter cookies like nobody's business. All residents aged fifteen and under call her TogeMom.

Forest Creek occupies four buildings, three of which housed apartments while the fourth was the parking garage. The garage was a new addition, built only two years ago and not nearly as cool as the other buildings. But Mom thought it a waste of tax dollars if she didn't park in the garage, even though it was a much farther walk than if she were to park in the lot assigned to our building.

We each made our way up the three flights of stairs- one of us more elegantly than the other- to where her car was parked. It was a silver sedan four-door with four airbags and a child seat that was built into the back. I slid into the front seat with my backpack on my lap as Mom turned the keys in the ignition and readjusted her sunglasses for optimal coolness. She was dressed in one of her favorite power suits- the black one with silver pin-striping, long pencil skirt, and heels that wouldn't be permitted at my school on account of there are no weapons allowed.

"Do you have another case today?" I asked, raising an eyebrow at her suit.

Mom looked over her shoulder to back up out of the parking space. "There's a man suing the Protection of Artificial Life Organization for aiding and abetting."

"Why?"

"He claims a digimon stole property of his and fled to the Digital World for safety. And because the client I'm representing was unable to procure a visa for crossing worlds, he's suing PALO for essentially protecting a fugitive. Dennis Loeman- that man I told you was doing everything he can to tear PALO down- will have a field day with this case. He's going to be present at the hearing."

I snorted and stared out the window as we pulled out of the garage. An airplane and an Airdramon crossed paths in the sky. "Well, that's just stupid. PALO's not the one handing out the visas, it's the government. And besides, no one's allowed in the Digital World except researchers anyway. What did he expect, to get special treatment just because he's rich?"

"No." Mom paused as she watched an elderly couple crossing the street. "He expected to get special treatment because he's very very rich."

I snorted again.

"Stop that, it's not ladylike," Mom scolded. "And PALO may not be the one handing out the visas, as you say, but they did institute the program, and they wrote the requisite conditions for the visa approval process."

"Why can't he just ask one of the researchers to keep an eye out for whatever it is that digimon stole?"

"Beats me. But I'm just a lawyer- I'm not legally allowed to question the sanity of my clients unless I think it will help my case."

"Will it?" I asked, curious.

"Not at all."

I bet he doesn't want anyone to know what it is that digimon stole, I thought. A whole closet full of Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys novels told me so. But I knew better than to voice that view with my mother. She'd just tell me that fiction doesn't count as evidence in the real world, let alone the court of law.

Try telling that to Batman. I bet Batman could list a dozen cases of his in which the final clue was found in a children's story, or a video game, or the script of an independent film.

We drove in comfortable silence for a while, me staring out the window while Mom had her eyes locked on either the road or the rear-view mirror, foot easing onto the acceleration, hands at ten and two. I was contemplating whether I wanted to turn on the radio when she began to talk again.

"By the way, Sara, I had meant to ask you how registration went. Did you get all the classes we wanted?"

Notice how the operative word was 'we'. As if she were going into the tenth grade with me. Since I wasn't allowed to snort, I rolled my eyes instead. "Most of 'em, sure."

I felt her eyes narrow at the back of my head. "What do you mean, 'most of them'? Which ones didn't you get?"

I pretended to be fascinated in the row of potted plants blurring past us on the sidewalks. "I got French and Algebra."

"And?"

"And PE. One more year of it and I'll be through."

"And?"

"English 2A."

"No honors?"

"The honors class was full. They said I could try to sign up next semester." A bit of a fib, I'll admit, but I had carefully angled my face so that Mom couldn't catch my reflection in the window.

Mom made a noise that sounded suspiciously snort-like. "Did you even bother trying to petition it? You know they always say that to weed out the undesirables. They only want the students that will fight for their right to be in that class!"

"I'm sorry I wasn't properly educated on high school politics. I thought I was just doing what they wanted me to do."

"No, you were just doing what you had to do to skate by. Just the bare minimum. Sheesh, Sara, you'd think you didn't want to be in the best possible classes!"

Yeah. I can't imagine why I'd ever think of such a thing. It's preposterous!

"And I suppose you're going to tell me next that the US History Honors and Chemistry Honors are full, too?"

"Don't forget the Model UN class. I don't think they even looked at my application."

"Maybe if you tried applying yourself in some of your classes, what you put on your application wouldn't look like such a joke."

"Maybe the joke's just not funny enough."

"Sara!"

In my head, I pictured myself butting my forehead against a brick wall. I was provoking her, and I knew it. Worst of all, I knew it was stupid. I know that Mom only wants the best for me, that's why she's pushing me so hard. I didn't know why I didn't really care about anything in my classes. I tried to pay attention, I tried to study, and I tried to do well. If not for myself, than for my mother. But I was doing nothing more than going through the motions. I couldn't muster up an ounce of motivation for anything remotely academic.

I couldn't tell what felt worse- the guilt or the apathy.

We spent the next ten blocks driving in silence. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mom's ten and two slipping by a few minutes, sweat-clenched palms sliding further and further down the steering wheel. If I were brave enough to glance up at her face, I knew I'd find a murderous expression just waiting for a bumper to ram into. Suffice it to say, I wasn't brave enough.

School couldn't arrive fast enough. Mom maneuvered into the sea of mini-vans and school buses to secure a strip of red painted curb. She didn't bother to pull the lever to "P".

At first, I didn't move, compelled to say something to ease the tension nearly suffocating me in the car, but what, I hadn't the slightest clue. A 'sorry' would have been a nice start, but she's heard so many of those already that I wondered if it wouldn't simply make matters worse. Outside of apologies, I was still waiting for inspiration.

Finally, I decided to give myself a day to think it over. Maybe I could think of something brilliant to say in Algebra. Or maybe even Biology. I think we were supposed to watch a movie in Biology. That would be a good time to contemplate. I slowly reached for the handle and clicked the door open. Human and digimon students milled around like mad ants, either searching for an entrance or an escape.

I paused at the edge of this mass, glancing back at my mom, still staring ahead of her. My mouth was dry, my jaw ached to move, to help produce some sound, any sound. But all I could do was mutter, "See you later," and close the door. Without another word, Mom had the car geared into reverse, and she was shooting out of the traffic to rejoin the rest of the world. I watched the silver hood until I couldn't see it anymore, then turned to slowly walk up the steps into school.

Ever since they passed the Digimon Integration law nearly five years ago, our schools have been more crammed than ever. The volume of students at my high school alone had increased by nearly thirty percent.

But that was probably the only bad part. The good part was that with the new digimon students came new digimon teachers, as well. And PALO was making sure to fund every school participating in Digimon Integration so that the new transition would be as smooth as possible. While there were still those on the Board of Education or the community parent councils that disliked the idea of human and digimon children sharing facilities and resources, the extra money couldn't really be argued with.

Personally, I thought it was a great idea. Some of my best friends were digimon, and quite possibly the best teacher on campus was Mr. Leomon, who taught Digimon History and Politics to all freshman during their second semester. He was a master storyteller and made history seem like the most fascinating class in the world. So much so that US History, the class you take once you become a sophomore, becomes quite a let down in comparison.

Beside Mr. Leomon, I also had Mr. Monochromon for Algebra, and there were a pair of Floramon that served lunch in the cafeteria. Ever since they joined the staff, the food has tasted much better, so much so that the rumors spreading around about its preparation hardly seemed true. Whoever heard of a "brain dance" to make fruit smoothies?

"I wanna brain smoothie," I groaned, sinking into my seat at the back of the classroom.

"Your brain is a smoothie, sometimes," said my friend Nicole. Beside her, Sarah McCullen and Otamamon nodded solemnly. "It gets mixed and minced and blended until you can't tell what going on in it anymore."

"Shut up."

"What happened this morning?" Otamamon asked. "I saw you get out of the car before school and your mom looked about ready to feed you to a Tyrannomon."

I absolutely adore Otamamon. She's very quiet and soft-spoken, but the sweetest digimon I've ever met. She has to sit on a booster chair and writes things with her paddle-like tail due to her lack of hands, but she's always the first to comfort in any sort of situation.

A forlorn sigh passed through my lips. "Mom wasn't happy with my selection of classes for next year."

"What do you mean?" asked Sarah M. "You've got great classes!"

"They're not good enough for her. They allow for too much sleep and free time and not enough stress, heavy text books and long-lasting effects on my college transcripts."

Nicole snorted. I instantly felt jealous of her freedom to do so. "So you're not going to be the cream of the crop. What else is new?"

Nicole has a very strange way of trying to cheer people up. It normally involves lots of ridicule and insulting. "Gee, thanks Nic."

"I wish I had your problem," Sarah M. said. "My mom is always so forgetful. Remember my volleyball game last Friday? After the game, our team went to that burger place near the park to celebrate our last game. Mom calls me at about nine, demanding to know where I was and what boy I was with!"

"My mother is sort of the same way," said Otamamon, "but it's difficult remembering one child when you have twenty-seven."

We all stared at her, stunned. Otamamon's gills went red and she looked away.

I sighed again. "If only that could be my problem. That mom would be so busy trying to tend to everyone else's lives that my non-honors classes and messy room would practically go unnoticed."

By this time, most of the rest of the class had filtered through the door and taken their seats. I noticed Biyomon among them and threw her a seething glare. The digimon merely smirked and fluttered to her desk. As Mrs. Gorsky entered the classroom and calmed us all down to begin her lecture, I contemplated revenge for this morning for the rest of the period.

With only a few weeks of school left, each day sort of took up the same kind of rhythm. Wake up. Go to school. Eat. Do more school things. Go home. Sleep. Not that we hadn't exercised the same routine throughout the year, of course. But the closer we came to summer, the more monotone everything else seemed to become. Everything around me fell into one or more categories of boring. Teachers' voices' became a soft buzzing noise directed toward the back of my head as I stared out the window. Walking down the hallway was a symphony of sounds that my ears had become desensitized to. Sights became blurs of light that sped passed me as if I stood still, just like the plotted plants on the sidewalk this morning.

It was moments like these that I felt apathy at its worst.

Before I knew it, school was over and I was on my way back home. It wasn't until I passed fifth street that the mute button was switched off, and everything came back into startling focus. I paused on the sidewalk, looking around as if I couldn't quite remember where I was or how I got there. A neon sign sitting in the window of a gift store acted as a GPS signal suddenly coming to life. Not only did I realize where I was, but I also was aware of the fact that I completely forgot to think about what I was going to say to mom when I got home. Chances were that she wouldn't even be home yet if she were working on a big case, but I didn't want that fact to stand in the way of me trying to be a better daughter. Procrastination is an ever vigilant parasite, looking for just such opportunities to leech time out from under me when I'm not looking.

I stood staring in the gift shop window, still wondering what I was going to do, when it came to me. Why do I have to think of anything myself? Why don't I just buy her a card that took care of that for me? Mom would appreciate the thoughtfulness no matter where it came from.

At once, I felt my chest swell and my heart lift. I was a genius! I strolled into the gift shop feeling like a Nobel Peace Prize nomination. The woman at the counter looked up and smiled at me. "Good afternoon, dear. Did you need any help?"

I smiled back. "No thanks. I'm just looking for a card for my mom."

"Oh, how sweet. Is it her birthday?"

"No, not quite. I just thought she deserved a card for being a great mom." Forget Nobel Peace Prize, I deserve an Oscar! And the prize of best actress goes to…

"Aren't you the cutest thing? You mother is very lucky to have a daughter as thoughtful as you." She pointed back toward the far corner of the shop. "You'll find all of our cards over there, and if you need any help, you can either ask me or Bakumon. He'll be floating around the back doing inventory."

"Thanks." A Bakumon working at a gift shop? Though I've never met a Bakumon myself, Mr. Leomon frequently described them in his class. Lessons on the many types of digimon that have immigrated to the Real World over the last thirty years were part of his curriculum. But I shrugged and went in the direction she had pointed.

It took me nearly a minute to find the cards. The display was quite small for a gift shop, so much that I passed it twice before I realized what I was looking at. It was only about four feet wide with ten rows of cards stacked up to a height just shorter than my 5' 4". Most of the cards were for birthdays, baby showers, and wedding receptions with a few graduation cards thrown in for the end of the school year. Already, I felt my heart deflate a bit. Buying a blank card would sort of defeat the purpose of buying a card in the first place.

Several minutes of digging finally brought up a single card with a bright pink envelope. On the front was a teddy bear holding a big bouquet of roses, some white and some red. On the inside, it said,

"Roses are red,

But sometimes they're white,

I know together,

We'll make things all right!"

While the poem was sort of lame, I thought the whole package was rather cute, and could picture my mom smiling at the hilarity of the idiotic little card. Besides, I could always write more in the blank white space, and it was the thought that counted after all. I stuck the card in the envelope and retraced my steps to the counter.

The woman smiled at me again. "Did you find a good one for your mother?"

I nodded. "I certainly hope so."

She had to take the card out in order the ring it up, so naturally, she had to open it and read the lame poem. I had to grind my teeth together to keep my jaw from dropping in shock when I saw a tear build up in the corner of her eye. "That is just so precious. I'm sure this will bring your mother to tears."

Maybe if she laughs hard enough. "I hope they'll be the good kind."

"I'm sure they will, dear. I'm sure they will." Her heart-felt smile made me feel the slightest bit guilty about making fun of the card. Maybe it's not as bad as I thought? Maybe it's just a mother thing, something I won't understand until I either have children or a dozen cats.

The woman wiped her eyes and began to type on her register. The card came out to ninety-nine cents. I gave her a dollar and told her to keep the change. I was feeling particularly charitable by now, and imagined a poor little boy with holes in his socks and dirt on his cheeks finding that single penny that would mean just enough money to buy his mother a special card. That single gesture nearly brought the woman in tears again. I quickly took my card, thanked her for her help, and started for the door.

That was the last time I ever step foot in that shop again.

I passed through the doorway with my attention on the card. I walked over the rubber mat that said "Welcome" while pulling my backpack across my chest to tug on the zipper. The plan was that I would stow the card in my bag until I got home. If Mom was already there, I would give it to her with an apology for not having time to write anything else in there. That would earn me gratitude points for sure.

The zipper was stuck. Great. Yet something else to worry about. So, I automatically turned to my left to continue walking down the street, glaring at my bag to cooperate. The sidewalk felt springy under my feet. I glanced down and saw grass. Must have accidentally walked into a planter. One of many situated every ten feet along the sidewalk. I tried to adjust my direction so that I'd end up back on the pavement.

"Come on, you stupid thing, open!" I hissed. But the zipper apparently didn't take well to insults. I gave it once last tug, and heard a loud rip. The zipper pulled away, alright, along with a big chunk of canvas. Everything from my front pocket- including pencils, pens, highlighters, gum wrappers, paper clips, loose change, and a whole bunch of other small things normal people either put in the trash or in a pencil bag- suddenly burst from the bag and rained down on the ground like confetti.

I stood frozen, backpack still posed in my hand, staring at the mess littering the grass. A bottle of whiteout had somehow burst open in the madness, slowly seeping a small white lake into the dips and valleys of the ground. Some of the pens and pencils stood at odd angles, thrusting out of the dirt like spears. Everything else looked too unpoetic to describe.

Was this really my reward for trying to be good? Weeping cashier ladies and gravity suddenly attacking my backpack? Was this really necessary?

I felt a snort working its way through my throat and tried to hold it back. It fought me, brilliantly and relentlessly, but in the end I swallowed it back and let a weary sigh escape instead. Without another word, I sank to the ground, ignoring the grass stains seeping into my jeans, and began to silently gather everything up. The pens and pencils I plucked out first, followed by everything else I could see, grabbing handfuls of things at a time. There was nothing to be done about the whiteout, so I cleaned the bottle up as best as I could and screwed the lid back on. The white lake was the only evidence of my crime. If I get accosted for littering and sent to jail, maybe the judge will reduce my sentence on account of I was trying to do a good thing for my mother.

It wasn't until I tried looking around for anything else I missed that I first realized something was wrong.

There was no sidewalk. I was suddenly aware of the fact that this planter I had stepped in was unusually large, for there was no pavement within my immediate sight. So that's when I looked up.

…there was no city, either.

Just grass.

And trees.

And mountains.

And smog-free sky.

I blinked. Then, I glanced back down at my backpack. Then, I looked back up again. All the natural things were still there.

I tried glancing behind me. Whatever doorway I went through was gone, now. Acres and acres of grassy plains took its place. As far as I could tell, there didn't look to be anything even remotely resembling civilized life anywhere.

My eyes went involuntarily back to my backpack. I noticed the white puddle still soaking into the earth. Frowning, I raised a finger and dipped it in the puddle. The tip came out white. Okay, so that made sense. A drop of white out fell from my finger to my pant leg. Gravity still works.

I lifted my head a third time, this time slowly and reluctant to see what I knew I would find. Endless seas of grass. Branches of huge, unidentifiable trees swaying in the wind. Dark mountains looming far off in the distance. Clouds gathering in puffy white armies as they charged across the sky.

This was where the sense ceased.

Something was working its way through my chest. I knew it wasn't a snort, because this was hardly the time for such a thing. But something was building, boiling, forcing its way from my stomach to my chest, up through the larynx to my throat. My mouth opened, my tongue flattened.

I screamed.

Long and loud and frightened and panicked I screamed. I turned to every corner and screamed at every unfamiliar thing I saw. I screamed at the trees over to my right. I screamed up at the sky. The huge grass field earned an especially loud scream because it was large and empty and absolutely nothing like the packed, bustling city I knew and loved and suddenly wanted more than anything else in the world. More than money, or fun, or comics, or anything else I could think of, I wanted to be home, because this bizarre place was certainly not home, and I didn't want it. Not any of it. And I screamed my fury and my fear out at the strange world that was not my home.

At least until the voice told me to stop.

/Hey! HEY! Would you stop already!?/