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). 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 five years after 02, six 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. Also, I have the Li's refer to each other by their Chinese names, seeing as how they are, in fact, Chinese. Anyway, please enjoy.
N. E. O.
Chapter One -- Opening File
Bruises littered his upper body, trailed down his sides and stomach like a violent lover's caress. Taichi winced as his fingers brushed an out-of-place scar on his chest, the pale, raised tissue only too obvious as it crossed his tanned pectoral. It was not the touches that brought him pain, but the wondering -- the wary but curious imaginings -- of where these marks had come from. He did not remember getting into a fight, did not remember having a scar when he woke up this morning. And already the wounds were old, aged at least a few days.
Taichi scowled, a look he had started wearing more and more often as time went by. Did it really matter where he had received these black and sickly discolorations? No, not really. All that mattered now was making sure that no one else knew. He reached for his shirt, picked the article of clothing up off the bathroom floor where he had dropped it earlier. Again, he flinched when he lifted it over his head, when his sore muscles stretched and contracted as he moved. With the shirt covering most of bruises and minor cuts, he felt more secure, more like a leader.
More like Taichi.
He sighed too heavily for his young age, looked at his reflection in the mirror with old brown eyes. Three years ago, he knew he would not have sighed like that, looked like this. He wondered when he had the time to grow up so fast, to become so jaded. Even when the troubles of the Digital World were bearing down on them, and every one had looked to him for an answer or plan of action, he had still found the strength he needed to smile.
"Everything's alright; don't worry so much," he told the old man in the mirror in a light and playful tone, giving himself his best, most reassuring grin. It quickly fell to pieces, replaced by that awful scowl that always seemed to pull at his mouth nowadays. He turned away from the mirror. He hated that scowl, hated the way it distorted his face; made him look ugly and angry and full of this disgusting, overpowering hatred. It was not the look a leader should ever wear. And yet. . .he did.
He opened the door to the bathroom, nearly yanked it off its hinges as he stormed into the hallway. Maybe he was only acting like this because he no longer was a leader, no longer had to be so brave and charismatic. Perhaps that was the reason for the untraceable anger that hovered around him like city smog. Or maybe it was connected to those strange and violent dreams of his. That could be it, he decided. Yes, it could have something to do with that pale man and his too-big hands, his tattered not-wings and barely human eyes. The white-haired man that came to him and taunted him, spoke to the child of Courage of death and viral infections of the blood and mind. That man, he thought, had a lot to do with the sudden change in his demeanor.
The phone rang.
Taichi stopped at the entryway to the living room, head down and breath not-quite steady. This was not happening. He was not trying to justify his bad mood and worse attitude on a series of stupid dreams. He did not honestly believe that they had anything to do with anything. That nameless young man with the strange black markings on his face was no one, a simple figment of his imagination.
Another sigh, and Taichi rubbed at the back of his neck, chewing the side of his tongue absently. This was so stupid. . .the phone was still ringing. He walked over to the small table on which the phone rested.
"Get a grip, Tai," he muttered to himself as he picked up the phone, his unusual distaste no longer evident in his voice. "Yagami residence."
"Hello, can I talk to Taichi?"
"Kou? Hey, what's up?" he was grinning now, lips parted in that wide smile that only he and Daisuke could ever get away with. The slight waver in Koushiro's voice made him happy, the panic made his heart beat faster with the anticipation of disaster.
"I need you to come over."
"But--"
"Crisis. My place. Come. Now."
Taichi snickered as Koushiro's hold on the Japanese language was lost and he fell into those short, concise statements. He had started doing that about a year ago; had mumbled something about it being more practical than stuttering when he got nervous or too excited. By now, it was simply habit kicking in.
"Sure thing, Kou. I'll be right there," with that said, he dropped the phone back onto its cradle, walking to the door with that grin still in place. A crisis? It made him shiver, and he liked it. A crisis would mean getting everyone together again. Would mean stepping up to be a leader again. He pulled his goggles off the hook by the door next to his jacket, snapped them on with a laugh. Maybe if he got the chance to do something worthwhile, he could feel more at ease with himself. Maybe he could go back to being Taichi, the child of Courage. Just like he used to be, before the pale, white-haired dream man came and took it all away.
"Jiang. . ." a child's voice, slow and listlessly bored as the little girl stared out the window. She was seated cross-legged on the living room floor, her dolls and the ribbons she had been playing with lying forgotten next to her. Her head was canted slightly to one side, her innocent eyes narrowed with some abstract thought she could not quite focus on. There was a small, unintelligible sound of acknowledgement from the couch where her brother was dozing. A book was open over his face to block out the light, both natural and artificial. She repeated his name, waiting for him to respond. "Hey, Jiang-liang. . .talk to me."
"Mmph?" It was the most she had managed to coax out of him in the past half hour, though now he slid the book -- an old copy of The Machine Mind, a guide to biomechanical sentience recommended by a friend -- down to rest on his chest. It was a sign of progress. He blinked slowly, sleepily; watching as his sister leaned forward, lightly thumping her forehead against the glass. She did not move again until after a yawn had escaped him. His sister tilted her head up, pressing her cheek to the cool glass as she stared, sightlessly, out at the clear blue sky.
"Pretty birdie. . ." she murmured. Her hands rose to rest on either side of her face against the window. It fogged when she exhaled, turning white and cloudy as her breath swept across its surface. He rubbed at his grey eyes, idly running his hand through his short black hair before pushing himself up onto one elbow. "Isn't it pretty, Jiang?"
"What damn bird?" his response was heavy with annoyance, groggily slurring the ends of his words. He glared at the sky outside the window, the light causing him to squint. His little sister ignored him for a moment, and Jenrya took the time to shake the fatigue from his mind, yawning again. He was sleeping more and more lately, even dozing off during his advanced placement Computer Programming course. The young man carefully folded the corner of the page he was on in his book before closing it. He let it fall to the floor as he got up from the coach, walking over to the window.
"The one that isn't there," his sister replied when he laid a hand on her shoulder. Jenrya furrowed his brows and frowned, tilting his head down to regard her. She was chewing her lip lightly, gaze unfocused as she stared straight ahead, unseeing. A twinge of guilt, and he jerked his head back up. She did that sometimes, looked at things with that strange, unseeing vision of hers. The doctors said it had something to do with her mind's way of coping with trauma.
"Xiao-xiang, if it isn't there, then it can't be pretty."
"But the wings, Jiang!" Shouchun stood, suddenly energized. She was still a full head shorter than him, though it seemed like she was getting taller everyday. His hand slipped off her shoulder as he watched her bounce excitedly, pale pink ribbons streaming out behind her as she ran around the living room. "The birdie has such pretty white wings. Six of them! Mr. Birdie's come to take me away; we're gonna fly forever! Zoom!"
The guilt hit him fully in the stomach, and his face contorted with pain. It had been six years since the D-Reaper had forced its way into their world, and Shouchun had not seemed to age since then. Her mind's way of coping with trauma. . . what bullshit. Jenrya knew the truth. Shouchun had been fine; Shouchun had grown up quickly over the course of those terrible events. But then their partners were taken away, then their parents had gotten divorced, and she had started getting sick every time she went outside. His father had managed to keep custody of him, but Jenrya's brothers and sisters were all living with their mother back in China. He had not fought hard enough, and because of it, they had taken Shouchun away from him.
The D-Reaper did not break Shouchun, did not rip out her immune system and infect her. People broke Shouchun. Stupid, insensitive fucking people did this to his sister, and no one had had the brains to let her stay with him, the only one who could have possibly understood what she was going through. Now, they seemed to realize that they had made a mistake, now they wanted to send her back to Japan to live with her brother and father, babbling something about the 'familiar climate helping her condition,' but now it was too damn late. Jenrya was at a loss. Everyday, the doctors said that she was getting worse, but could not seem to pin point the cause of the degenerative illness.
"Xiao-xiang. . ." he said her name slowly, in that childish sing-song tone that always seemed to get her attention so well. She stopped where she was, standing on the sofa with her arms spread out like make-believe wings. Shouchun tilted her head to the side, big brown eyes half-lidded as she stared out at the sky. Jenrya started walking towards her slowly, hoping that she was not planning on testing her new flight theory. "Where does Mr. Birdie want to take you?"
"We're gonna fly away, Jiang," her voice suddenly sounded so much older, calmer, more mature than he ever remembered. Jenrya jerked at the sound, rooted in place as she continued, transfixed by the hollow look that clouded her eyes. "You can't stop it; the Digital World needs us."
He covered the space between them in the matter of a few steps, and wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her hair, ribbons tickling his nose. She blinked a few times in confusion, as if trying to adjust to a bright light, and clutched at his shirt. Jenrya bit back a sob, not wanting to frighten her as she asked what was wrong in that worried, girlish little voice of hers.
