Holy responses Batman, keep 'em coming. Shoehorned a few minor literature references in here, specifically referring to Pullmans fantastic "His Dark Materials" and then stealing a line from Jordan's "Wheel of Time" series. Any constructive criticism would be hella rad.
Sonya sits on the cramped tram on her way to the rink, her hockey bag taking up far too much room and earning her glares from an old woman and her companion, a Dorimon. Sonya ignores her, and takes a look around the streetcar she has been on so many times before. As usual, she can't help but note that the crowd on board is almost a microcosm of the city. There, a leather wearing punk, complete with dyed mohawk and piercings. Beside him, the Xiaomon providing a distinct counterpoint appearance-wise, although the attitude is the same. A few bored looking thirtysome-things, a little kid with one earbud headphone in his own ear and the other in the ear of a Kudamon. The music is audible to anyone within a few meters. A man in a dark grey suit, looking very hot, yaps into a cell phone while a Shamonmon sits nearby.
Hmm, definitely a different microcosm then a year ago.
Sonya is glad her shift is over, and she's keen to get to the rink. She despises the off-season, but there is no arguing with the mother nature. The tram trip is a long one, and she is still a little surprised at the occupants, at least the monster types.
Almost a year now, and still adjusting to be made. Still, it's nothing compared to those first few months. Everyone was trying to figure out just what to make of the odd companions. It was all well and good for that handful of kids world wide who had experience, but everyone else was very put off. Besides, no one knew exactly how that would affect, for instance, school. Or jobs, or military matters. Were they pets? No, they despised that label, and they certainly weren't. Were they sort of adopted family? Well, that certainly seemed the case. They ate and took up space though, and that cost money. Could they work? That was also slowly becoming apparent. On a personal level it was also very disconcerting. Some people were terrified, others weren't. Some people instantly took to their new companions, most took a little time. A few abandoned them, and a very small amount tried to kill them, with varying success. Sonya is reminded of a book she read once by an English author, taking place in a world similar to hers, but very different, in the sense that each persons soul had a physical form, in the shape of an animal that reflected the persons personality. The digimon mirror or complement the individual. For their part, Sonya thought the digimon showed a lot more understanding then humans did.
Not that I am much better. I just don't trust easily, with father dead, and the neighbourhood being what it is. Trust is the colour of death sometimes. He tries hard, and he is very helpful. I can take care of myself though. So confusing.
The whole world had taken close to a month to figure out how to keep going, and it was quickly apparent that things had changed. Schools had taken forever to restart. Now it was summer at least. The stock market went south, Sonya recalls. It was recovering as investors slowly realized that the potential market had suddenly increased by (when you took size into account) 10% overnight. Obviously, car sales weren't going to increase, but food demand was way up. Those few kids, especially in Japan, were on TV a lot, trying to explain things and keep everyone calm. For the most part, it had worked. Sonya can't remember so much international cooperation. In Estonia, Russia was almost always pressuring the tiny country to bend to its will, but that had eased. No new wars. But still, a lot of people in more traditional parts of the world were having coping issues. Not all, to be sure. Still, all that was beyond her, really. She was just Sonya Markova, and she was going to have to keep going on much as before.
She notices her stop is up, and leaves, the old lady still glaring at her. The rink is iceless, obviously, so she and some die-hards play on roller-skates until fall. The locker room has the usual crowd, mostly Russians, a few Finns, and a couple of Estonians. And of course Andrija, the Latvian goalie, stocky and nearly 35. Dark brown hair and a ruddy face. She is always cheerful and greets Sonya with a warm smile. One of the few people Sonya occasionally feels comfortable talking to.
Sonya is one of the younger people there, on the bench stands the man who has been coaching them over the summer, Nikolai Popov. The lighting is a little poor, the boards beaten, but Sonya is happier here than anywhere else in the world. Nikolai immediately sets them onto some drills, with his digimon, a penguin-looking thing, yelling support. At first odd, then cute, Penguinmon's yelling and suggestions are now at best part of practice, at worst a little irritating.
She's on tonight, isn't she just.
As Nikolai works with the goalies, Penguinmon shouts advice on a passing drill they had been set to earlier.
"Come on! Come on! Cycle the puck! Tape to tape passes ladies! Know who's around you!" The practice wears on. Sonya enjoys the burn in her legs, the escape from life. Her favorite part is the scrimmage at the end. She plays left wing, and although it is not as good as on ice, the feeling of speeding down the wing at full speed is still exhilarating. She loves the feeling of freedom. She battles in the corner for the puck like a bulldog, relishing the opportunity to push herself and work out all of the pent up tension and worries from real life.
Afterwards, she sits in the locker-room, the other women are chatting and laughing. Sonya takes off the jersey and brushes her sweaty hair from her eyes.
"Great hustle out there, Sonya", Andrija says. "That was a good pass to Nat, I had no chance." She is always kind and enthusiastic; everyone who knows her can't help but feel relaxed around her.
"Ah, you know, right place right time. Those drills reminded me, I guess. You were looking good too." Sonya tries to brush it off; she's not used to honest compliments on anything, except perhaps her appearance.
"You were really working out there. What's bothering you?" Andrija's voice never changes tone. She is still unstrapping the pads on her legs. Sonya gives puts on a chagrined look. Andrija can be surprisingly observant.
"Well…everything I guess." Sonya doesn't usually open up, but maybe venting a little here would be good. "I just need to start figuring out what the fuck to do with my life, and I need to try and save some money, and maybe that means stopping hockey. My mother will barely look at me these days, some bitch I know wants to kill me…" Sonya feels she may have opened up a little too much there, and she isn't even close to expressing her full feelings. Andrija gives a small chuckle.
"I was your age once. I had a lot of the same problems. Even the girl wanting to kill me. What two pieces of advice do I always give you?"
"Stop smoking, and remember things are never as bad as they seem."
"Exactly. Well, I have another piece of advice. You know those kids on TV? The ones who fought in the digital world? You know how they are always talking about trusting and working with your partner? Maybe you should try. Somehow, I think I am the closest thing you have to a confidant, and you don't confide much. You never talk about your digimon, so I assume you aren't that close. God knows you haven't listened to my other bits of advice, but seriously try. I have yet to meet anyone who has who hasn't regretted doing it sooner. It seems that whatever force did this didn't pick partners at random. I think you will be surprised. Don't worry about life. You'll do fine, girl. You are a fighter, and you have a good head on your shoulders."
Sonya is touched, strangely. It is more support then she's gotten from mother in years. She smiles.
"Spasibo," Thank you. She hugs the older woman.
"If you blow off this advice, the next time you sit in my crease, I am going to hack the back of your legs until you can't stand." Adrija pats Sonya on the shoulders. "And one more piece of advice."
"Da?"
"Get a shower." Both of them laugh. As they leave the rink minutes later, Andrija hugs Sonya again.
"Poka." Andrija leaves. Sonya wishes that the goodbye didn't feel so final.
Outside a beat up shack in Somalia, the setting sun glints off the eyes of a man. The man is stocky, but otherwise unremarkable. His skin is a light brown, so that he may be a variety of ethnicities, even a Caucasian with a tan. The shack is small, but neat. Corrugated metal on the roof, plywood walls. It is even a little removed from other shacks, almost a manor estate in this slum. He enters with out knocking, his hand in his jacket. In the biggest of three tiny rooms, there is a tiny rough table and a beat up chair, white paint all but gone. The floor has a few beat up boards. The visitor removes his hand from his pocket, now carrying a Glock 18 with silencer. Not that anyone here would remark at gunshots.
The visitor quietly enters the second room, tiny, with a beat up mattress lying on the floor. There, asleep, is a small red furry creature, with a spiky tail and blue striping. The visitor aims the weapon, and fires three shots in quick succession to the head. The creature never even knows what happens. It dissolves strangely and disappears, leaving no trace.
The visitor senses movement. In the doorway (although there is no door) stands a small boy, about 14, Somali. He looks at the man with the gun with a face half in shock, half enraged, and then with surprising swiftness screams and draws a small knife. The visitor is an experienced fighter, but he is still taken aback at the child's ferocity. The man deftly grabs the boys knife hand in midair, twists it and leans his weight into it until he hears the crack of bone, but his gun is knocked loose in the melee. The boy yells in pain, and drops the knife, but still swings his other fist. The man blocks it, and punches the boy in the ribs, again rewarded with the crack of bone. The boy goes down.
The man picks up his gun and looks at his assailant. The boy is wheezing and in obvious pain. The boy is undernourished, not at all badly for this part of the world, but he would be considered sickly in Europe. He glares viscously, and then speaks in Arabic.
"You bastard! You killed Elecmon! Son of a whore!" He is cut short by the man's pistol-butt.
"No need to get angry. I assure you it will all be over in a minute." The man responds in Arabic. He aims the gun at the boy's forehead, only a few feet away. The boy glares even harder, and then spits at him.
Fight in this one. He is master of his fear. It won't do him any good.
The man gives a small laugh at the boy's tenacity.
"Your opinion is noted." Then he shoots.
The man leaves the house, taking nothing with him. He wipes the gun down as he leaves. There are a few people on the dirt street. They look at him, but no one seems to care. This is a defeated piece of the planet. The visitor takes out a Blackberry, types something in, then walks away. As he does, he can't help but be reminded of quote he heard when he was in Mozambique for the first time. A café outside, a black man without a hand.
"What is the third world? Ha! My friend, the third world is anyplace where life is cheap."
The man walks on.