CHAPTER ONE

"Hi! You've reached Meiko Mochizuki. I'm so sorry that I wasn't able to answer your call, but I'm sure I will call you back!"

BEEP.

"Hi! You've reached Meiko Mochizuki. I'm so sorry that I wasn't able to answer your-"

With an audible snap, Mimi hurriedly closed her phone. If Mei Mei wasn't ready to talk quite yet, Mimi wasn't going to force her.

It had been three months since Ordinemon's death.

For many, it had been three months of recovery. Odaiba had been left in shambles: concrete crumbled underneath shoes and veins of yellow caution tape outlined the path of havoc. The rebuilding process had been arduous, at best. Men worked all hours of the night to repair school buildings, private businesses, and apartment buildings. Communities arranged funerals for the fallen, and flower petals littered the streets for weeks.

For the child soldiers, it has been three months of nightmares and cold sweats and distance. Blood was on their hands; it haunted their dreams. The death of a Chosen's partner took a toll on all of them, especially Meiko. After returning to Tottori, her contact with the other children had ceased completely.

It had been three months of voicemails and unanswered emails. Even Mimi's infectious personality couldn't reach through to her. Initially, her spirit was crushed, ground up like the cinnamon her mother puts into hot chocolate when the weather becomes frigid. Since, the brunette realized that she wouldn't even know what to say. Her blunt and unfiltered thoughts were not what Meiko needed right now, and even though she wanted nothing more than to comfort her friend, Mimi gallantly removed herself from the situation.

Sighing, she scrolled through her emails, surprised and how few and far between the message from her friends were. Contact between the other Chosen had always been spotty (at best): their lives often took differing routes, and many of them found themselves tied up in various sports, clubs, and hobbies.

Snow flurries danced along most windowsills of Japan, cocooning most of its residences in layers of polyester warmth. Winter coats were often too cumbersome to be considered fashionable, so Mimi found herself indoors whenever the temperature nosedived. While the young woman would normally find comfort in the scratchy throw blanket that laid across her thin lap and the steaming mug of herbal tea enveloped by her manicured nails, her heart weighed heavily in her chest.

The reality programming echoed around her vacant walls; Mimi's parents often attended various business Christmas parties in hopes of her father gaining a raise. They wouldn't return until the alcohol ran dry. Her heavy heart longed for the company of her friends.

In earlier years, the snow would corral the Chosen Children into one of their welcoming homes (all of their parents had long ago accepted that they would host the rowdy group at least once per season). Bright cheeks and the smell of melted snow would fill the dwellings as young feet would hurry past, eager to play in the flurries, and eager to stay warm. As the years have passed, their visits dwindled into generic Christmas cards and a quick "Hello" in the school hallways.

Mimi longed for the company of her friends. She missed the glare the glinted off a pair of goggles, and the melancholy tune of a harmonica. She longed for the sound of furious typing; a sound that had often lulled her to sleep during that first adventure so long ago. Her soul ached for the brown satchel that carried their necessities, and more so, their means of survival. Mimi craved those soft smiles that only love could provide; always for others, never for herself. Lastly, she missed the hat the was too big for its occupant, and a thin silver whistle that reflected the light all too well.

Now, Mimi had never been one to second-guess her actions. Sincerity came easier without thought, so her fingers flew across her D-Terminal as they typed out a (long, wordy, heartfelt, sad) e-mail to the occupants of her thoughts. The hesitation came afterwards as her nimble finger hovered above the "send" button. The green lettering seemingly mocked the brunette and her Crest, and without further thought, eleven devices across Odaiba dinged with incoming mail.

"Konichiwa! Mimi here! It has been too terribly long since I have seen you all, and as the Americans say, there is no time like the present! Speaking of presents, Christmas is just around the corner, and we all have yet to see each other Assuming that this is mistake, you are all invited to the Yagami residence (Yagami-san permitting, of course) on the 13th of December at approximately 6:30p.m. Attendance in mandatory (Daisuke, set an alarm. We all know how you are). I can't wait to see you there! Lots of Love, Mimi!"

Across Odaiba Bay, a head of raven hair dripped in sweat. Heavy panting was muffled by a thick, cream-colored duvet and frail fingers violently rubbed stormy eyes in an attempt to chase away the images that had been haunting him for weeks. From somewhere deep within his bedroom, a small sound of alert fell on deaf ears. His heart pounded terrifyingly strong in his chest, and the visons continue to play in a loop. The blood, then her piercing scream. The sickening crack of a pair of hand-me-down googles echoed in his mind. More blood, and then the slowing of a pulse. A stained tunic, with its occupant limp. The sensation of being lifted from somewhere, and the blare of a siren. More blood. So. Much. Blood.

His device vibrated once more, snapping Ken Ichijoji from his horrified stupor. It had been three months of nightmares.

After he located his long-forgotten D-Terminal ('I really should stop shoving things in his dirty clothes hamper'), he ran his fingers through his damp hair. Eyes scanned over the energetic words, and the overuse of exclamation points elicited a small sigh. He hadn't spoken to the older Chosen Children since The Incident. As the young genius struggled to contain the sobs that wrecked his thin frame, his stomach heaved and throbbed. Bile rose in his throat, and he was powerless against its current.

Soon, his blanket mingled with the contents of his stomach, and the foul smell filled the quaint room. His D-Terminal and the e-mail long forgotten, the boy genius slowly began to clean himself up, tossing his bed covers into the wire clothes hamper. His thoughts flitted to those of his friends, to purple hair and hand-me-down goggles and fierce, stubborn eyes. He thought of baseball caps and red barrettes and struggled to blink away the tears that threatened to stain his cheeks.

It wasn't their fault. They couldn't have been there to help them; they had made sure of that. The Crests of Hope and Light held the balance of the Digital World; all of the Chosen Children knew this. Even though they were younger than the rest, the second generation knew they couldn't risk their friend's lives, and in turn, the fate of two worlds. The older ones wouldn't have been much help either, just sitting ducks while the newer Chosen did what they had to do. Despite all of the heartache and suffering that came along with it, the decision to temporarily wipe their memories had been for the best. Takeru and Hikari were especially persistent and would have found their way into the Digital World without much effort. Those two had ways of transporting that the others had yet to figure out,

"It doesn't matter now," thought Ken, "they remember us now". The corner of his mouth turned up slightly at the tearful reunion. So much had been lost that day. Buildings laid in heaps, and streets were abandoned. The children had mourned the loss of their leader, and then, their teacher. Finally, Meicomon. The name sent shivers up Ken's spine. Nothing good could have came from the Crest of Darkness.

As soon as data particles filtered towards the sky, visions of Christmas parties and Just Dance tournaments and large piles of entangled limbs unearthed themselves in a pair of fourteen-year-old minds. Once glance confirmed what the other already knew: their friends succeeded.

Ken most remember his crowed hospital room. His parents were the first to embrace him. Curly red hair tickled his cheek and he couldn't remember the last time he had hugged his mother. His father only offered a reassuring pat on his shoulder; the gentle man couldn't bare to inflict any more pain onto his only living child. A week later, brown and blonde hair tickled his cheeks, and he breathed in their familiar scent. Rushed apologies filtered in his ears, but he assured them that it could never be their fault; they were the ones that had cleared their memories, after all.

His companions received the same treatment. Soon, the twelve ("Or is it thirteen, now?") found themselves together. It had been three months since. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder had its way of wedging itself between even the closest of friends. None of them spoke of the crumbled buildings or the lucid nightmares that filled their houses with screams in the late hours of the night. They didn't speak of the sirens and blood and dark waters that forever left them chilled to the bone. They didn't speak at all.

With his mess efficiently cleaned, and his digital clock demanding that he return to bed, Ken crawled on top of his cotton sheets and fell into a dreamless, fitful sleep.

The e-mail could wait until tomorrow.