Author's Notes: There'll be a much better Digific up here soon. This is my first foray into Digimon fanciftion, and, admittedly, was more a descriptive practice for me. It's a one-shot, and has no continuation planned. If you haven't heard of the Ryo conspiracy, go to Dark Koushiro's webpage. Comments, criticisms, and flames are always welcome, though if you're going to flame, at least read the story first ^^;;
Disclaimer: Not mine. No profit. I'm hungry.
~
The digidesert. There sits a young man, uncried tears bearely reaching his eyes. He sits and stares, blankly looking over what could be kin to the way he feels inside. His hands; caloused and prematurely wrinkled from work, and fatigue. His eyes, a stone grey that sees nothing and everything; a paradox, much like himself. His clothes, the same red sweatshirt and green shirts he's had for an eternity; cleaned every night by what he assumes must be a sort of back-up system.
He has nothing. The true epitome of an outsider. The real world stole his hope, and so he escaped: Retreating to the digital world, whilst his friends -now nothing more to his memory than muted voices and a sillhueted face,- went back to their lives. He had heard they were reconfigured, vaugly remembered his memory-friend confirming that beleif, and yet he couldn't find his partner. Dammit all. He became a prisoner in a cage built by his own actions, a half-person, always searching for something he knew, deep down, was gone. No way back, and no contentment where he was; his only link to anything real the thrice damned chunk of machinary that had long since grown silent and a necklace, long since darkened with neither digimon nor owner's heart to ignite it.
He tried helping at first, thinking that showing goodness would give him happiness, but it didn't work. Flashes of memories, a distraction here, a false trail there; and the little boy. A young man with no fate, much like he was, always upstaged by a brother who's brain was so advanced he had lost compassion. He had a long talk with the boy and his wormmon, explaining the importance of calculation and pre-made plans, not wanting to see his history repeated. Some help -that- did. In a sense, he helped created the digimon Kaizer. It was his last act of "guidance."
Hair whipping about like an auborne tornado in the sand-edged wind, he looked at his bag. He had tried ridding himself of it over and over again, but had long since given up that useless act, as it was always there again, beside his head when he woke up in the morning, it's contents still as they were when he came. Much help a chemistry text, some sheets of music, and a caligraphy set did him now. He studies the yellow handle, the words, so long since he'd read, taking a few fuzzy moments to come to him.
"Ryo"
Disclaimer: Not mine. No profit. I'm hungry.
~
The digidesert. There sits a young man, uncried tears bearely reaching his eyes. He sits and stares, blankly looking over what could be kin to the way he feels inside. His hands; caloused and prematurely wrinkled from work, and fatigue. His eyes, a stone grey that sees nothing and everything; a paradox, much like himself. His clothes, the same red sweatshirt and green shirts he's had for an eternity; cleaned every night by what he assumes must be a sort of back-up system.
He has nothing. The true epitome of an outsider. The real world stole his hope, and so he escaped: Retreating to the digital world, whilst his friends -now nothing more to his memory than muted voices and a sillhueted face,- went back to their lives. He had heard they were reconfigured, vaugly remembered his memory-friend confirming that beleif, and yet he couldn't find his partner. Dammit all. He became a prisoner in a cage built by his own actions, a half-person, always searching for something he knew, deep down, was gone. No way back, and no contentment where he was; his only link to anything real the thrice damned chunk of machinary that had long since grown silent and a necklace, long since darkened with neither digimon nor owner's heart to ignite it.
He tried helping at first, thinking that showing goodness would give him happiness, but it didn't work. Flashes of memories, a distraction here, a false trail there; and the little boy. A young man with no fate, much like he was, always upstaged by a brother who's brain was so advanced he had lost compassion. He had a long talk with the boy and his wormmon, explaining the importance of calculation and pre-made plans, not wanting to see his history repeated. Some help -that- did. In a sense, he helped created the digimon Kaizer. It was his last act of "guidance."
Hair whipping about like an auborne tornado in the sand-edged wind, he looked at his bag. He had tried ridding himself of it over and over again, but had long since given up that useless act, as it was always there again, beside his head when he woke up in the morning, it's contents still as they were when he came. Much help a chemistry text, some sheets of music, and a caligraphy set did him now. He studies the yellow handle, the words, so long since he'd read, taking a few fuzzy moments to come to him.
"Ryo"