2. Old Soldiers

"You, what are you gawking at?" Datamon demanded, passing him for the third time.

"Nothing, eh…just my reflection in the glass, that's all." Spencer ran a claw self-consciously through his mane, as he had often seen his colleagues do.

"Well, serve your petty vanity elsewhere. This is a sterile scientific environment, and I can not risk contamination." Spencer turned with a sigh. He had been watching the girl for at least an hour, from the doorway, tensing every time the Director came into view. At last, he had noticed him, and he was forced to go. He couldn't go on like this, clearly, his attention divided between the girl and his career. So which would it be? Eventually (and soon, judging from his recent comments), Datamon would dispose of the girl, thus solving his dilemma. At this thought, some part of his mind rebelled, and an impossible notion began to form. If you love something, set it free, the Angemon on his shoulder chided. If it comes back, it will be yours forever. If it does not, it was never yours to begin with. That was all very pretty, yes, but what if she didn't come back after all? She was a prisoner, that much he had deduced, and a different species besides. What could she possibly see in him, that she would want to come back? And why lose his own life over it?

Demidevimon was sick to the very pit of his stomach. He could deal with voracious Gizamon without flinching, haggle with Digitamamon and win, and of course, appease Etemon, but this individual never failed to repulse him. For one thing, Kokatorimon spat when he spoke, his saliva stinking of raw carcass and fresh blood. Bits of bone and sinew clung to his feathers, and the tip of his beak was died an irreversible red.

"Scawww! Well, if it isn't the Etemon's little rat, back down from his high castle. 'Smatter, D.D, sick of palace life? Deciding to come and mingle with the common folk?" Kokatorimon laughed, a hoarse, squawking noise, and his whole frame trembled. He thrust his stinking maw within an inch of Demidevimon, his rancid breath clinging to the emissary's feathers.

"Just thought I'd drop by to see an old friend, captain." Demidevimon forced out, reluctant to even open his mouth. "How's life treating you?"

"Well enough, well enough. All the food I could ask for…well, not actually. Truth tell, I've been looking for something I can really sink my teeth into, you know? Prepared food's no fun. Where's the sport?" He eyed Demidevimon, tongue sliding hungrily over his beak.

"Just ask, and it'll be yours. In fact…" He adopted a conspiratorial air, hovering closer, though he could hardly stand it. The stench was almost too much to bear. "…That's what I come about, see? We all know Etemon hasn't been himself recently, and he's talking about regents and such…in fact, he even went so far as to appoint me his honorary successor-sh, keep it down-this'll be our little secret. Now, there are those who might object to that decision, and I need to know, when push comes to shove, that I can count on your support."

"And I suppose you'll promise me rewards, or promotions, what have you…hrrrm…" Kokatorimon pretended to consider, stroking his fifth chin with a wilting feather, a greedy glint in his eyes. "Since you approached me first, I suppose I could consider it…though if I were to get a better offer…"

"Of course, 'course, all about what's best for you. Though I can guarantee you won't. Side with the winners, Kokatorimon. Side with the winners and…eh, I can't think of an analogy." Demidevimon retreated, wearing a calculated, tired smile. "We're both old soldiers, captain. We were there at the beginning, you and I. Us old timers gotta stick together." He called in parting.

Izzy, despite having professed otherwise, was still obsessed with the past. Joe realized this, gazing out the lattice-trimmed window of the carriage at the flat-topped hill in the distance. There's one more thing I think you should see, he had said. That was all it was to him, familiarizing Joe with the situation. All in the name of the future. Still, Joe could see the true reason he wanted to show him all of this. He was still coming to terms with it himself.

"This is it." The younger man announced, stepping down from the carriage and paying the Gekomon driver. "New Massada." He had deemed it wiser to take a caravan this time, considered it less conspicuous. The dark network would take no note of a Monochromon caravan traveling along established routes, but not so for two human-sized figures on foot (Tentomon having remained at the apartment). He raised his eyes to the horizon, where dunes and mesas gave way to the massive hill Joe had observed from the window. "Wait for us? Won't be more than an hour." He called up to the driver, who shrugged. An agreement was reached, and the two Digidestined struck out across the desert, the hill shimmering like a mirage in the distance.

"You're sure you want to go through with this?" Joe asked, before they had gone three paces.

"Absolutley. It's of paramount importance that you know the past, so that we can put it behind us." It sounded weak, he knew, but it was his best excuse. "There's a cave, about a thirty meters up the cliff face…that's where…" Where a great man was reduced to madness. Where a sincere friend was stricken down in her prime. Where he murdered her, and she him. Where…where…

"That's not friendship."

"The hell do you know about friendship?"

"You know, because you have the crest, doesn't mean you don't have a lot to learn…a true friend wouldn't abandon us. A true friend would help us fight…even if he didn't want too."

"True friend…a true friend would stop his friends if they were going to do something stupid. And I'm not going to fight Etemon if I'll end up like Sora."

"Tai might still be alive, and Sora…we have to help them…"

"Help them? Would it be helpful if Datamon cloned me and sent my Digimon after the rest of you? Do you want to kill your friends? Do you, Mimi? And T.K can't be helped. We can't do anything for him."

"We can live. He would have wanted that…"

"That's what they all say, damnit…he would have wanted that…how do you know what T.K would have wanted? You can't know how it feels, Mimi. Either of us. Just shut up, shut-…"

"You don't mean that, Matt. You're not yourself…just…calm down…"

"…Where it all happened." Izzy finished, gesturing toward the slope ahead. "I guess we should get going."

"Right." Joe agreed, and they set off. At their backs, Etemon's pyramid was silhouetted by the setting sun, New Cairo gleaming beneath it. To either side, the desert stretched out indefinitely, leading eventually to mountains and forest. Underfoot, the ebony coils of the dark network lurked like a nest of vipers, barely concealed by the shifting sands. Joe trod on a cable, and instantly sprang back, as though it had bit him. Nearby, an auxiliary power generator stood, bearing Etemon's grinning façade. The King Is Watching You, the caption beneath reminded them.

"And this is it. Not much, really…I wish I could have done more. They deserved more." The cavern was shallow, extending no more than a few meters into the hill. The floor was perfectly flat, strewn lightly with sand. On the far wall, a sheer rock face, words had been etched with a fragment of some denser mineral.

Here, at some undetermined date, perished

Yamato 'Matt' Ishida, 12, bearer of the crest of friendship and accomplished harmonica player

Gabumon, his Digimon

Mimi Tachikawa, 10, bearer of the crest of sincerity and

Palmon, her Digimon

Who, in a heroic gesture, took their own lives rather than submit to Datamon's control

"I couldn't think of anything to describe Mimi." Izzy admitted. "I mean, I couldn't very well write 'very nice person', could I? That's not the kind of thing that goes on a grave marker…" He looked away. A dry breeze blew through the cave, stirring the sand. Reverently, Joe knelt, casting about for something in the sediment. Presently, he stood, wielding a chunk of obsidian.

…bearer of the crest of sincerity and a very nice person

He carved, concluding the statement. His faint, sprawling script looked striking next to Izzy's precise, cramped lettering.

"There." He concluded, dusting off his hands and stepping back to admire his handiwork. "I don't see why not." He added, as Izzy frowned.

"I suppose. It's all in the past, I mean, and I…I…well…"

"Just say it, Izzy, you miss them, we all do. It isn't the same, and we shouldn't pretend like it is." Joe tossed away the obsidian and turned his back on the inscription. Izzy was silent, eyes downcast.

He was getting too old for this. No, correction, he had been too old for some time. Still, it wasn't as though he could resign and call in a pension. Now, more than ever, when the darkness was so close to victory…if the light were to extinguish of it's own accord, then…then what? He had never stopped to consider it before. What if Etemon did conquer the world, or his successor? What then? And, furthermore, so what? No, no, that was senility talking. If Etemon were to set foot here, in this last bastion of light, all would be lost. One way or another. Slowly, leaning on his cane for support, Gennai stood. Etemon, like himself, was close to death. It would not be long before there would be a new foe, a new champion of darkness. That was all it was, darkness and light, good and evil, nothing more. He must remember this. Inching across the chamber, each deliberate step punctuated by a rap of his cane, he headed for his computer. He must bring up the files. A war could not be waged without information.

"Analysis of all unique virus-type Digimon in New Cairo. Read it aloud." He spoke into the voice control module, the simple sentences a strain on his atrophied vocal chords. The computer whirred for a moment, then began to recite the requested data in a feminine monotone.

"Kokatorimon, Ultimate Digimon. Director of Social Services. Lacks initiative. Not ambitious. Pawn. Demidevimon, Rookie Digimon. Royal Emissary. Likely to be Etemon's official successor. Shrewd. Great personal ambition, though no ultimate goal. Low threat. Digitamamon, Ultimate Digimon. Restaurateur. Profiteer. Uninterested in political affairs. Pawn. Datamon, Ultimate Digimon…" The program paused, whirring frantically, unable to formulate a response.

The hallway blurred before him. His wings ached. His parched throat demanded fluid. All day, calling in favors, meeting with contacts, studying Etemon's legal texts, preparing for that moment, that paramount moment when his own fate and that of the Digital world would hinge on his preparation. Demidevimon winced as he passed the throne room, expecting at any moment to hear one of Etemon's insistent demands. Only silence. Wait, no-it was there, a faint, lilting refrain, so faint that he might have dismissed it as the work of his tired mind. He paused a moment, alighting outside the open doors, listening. He realized, incredulously, that Etemon was singing-not from his usual, raucous arsenal, but something softer, haunting. After a moment of deliberation, Demidevimon fluttered in.

"Oh, do not forsake me, mine indolent friends…oh, do not forsake me though you know I must spend…" It was Etemon; there was no doubt about it. And yet, it couldn't be him…there was none of his familiar sentiment in the words, there was a genuine quality too it which was virtually unknown within the walls of the palace. "…All my darkest hours, talking like this…for I am one thousand years old…" Drawn by the music, Demidevimon drifted toward the throne, which now faced toward him, away from the monitors and screens, the blinding flow of information. Etemon sang without stage or microphone, crooning the words to an inanimate audience. "One thousand years old…sure, you think that's old…one thousand years old…but what do you know? In my darkest hour, I'm talking like this…for I am one thousand years old…" Making up the words as he went, he sang louder, his voice rising to the high-vaulted ceiling and echoing through the corridors without. Demidevimon perched beside him, entranced. "Oh, some have forgotten the flower of speech…and walk through the garden, where I go to defend…misbegotten notions…while talking like this…for I am one thousand years old…" Acting on some strange impulse, Demidevimon took to the air, joining him in the final refrain.

"One thousand years old…sure, I'd say that's old…one thousand years old…but what do I know? In your darkest hour, mine indolent friends…we'll be one thousand years old." The following silence was deafening, the kind where one would speak merely for the sake of breaking it.

"Do you ever feel like that, D.D? One thousand years old?" Etemon intoned, weakly, as if though he had exhausted the last of his mortal energy with his song. "It won't be long now…for either of us…"

"Ya know, they say…they say old soldiers never die. Only fade away." Demidevimon mused, voice softening philosophically.

"That so? Who says that?"

"Dunno…some human."

"Right…good times…old soldiers…fade away…away…away…" The words echoed in the massive hall. Demidevimon glanced away, blinking frantically. His eyes stung, for some reason. Must be fatigue. When he looked back, the air was thick with orange dust. Etemon was coming apart, tearing at the seams.

"Boss? Boss!" He shouted frantically, batting at the dust with his wings, trying, perhaps, to force it back into some semblance of its prior form. There was nothing to be done. Within seconds, Etemon was no longer recognizable, a lump of unformed data trickling quickly into the aether.

The apartment was dark. The shades were drawn, the city lights casting a faint pool of light beneath them. Joe couldn't sleep, of course, and had not expected too. Lying on the floor, gazing at the whorls and eddies in the ceiling plaster, he reflected on his situation. And climbed to his feet. "Izzy?" He called, stabbing a few fingers into his matted hair. No answer. He stumbled out of the room, almost tripping over a sleeping Tentomon in the doorway. A hunched, humanoid form sat nearby, his back to the door, cradling a pistol in his arms.

"Yeah?" Izzy answered, at length.

"I've been thinking…" Silence. Well, no one's stopping you; Izzy seemed to say. "Datamon was able to control our Digimon with mindless copies and the power of the crests. That means…we're not really necessary. It could have been any eight kids. Right?" Joe began in a thick monotone. Refusing to answer, Izzy turned away, the glow of the window catching his face. There was a faint gleam there. "And…look. Etemon's won. Are we any worse off? Are all Digimon downtrodden and oppressed? Is the sky burning? Is the ocean boiling? Have both our worlds been consumed?" His voice rose in pitch, almost accusing. "We were torn from our own world to fight a war we wanted no part of, and for what?" Just then, he caught himself, his rage dissipating in an instant. He looked ashamed.

"There's a reason. There has to be." Izzy insisted. "I must believe this."

"Right. Listen, sorry, I…it's late."

"Yeah. Late." And then, from outside, there came a metallic clang. Izzy sprang to his feet, gun drawn. The sound was repeated, closer, and again. He crossed to the window, flinging back the curtain just in time to see Demidevimon flutter past, a bell clutched in his talons. Beneath, on the dirt path, technocratic Gazimon marched in file, service weapons at their shoulders, uniformed in black. Behind them came a contingent of S.S in their orange vests, wielding nightsticks. In addition to the clamor, there was some intangible quality to the procession, somehow indicating its gravity. Demidevimon was speaking.

"Hea yea, hea yea…the king is dead, the kind is dead. Long live the king. The king is dead, the kind is dead…" And so on, repeating, until it faded into the distance. Long afterward, the heavy tread of the Gazimon's spiked boots was still audible.

Author's Note: The song Etemon sings is 'O, Do Not Forsake Me' by They Might Be Giants.

-…" Even as he spoke, there was a burst of frantic footfalls from the corridor without, and the door swung off its hinges, admitting a breathless guard. Rothstein recognized him as the one who called himself Kurtz.

"Sir! It's the Director! He's not in his cell!" The panicked Gazimon related. A moment later, two others guards filed into the room, nightsticks shouldered. Speak of the devil and he shall appear, Rothstein reflected.

"Damn…we'll have to evacuate the facility. Sound the alarm. Initiate…ye Gods, here he is!" He sprang to his feet, overturning the chair, drawing his service weapon. The mosaic wall ahead of his was gradually dematerializing, being reduced to its component data, fading into one color until it disappeared entirely. In its place hovered an incensed Datamon.

"I cannot be caged!" He bellowed, charging the Gazimon, smashing one into the floor. The guard gave a short, strangled gasp and splintered into dust.

"I cannot be controlled!" He aimed a claw at Wallace, sending a jagged spark directly into his chest. The taskmaster was vaporized on the spot.

"Understand this as you die, ever pathetic, ever fools!" Another spark missed Kurtz, and Rothstein backed toward the door, nightstick raised in futile defense.

"We may fall, but our numbers are many!" He stammered, voice high and shrill. "You will be overwhelmed!" Datamon looked momentarily perplexed, emitting a frantic whirring noise, much like a computer processing data.

"You are nothing before my might." He announced at last, triumph in his tone. "Engage digivolution subroutine…formatting…" Rothstein bolted, but Kurtz was not as quick. He looked on, mesmerized, as Datamon was consumed by a blinding light, pushing rapidly out in all directions. "Datamon warp-digivolve too…"

"Are you accusing me of callousness?" Joe's eyes flared, his brow twitched.

"No, my friend, I'm accusing you of cynicism. Have you forgotten what it means to be Digidestined?" Izzy was calm, biting his lip.

"And what does it mean, then? Answer me that! What did it ever mean? We might as well never have been, for all the good we've done." They glared at each other, across Sora, both wanting more than anything to step down, but it was too late.

"Say, did you just hear something?" Sora remarked, raising a hand for silence. If they hadn't before, they did presently. It was a dull roar, a sound any Digidestined could identify as the sound of raw data dissipating into the air. The sound of mass destruction.

"They've started the blasting." Joe guessed. "They're demolishing the place." Then, the next instant, a blaring alarm, sounding something like a dirge played on the bagpipes, tore through the corridors. A moment later, it was accompanied by a chorus of not-so distant screams. Sora winced at the cacophony, drawing in on herself.

"Too arms! Too arms!" Kokatorimon's harsh squawk sounded from nearby, coming over some sort of public address system. "Containment breech in sector B-12! Too arms!" Sora climbed painstakingly too her feet.

"We're going in." She stated decisively, in a tone that did not allow further comment. Joe looked about to protest, but Izzy cut him off.

"No arguments. We're going in, we're fixing it, saving Gomamon and Biyomon and vanquishing Demidevimon. It's who we are. Tentomon?"

"Tentomon, digivolve too…Kabuterimon!" The insectoid Digimon took to the air as Izzy clambered to his perch atop his head, helping Sora up behind him. "Are you coming?" He called down to Joe, almost contemptuously. Joe convulsed, torn. Then, faintly at first, then with almost wilting brilliance, his crest began to glow. Izzy tossed it too him, it landed at his feet. Haltingly, he bent, picked it up and hung it around his neck.

"I'm coming too."

Demidevimon spat at the monitor. No, this was all wrong, this couldn't be happening. On every screen, the same image, this phantasmagoric entity ripping through his troops, demolishing even his most powerful warriors. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Datamon was out of the way for good, it…it wasn't fair. Feebly, he collapsed onto his throne. His throne, he should be elated, and yet somehow…

"Kokatorimon, report." He demanded, gazing at the S.S commander's face on a nearby screen.

"This Enigmon is a mega Digimon." Kokatorimon wheezed, consulting his lieutenant's report. "The evolved form of Datamon. His Looks like the Director took what he knew of the digivolution process to create some kind of surrogate crest. Which proves his point…it was the crests, after all, and not the children…" And all at once, he looked tired, old even beyond his advanced years, pathetic. He held a wing to his forehead.

"See if you can lure it outside." Demidevimon snapped, running a few mental calculations. "Activate the dark network. It's our only chance."

"What's…going on, out there?" Biyomon struggled to raise her head, blinking frantically.