Children of the Digital

by Debbie Dai-chan

Part Fourteen: Get a comfortable seat and popcorn, people, because this chapter is a longie. You probably want to take a couple of breaks in between. :p The Nature Children go off to talk with Holy Beasts and Oikawa and Seijamon have their moments.

8. Ember and Glass

My Disclaimer:

I DO NOT OWN DIGIMON: MONSTERS! Loud enough for you, darlings? :)

Children of the Digital

Part 8: Ember and Glass

By Debbie (Dai-chan)

He felt like he was floating in darkness.

All he could see in his mind's eye was a strange blackness, draping around him like a mantle, keeping him warm and cradling him. He would be more than to continue his slumber in this strange blackness, but somewhere inside him, a twinge of consciousness sparked out. It was not just this, but a tad, a fleck of a strong loyalty emerged. A desire to find his friends, a need to protect them. Bit by bit, consciousness returned, gently rousing him into faint alertness.

He slowly became aware that he was laying on his back. His legs felt like they were burned sore, like he lost most of their energy and couldn't move. At first, he panicked, but then he felt no fear of it and relaxed, trying to use his regaining senses to find his surroundings. The air he was breathing was dusty and a bit stale. It was cool, too. He grew curious of his surroundings.

His tawny eyes opened into a slit. A soft grey dimness met his gaze, and he silently gazed around. All he saw was the ceiling, which was partly hidden by the dimness. Specks of dust drifted by, moved by a soft stirring of the air. Somewhere out of his vision, faint sunlight shone, mildly radiating the room. In a room? He must be, because of the ceiling. Maybe inside a house . . .

"Where am I?" Daisuke managed to speak out, feeling that he needed to hear his voice to make sure he was alive. Or something.

A head came in his sight, upside-down and colored a dark cobalt blue, reptilian. Ruby eyes shone with an inner light, shone with concern. Veemon. His rugged lips then cracked into a grin. "About time you woke up. You can be difficult to wake."

"Dude, it's not time to joke," Daisuke cast back a grin, then turned serious quickly. Loyalty . . . He sat up, scrutinizing around. He was in a room, moderate in size and dark in light. It looked like a toy room to him. Bookshelves lined on the walls, filled with dolls, toys, and playthings, some smiling at him, some laying down and most on the floor, as if left behind by an unhappy child. More bookshelves stood in the middle of the room in several rows, also full. Boxes, chests, bags, all full of toys were scattered in corners. They were covered with a light coat of dust.

"Where are we?" Daisuke asked, turning to his Digimon. The blue beast simply shrugged in question. The bronze-haired boy stood, dust flaking off his clothes. He had this strange feeling that he wasn't alone here. He could hear breathing, very faint and distant, and the loyal tingling again tickled, urging him to find his friends.

"Hey, hello!" Daisuke cupped around his mouth. "Anybody here?" He stepped around a wooden bookshelf, trying to see in the dimness. Almost instantly after, a breath inhaled, as if someone was trying to say something, and a crash rumbled behind. Startled, Daisuke jumped around, braced for an attack, fists clenched and ready. A dust cloud met his face and he coughed, waving away the haze. He heard an annoyed mumble from inside the dust cloud, and as the cloud settled, he saw a blonde boy sitting up, rubbing his head.

"Matt! Are you all right?" Daisuke said, giving him an aiding hand.

"What kind of idiot who leaves roller skates on the floor?" Yamato growled, giving an icy glare toward a pair of roller skates laying beside him, one of the wheels spinning. He then grabbed on his ward's hand to help him stand up. As he dusted off his mantle and pants, Daisuke then heard a shuffling, like feet shambling among toys. In the dimness, a figure appeared, and Daisuke recognized it as Taichi. Taichi stepped from around a bookshelf, his gloved hands trying to brush away the hovering dust.

"Man, it's dusty in here," Taichi spoke, his face lightly contorted. His eyes were narrowed as he scanned around, as like he knew this place.

"Tai, does this place look familiar?" Yamato said, noticing the leader's sharp gaze.

Taichi nodded. "Yeah, I think so . . ."

Daisuke looked at his Protectors' faces. There was something else beside the recognition in their faces. Mild anxiety . . . "Do you know where we are?"

"Not sure," said Taichi, "But I'm determined to find out." He held up an opened hand, and instantly a flame appeared, hovering above his palm, the orange-yellow light bathing the group's faces. Daisuke, startled, almost jumped at the suddenness and the peculiarity of a flame sitting on a vulnerable human hand. Everybody noticed that.

"Davis, are you all right?" Veemon questioned.

The boy made a lopsided smile, rubbing his neck. "Oh, it's nothing. It's just seeing you having those powers . . ." He glanced at the flame. It seemed so unnatural, the flame not hurting Taichi at all. He was aware that Taichi had the ability to control flames, his skin having the capability to prevent any degree of fire and heat. Still, it was too weird . . . "It spooks me."

"It bothers you?" Yamato asked, his stern face holding light curiosity.

"A bit. It feels unnatural, you know?"

"Would you like to have that kind of power?" Taichi said.

Daisuke glanced at him in surprise, then again grinned. "Oh, it would be cool if I do, but . . ."

"But what?"

"Really, do I have to?" Daisuke spoke. He knew about the powers and their abilities. At first, he thought it was amazing and awesome to have one of those powers and using it to his command. Then he thought more on that and he realized that . . . yes, it was cool, but to him, it was unnatural. Being a Digidestined and meeting those Digimon were very paranormal and different, but now that his Protectors and the Old Kids had those powers to add to the weirdness, it was a bit too much. Daisuke admitted that he didn't think highly of himself having a power. He was satisfied with himself, being a Digidestined, having a Digimon Guardian and content with his life. He was happy. He was comfortable. He didn't think that having a power would make him any happier.

"Having a power can be cool," he continued, 'But it's just not for me."

The Guardian gave him an astonished look and grinned over to Taichi. "Amazing! Davis, modest."

The Master made a knowing smile, turning to Daisuke. There was understanding in his tan eyes. "Well, Davis, you are a Digidestined. It's possible for you to have a power, not unlike ours."

"Possible?" Daisuke let himself think of the possibilities. "Maybe I could have the power of Strength or even Speed!" For a brief moment, he could imagine what he can do with Speed in his soccer games.

As Taichi chuckled, Yamato nodded, thoughtful. "I think we have all the powers. If there were another kind of power, we would've known."

Daisuke knew that he wasn't dampening on his hopes. He expected it and he didn't plan to look forward to have a power. He simply shrugged and grinned. "As I said, having a power is not for me."

The Master opened the door and the group entered into a hallway. The hallway was bright, painted with soft white, yellow, and blue, and it had the sensation of childlike playfulness to it. Yamato reached to touch a wall, a haunted remembrance to his face. "Look at this . . . It does look familiar."

The red-streaked teenager silently took in the hallway's details. "Puppetmon's playhouse."

Yamato lowered his hand, nodding. "Yes, that's it."

"Puppetmon?" Daisuke repeated the name, trying to remember. His Protectors told him all about their personal adventures, and he then recalled the wooden Dark Master. "Oh, you told me about him."

"Yes," Taichi nodded, and then shook his head in puzzlement. "It's strange. We did destroy the playhouse, and now it's still standing."

There was an eerie silence from Yamato. The haunted pain deepened in his grey-blue eyes and he almost abruptly, turned to Taichi. "Tai, can we get out of here? This place is uncomforting. Bad memories."

Taichi gently touched on the blonde's arm, giving him comfort. "I know . . . Let's go."

As the group moved down the hallway, Daisuke then got another feeling, this time safety and pride in the presence of his Protectors. He once had that feeling before, but not as powerful. Perhaps, it was because he didn't know that they had powers then, and their powers seemed to add the powerfulness and dominance to their presence. Walking behind them, Daisuke watched them, imagining their strength. The Master, clad in his orange tabard that was meant for a knight, had nobility to him, dignified and dominant, every inch of him the destined Leader of the Old Kids. It was clear that his title was the Master because he was the master of all. The Guardian was the same yet different. He showed strong protection for his friends, especially for the Master, walking at his left and a bit behind, like a guard watching over his friend.

The Brother felt meek under his Protectors' strength.

They arrived to a giant stairway that led down to two tall doors. Unlike the childlike hallway, the walls and doors were violently colored, like a mischievous child threw pints of colors upon the walls. Purple, blue, red, orange, green, and yellow clashed together, hurting the eyes. They went downstairs and tried to open the doors. To their disbelief, the doors refused to open. Taichi, the stronger one, did his best to pull on the knobs, his face strained with the heave. Daisuke and Yamato tried the windows, too, but they didn't open, solidly locked. Daisuke didn't understand why. So far as he knew, the doors and windows weren't locked when the younger Digidestined entered the playhouse. Someone had locked them later, and there was no way to disengage them. Even the right window refused to break at his kicks.

Yamato didn't take the idea of being locked in easily. "That's ridiculous," he growled, his eyes wide with anxiety, glaring toward the left window. "How in the heck did we get in here, anyway?" In his nervousness, he smacked the wall.

Daisuke gazed at him with worry. Yamato rarely lost his cool and the sight of the Guardian being nervous worried him. Taichi was gazing over to Yamato, speaking softly, "Matt, calm down."

The grey-blue eyes turned back, now haunted. "I'm trying . . ." Even in his thick mantle, he shivered, rubbing his arms. "I don't like this place. Somehow, I can feel the ghost of Puppetmon here, playing with us."

"I feel the same," Taichi admitted, frowning, "but we have to be calm."

Loyalty . . . Daisuke grimaced to himself. He wanted to help, but he knew that he couldn't, not understanding what was going on with Yamato. He was too nervous to be normal, and Daisuke's worry increased.

"Hey, look!" Veemon's voice caught their attention to the stairway. A box, dark red and blue, sat on a step, left behind by someone, with a crank slowly spinning at one of its side. It was a jack-in-the-box. It may look innocent, sitting there, but Daisuke felt his instincts tensing up. The box wasn't normal. It wasn't there when the boys walked downstairs. The crank was moving very idly, quietly squeaking, but with a menace, and he slightly crouched, bracing for whatever that would come out of the box.

A final squeak called the last spin. A clown body popped out, flopping with that grotesque grin. But the appearance of the clown didn't attract the terrified attention of the group. It was the Tommy gun in its hands. Small, but dangerous. The clown woodenly held up the gun. A sudden fear burst in Daisuke's chest, he gasping

"Down!" Taichi yelled, his hand shooting and grab on Daisuke's arm. They fell down the ground, burying their heads. Yamato and Veemon took other shelters as they ducked behind the sides of the stairway. The firing was loud and rapid, but each bullet missed, aiming only for the walls and doors. Still, Daisuke felt the terror and his heart hammering behind his ribcage. Kindling of wood flew, broken off by the impacts, dusting over the two boys.

Suddenly, the firing quieted down. The box was gone. The playhouse now held something different. It was no longer playful and childlike, but now menacing and hateful, as if the house itself was trying to harm the children. Daisuke knelt up, trying to slow down his breathing. He knew he had been in similar situations worse than this, but the image of a toy firing a gun disturbed him. It wasn't supposed to be like that. Toys were supposed to be nice and playful, not mean and scary.

A voice turned his attention. Yamato was stepping out from his cover. Something in him worried Daisuke. The dread was surging in the grey-blue eyes, breaking down the barrier of self-reliance and showing an intimidated Guardian. Yamato stared at where the box was and made a low growl, like a wounded wolf.

"Forget this!" the blonde was shaken, not paying attention to the worry of the boys. "I'm going to find an exit." Then agitation appeared, shaking his body. "Just . . . just stay out of my way!" Abruptly, he turned to disappear down another small hallway that was unseen behind the stairway.

"Matt!" Daisuke shouted out. Taichi's hand squeezed on his arm and he looked over to the Master. Taichi had the deep concern in his face.

"Come on!" Taichi said, pulling him along with him. The boys and Digimon dashed down the hallway. Daisuke couldn't see any trace of Yamato, but he could feel him, feeling his bonded loyalty leading him. Something attracted him. A hole. A hole in the middle of the hall. Big enough to jump over. In the instant, the bronze-haired boy was cautious and puzzled. What was a hole doing in the middle of the hall? It wasn't there at first, he was positive. But then, the desire to find and comfort his Guardian won over. Daisuke made a brief burst of energy and smoothly leaped over the hole, Veemon following shortly.

The moment his feet landed the floor, he got the same feeling. Loyalty . . . pulling on him from behind. Something wrong. Taichi. Daisuke skidded into a stop and gazed back. To his total astonished disbelief, Taichi had stopped just before the hole. The tall boy had this strange fear in his limbs, his tan eyes wide and starring down in the blackness of the hole.

"Tai!" Daisuke called, puzzled. Fear nagging in the back of his head, but it wasn't his. It was Taichi's. "What are you doing? You can lump over!"

Taichi stepped back once and shook his head. His voice was quavering. "I . . . I can't . . . I can't jump."

"What?" Daisuke demanded. He didn't understand the fear. "Come on, Tai, you can!"

"Fear . . . of, of . . . heights." Taichi finally stepped back from the hole and slid down the wall. He suddenly looked like a frightened child, holding his arms, refusing to look at his fear.

Fear of heights . . . But, but, he thought Taichi wasn't afraid of heights anymore . . . but, but . . . "But what about Matt?" Daisuke asked, gazing back to the hallway where he hoped to see Yamato. Nothing was there, empty. Loyalty . . .

When Taichi didn't answer, Daisuke was mad. Angry. He felt like he was mocked, scorned. He felt like he couldn't protect his friends as he strongly promised himself. Yamato was gone, scared by something that only he saw or heard, and Taichi was so frightened of jumping over the tiny hole that he was like an infant, couldn't face his fear. And Daisuke felt lost, couldn't protect them.

"What's happening to you two?" Daisuke said, his tawny eyes darkening, and then turned to Veemon. "You stay here and wait and see if Matt returns. If he ever does. Ok?"

Veemon nodded in response and Daisuke leaped back over the hole. In his anger of losing his friends, Daisuke grabbed on Taichi's tabard, twisting, forcing the Master to face the Brother. "Come on, Tai! You can't just let your fear take over yourself! It's absurd of you, the powerful Master, scared of heights! Show some guts!" He glanced down the orange-tinted Crest of Courage's symbol on the tabard. "You're supposed to be Courage!"

He was hoping that Taichi saw through his fear and snapped back in hurt pride as he normally did, but Taichi just sat there, staring back with deep fear and sadness, his tan eyes paling into an ivory shade. "I can't be Courage all the time . . ." he spoke weakly. "I got scared sometimes."

The Brother's fists tightened. "But not now! Matt is gone, probably hurt, and you sit there, shaking in your boots!"

The Master didn't answer, turning his gaze and closing it. Loyalty . . . Daisuke inhaled in a breath, trying to ease his anger. He felt sorrow and angrily cast it aside. It wasn't time to give up. He loosened his fists and rested them upon Taichi's shoulders. His voice was soft and pleading. "Please, Tai. I trust you. You two always show courage and friendship, and it helped me so much, helping me becomes loyal to my friends." He became serious. He was surprised to himself. He rarely became serious. Firm, perhaps, but not serious. "I'm not leaving you and I will not leave Matt, either. I want to find Matt and get you both out of here. But I can't do it unless you help me. Please, Master."

Taichi gazed to him, mild surprise and pride in his tan eyes. Then he glanced to the hole. Fear surfaced, but he was clearing fighting it. Finally, he nodded. Daisuke gave him a courageous grin and helped him stand. Together, they leaped and joined Veemon. They continued down the hallway to the end.

Loyalty . . .

The room was huge, perhaps a nursery room for toddlers. There was not very much furniture in here, just a couple of beds and chairs. There were toys, too, lightly scattered on the floors. The room was softly lightened, a few shades brighter than the small room he was once in.

Daisuke felt the bond tugging, and he quickly scanned the room for Yamato. There! The blonde was sitting in a corner, his limbs pulled close to himself in a defeated position, his head lowered. There was something to him, darkness around him, a brooding.

"Matt!" Daisuke left Taichi, pacing across. Veemon ran ahead, arriving to the blonde first, trying to give comfort. Then another voice stopped him, halting him in the center of the room. He turned around and saw Taichi, now also brooding in the opposite corner, his tan eyes clouded. Fear . . . It wasn't right. It wasn't happening that way. Taichi wasn't supposed to be frightened. Yamato wasn't supposed to be upset.

Taichi's voice was strange; it sounded so much like him, but a few years younger, like a scared child. Taichi was speaking, 'It's not just my fear of heights. It's my fear of myself."

Then Yamato answered with a younger voice, too, his, but too young, then. He sounded upset, distressed. "All my life, I learned to avoid people, learned how to be alone."

What's happening? Daisuke didn't move, somehow mesmerized by the younger voices coming out of the older bodies. He grew unsettled as he was compelled to listen to the words that seemed to come out of the older boys' fears and anxieties.

"I was always seen as the great leader, the star captain, but they never knew the real me."

"I learned to take care of myself, only myself, and nobody else."

"They didn't know that I feared myself, fearing that they would reject me if they know the real me."

"I thought the meaning of my life was to protect my brother."

"Matt, Tai, what had gotten in you? It's not you at all," Daisuke whispered, the distress and dread coming from his Protectors filling his mind, stunning him.

"And so I had to act reckless so I can hide my fear."

"And so I had to be alone so I won't get hurt."

Anger! He can't let them talk like that! "Stop it." Daisuke growled, surprising him and Veemon. "Stop it!" He can't let them do that . . . He can't let them be so scared of themselves. He was here to help them. He was here to protect them. Daisuke began heading toward Taichi, determined to stop him talking. "Stop saying those things!"

"Stay away from him."

Daisuke halted, suddenly alarmed and afraid. The voice . . . it was exactly like Taichi, but . . . It was not. It was full of sadism, full of fear, but it wasn't the same fear Taichi had. It gave fear, sinking pure dread right in his soul, leaving a bleeding wound in the result. Daisuke could feel it, the wound of fear in his soul, bitter and smothering his breaths. He could feel eyes boring in him, casting fear, casting hate. Daisuke slowly turned and saw Taichi standing before him. It wasn't Taichi. He looked much like him, with the dusky hair, the orange tabard and blue pants. But the Taichi twin looked too evil. A sadistic grin was smeared across his boyish face, twisting the confident face into an immoral expression. The most fearful things about him were his eyes. They were dead, grey and cold, like cold ashes long burned out.

The dark Taichi grinned. "Hello." Then he frowned when Daisuke couldn't answer. "Well, say something."

Somehow, he knew whom the twin as, but he needed to know, wanted to get out of those dead eyes and fear aura around him. "Who are you?"

The dark Taichi gave him a mild exasperated look. "Yes, yes, I expected an obvious question like this." He then crossed his arm, standing tall and full of disdain. "I'm the Tyrant of Fear. The dark Taichi."

Daisuke remembered. Taichi and Yamato told him. Taichi and Yamato seemed timid to let him know about their other stories that they didn't tell the other New Kids. They told him that they trusted him enough to let him know about their dark selves. He recalled the haunted pain and fear in their voices as they spoke of their dark selves. The dark selves that they could become if they weren't what they were now. The dark selves that held the opposite traits. The Tyrant of Fear and the Outcast of Isolation.

"I know you . . ." Daisuke said, scowling. "What did you do to them?"

The Tyrant looked puzzled. "Them?" He idly looked behind, seeing Yamato. Daisuke was afraid; Veemon was gone, but then he could feel him nearby, hiding somewhere. "Oh, them." He waved a finger. "No, no, I'm only the dark Taichi.  I'm not bothering with the Guardian. The Outcast is."  Then his dead eyes somehow flared with warning.  "And, Brother of Loyalty, stay away from my brother.  I want to see him squirm."

Daisuke sharply stepped in front, sheltering the silent Taichi. "You stay back from him!"  From the corners of his vision, he could see Veemon stepping from under a bed and creeping toward the Tyrant's back.

The Tyrant kept his bitter scowl at the younger boy.  "Listen, boy, I'm here for my revenge."  He cast a glare toward Taichi, who visibly flinched at the flare.  Even Daisuke felt the fear radiating out of it.  "The damned Master destroyed me. Destroyed me! All of us, the Dark Digidestined, want revenge for our deaths. They must know that you cannot live just in courier without fear."  The dead eyes darted over to the bronze-haired boy and the sinister grin appeared.  "Tell me, boy, do you truly know loyalty?"

The way he said it made it sounded that Daisuke was not loyal, nothing but an unfaithful traitor.  The sudden stab of offense further sparked his fury, changing his dark tawny eyes into hot, seething tar-black, the anger seething just underneath the surface.  Daisuke allowed a bitter scowl smearing on his face.  "I'm loyal.  I know it.  I won't let you hurt him."  He braced himself, his fists closed and ready.  "You have to go through me."

"Foolish boy," the dark Taichi sneered. "Do you know how powerful I am?"

Instantly, he knew that the Tyrant was trying to trick him into attacking. Daisuke's fiery spirit would be more than happy to offer his proposal, but somewhere in his mind, there was a new spirit, somehow sedate and vigilant, simply stirring calmness in his fiery spirit. Alert. Ready. Daisuke's stance seemed to change from its aflame pose into a composed air. Daisuke cast him a half-smile, the one that held shrewd ease instead of the reckless grin. "Do ahead and try. I'm not that easy for you to destroy." His breathing began to become synchronized with his heartbeat. Beat.

The Tyrant gave back the baneful grin. "Indeed?" Beat. The Tyrant swung an orange-gloved fist toward his face. Beat. Daisuke smoothly dodged under the swing, to his left, and darted past the body. Beat. He used his movement and the Tyrant's motion to heave his foot right in the Tyrant's side. He heard an inhale of pained breath as the Tyrant reacted to the kick, bowing down. In his sudden burst of pride, Daisuke turned to jeer.  Beat.  The triumphant expression shifted into a startled façade as the very same fist came for his face.

Daisuke cried out in agony as the fist struck upon his head, stabbing white spasms of pain, waving through his head.  The pain was too much for him and he collapsed to the floor, clutching his head. White stars danced before his eyes, the pain nearly blacking his mind out, as he recoiled.

"Vee Head Butt!"  The voice of his Digimon rang through his inflamed head and Daisuke dared to crack his eyes open to see Veemon leaping for the Tyrant. His ruby eyes were on fire, mad.  The Tyrant moved in swift motions, almost impossible for a teenager to have, except that, of course, that he had the advantage to his power.  The Tyrant simply ducked his body and his opened hand approached toward Veemon in an orange blur.  The hand snatched upon Veemon's neck and he easily held him up in the air. The Tyrant just glanced at the blue beast before, with a bit of strength, hurled him across the room.

Veemon skid into a stop as he bumped into something.  Veemon stiffened in fear.  Someone was there, standing behind him.  His breaths quickened as he gazed upward.  A face floated in his vision, upside-down, but he identified the face immediately as the face of Yamato.  His white-streaked blonde hair darkened his face, but the very body itself was radiating with the aura of darkness. The Yamato twin had anguish and apathy in his face, his eyes half-closed, much like a hungry wolf waiting.

The dark Yamato silently arched a blonde eyebrow and looked up to the Tyrant.

"Hey, Outcast," the Tyrant was saying, "Won't you mind keeping that nuisance busy?"

The Outcast looked back to Veemon, and the blue beast suddenly felt horrified at the heinous delight shining in the grey-blue eyes. His voice held nothing as the Outcast spoke, "My pleasure . . ." A finger twitched.  Slight movements around him captivated Veemon's intimidated attention.  At first, he thought it was just mist, and then he realized . . . it was mist.  Hands made of mist . . . No . . . Mist made of hands.  He felt a bitter coldness as the hands came out from under the floor, ghoulish and diaphanous.  The hands floated toward him, as if were yearning for a warm touch.  Or urged to destroy that hateful warmth.

"Get away!"  Veemon bewailed, waving at the hands, trying to dissolve the hands into mists.  He gasped at the chilliness.

Loyalty . . . "Veemon!" Daisuke stood up, hastening to save his Digimon. Someone moved in front of him in a flash and the Tyrant pushed him away with a hand, frowning.

"I didn't ask you to be heroic."

Daisuke regained his balance and glared at him. "You hurt Veemon!"

An arch of a dusky eyebrow. "So . . . ?"

Beat. It happened in an instant.  His fury suddenly burst and Daisuke's fist flew out on its own. The Tyrant staggered at the force, the redness staining his surprised face.  Daisuke blanched as he realized his triumph and misfortune. He quickly stepped back, stiffening.

The dead eyes exploded with provoked blaze.  "That's your last mistake," the Tyrant snarled as an aura of flaming fire enclosed his body. "Terror of Fire!"

Despite that his mind screamed at his limbs to move, Daisuke couldn't move. Beat.  The beam of flames engulfed him.  He yelled, neither in despair nor in fury, but yelled out the very substance of agony.  The calming spirit in his mind was surrounding him, feeling its protection of him. He felt the heat and inferno eating on his skin and clothes.  He knew he was being burned alive, but the spirit, the protection prevented the fire, only scalding, forming raw bruises.

He collapsed on his stomach, afraid to move to harm his burns. He could smell burned flesh, feeling rather than heard the sizzling hairs and fabric. He was in such pain, couldn't speak, couldn't move, only having the strength to gaze up to Veemon. The beast was barely seen from through the misty hands. He was trembling so hard that the only sound he uttered out was an anguished whimper. The cold hands had gripped on his limbs, becoming solid and icy.

"Veemon . . ." Daisuke breathed out, his body quavering at his agony.

The dark voice of the Tyrant spoke from above, leering. "Come on, Brother, can't you do better than that? You just lay there and watch him get hurt." He then chortled with malicious amusement. "Loyal? Don't make me laugh."

"Stop." His voice was full of agony, but underneath it, there was a breath of passion, beginning to break through.

He inhaled, stifled a yell of pain as the Tyrant gave him a light but hostile kick in his side. "Shut up, boy. You cannot stop us, so just shut up."

Daisuke's wrath hissed, his eyes darkening back into tar-black, the indication of his rage boiling just under the surface. "Stop it . . ." His hearing picked up another whimper from his Digimon, and he felt strength coming back in, fueled by his anger. "Stop it!"

"Didn't I say shut up?" the Tyrant barked, glaring back downward. "You can't do anything."

"No! I am . . ." Daisuke strived to look back fiercely. He felt something new . . . The calming spirit that was only there inside him, a trace, a smidge of calmness, was suddenly full of him. Something burned inside his chest, filling with vigor, will, and most of all, loyalty. He knew who he was. He was Loyalty, desiring to protect his friends with his very life. A new power. A power that will aid him in his protection over his friends. One of the powers of the Children of the Armor.

"Loyal!" Daisuke screamed. "Heart-Armor, Energize!"

Underneath his shirt, his Crest of Loyalty flashed in its orange color. It was almost like the color of fire, but unlike the real colors of fire, it was the color of his spirit, his passion. The crest became burning, charring its mark upon his skin, but Daisuke didn't notice it, ignoring his other burns, surrounded in his new power of will. An aura flared outward from his body, bright blue, electric blue that glared with intensity, with rays of dark orange shining outward.

His power expanded its armor upon him. His clothing changed into something different, the garments that represented his spirit. A tunic, colored dark blue, was clad on his upper body, its sleeves long to his wrists. Its hem reached down to his hips, giving the image of a gallant knight, along with real armor on his chest and shoulders, also dark blue. His blue pants were loose, gathered around his waist with a black belt and gathered around his ankles in calf-length black boots. Armor covered his knees and shins. A flowing, wide white cape was tied around his neck and shoulders, reaching down to his ankles, showing its majesty. His trademark goggles were gone, freeing his spiky bronze hair, its color striking against his whiteness and blueness.

His power healed his burns, regaining his energy, and he smoothly stood up in one motion, his cape swaying. His eyes were back in their tawny color, but now there was a fire behind it, burning with wrath and protection. He looked every inch as a knight, ready for battle. He had a new name. A Heart-name. Because he was chosen to keep the spirit of fire going, he was called as . . . Ember.

Ember glared over to the Tyrant, who was taken aback with shock, the dead eyes colder than before.

"You shut up," Ember spoke, his voice extraordinarily composed, despite the fire in his eyes. "I'm loyal. I promise that my friends will not get hurt when I'm here."

His aura dimmed, edging down his arms, as his fists lightly tightened, as if were going to hold something. His weapons. In his right hand, a long sword appeared colored fiery orange. Its hilt was of a dragon's head, its snout as the pommel and its finlike ears as the cross guard. In his left hand, another sword, slightly shorter and slightly arched, tinted night blue, like a sword made of the night sky. Like the fire sword, its hilt was made of a wolf's head, its snout as the pommel and the cross guard was made of its flat ears. The fire and night blades glistened as if by a hidden light, slightly touching his face.

A flash of the night blade. The face of the Tyrant reflected off the blade. Ember directed the tip toward his enemy, his eyes narrowed.

"Don't you dare to hurt Veemon."

Ember made a sharp motion. Another flash of the dim light leaped from his fire blade. He moved in such swiftness that the Tyrant tensed, seeing nothing but a blue and white haze. He felt a breeze hissing past him, his tabard swaying, and then a slight pain ignited in his chest. He clutched on his chest, looking down. His tabard was cut by the fire blade, the slash cutting through the Crest of Fear's symbol in half. Anger Flaring, he glared over to Ember, who was standing at the other side, already ready.

"You bastard!" The fire aura flared and the Tyrant sharply cast a fireball. Ember sidestepped, barely tensing in defense. It appeared that he was determined to harm him for calling him disloyal. Seriously. How seriously? The Tyrant didn't intend to find out. He didn't look forward to be defeated by this . . . youngster, this wannabe.

Ember watched as the dark Taichi summoned a fire sword, a blade made of true fire. A mockery. Ember will show him who the loyal one around here was. The Tyrant leaped, holding his fire sword ready, eagerness sparking in his eyes. Ember may have two swords to defend himself, but the Tyrant was using real fire and was much stronger than him. He recalled the agony he suffered from the fire.

Ember also leaped forward, but only to meet the fire sword with his night blade. Flames burst at the impact and he squinted to avoid the fire from coming in his eyes. He never understood how come that he was able to fight with blades, but he felt it coming naturally, parrying, thrusting, slashing, feinting, and evading, using the wolf-hilted and dragon-hilted blades to both defend and fight. His mind was fully engulfed in his willpower to protect his friends. He'd never felt so confident, so brave, and so sincere. He did want to protect him friends. He can't imagine himself without his friends. He cherished every friendship he had from everybody and that made him hungry for his/her friendship. He wanted to protect them.

He must stop the Tyrant.

Ember dodged from another slash of the fire sword, and then he pushed toward the Tyrant, the night blade aimed. As he expected so, the Tyrant dodged from the thrash. Ember tried to control his impulse from stumbling down. He could hear the Tyrant's leering grin in his voice as he spoke, "Now, you pest –"

Last mistake. Ember whirled, using his force to chuck the night blade right in the dark Taichi's chest. The Tyrant widened his eyes in shock, the dead eyes almost brightened with pain.

"Shut up," Ember hissed calmly as the Tyrant dissolved into pixels, as would a deleted Digimon. The night blade also dissolved, returned to his hidden aura. There was a light groan from his Protector, and he instantly wanted to go to his side to help. Yet, he stood still. Somehow, he wasn't horrified at the fact that he actually killed a human. The Tyrant wasn't a human at all, but still, he was slightly aghast, felt like that he killed one of his Protectors, despite that it was only his dark self. Still, there was no time to muse over this. There was the Outcast to defeat.

The dark tawny eyes glared over to the Outcast, who simply watched the fight with boring amusement.

Ember's voice spoke, "Leave him."

The cold, ghostly hands bristled, as if were ordered by his commanding voice, and faded into mist, then that diminished away, as well. Veemon remained unmoving; his breaths quiet and quavering, his eyes pale and haunted. The sight of his Digimon in anguish angered him, and Ember stepped closer.

The Outcast, now frowning, waved a hand, which was glowing with a night-blue aura, the night without stars to lighten. A ball of energy, almost visible, burst out. Ember sharply held up a hand and almost instantly, a circular blue-colored shield, unfolding outward from within his hand, growing larger and larger until it seemed to fill his vision. He felt the force of the energy ball striking on the shield. He knew that the ball had no power to break down his shield, and he summoned it away.

The Outcast appeared uninterested, but aggravation was in his eyes. "Face it, boy. You can't have one without other. If you destroy me, I will still be here, no matter what."

"Enough of that," Ember snapped. "Don't you ever hurt my friends."

"I don't care. You cannot kill us. We are always here. We are part of you and we will not leave."

Nostrils flaring, Ember strode closer. The Outcast harshly gestured. Instantly, the ghost hands appeared and captured on Ember, the cold fingers curling around his ankles and arms. Though, the iciness, the hostility flamed his fury. Ember's lips tightened into a flat line, his eyes suddenly darkened into the tar black color, almost flashing with his inner light. His hands clenched around the dragon-headed hilt.

Swoosh! The fire blade slashed through the air, slightly diagonally, with a shushing sound. The shushing sound suddenly hushed as the blade smoothly cut through the Outcast's body. His body was nothing but butter as the blade severed from his left side, upward to his right shoulder, cutting him in half. The halves almost squeaked as they slid against each other, the top half sliding off. The Outcast had the shocked expression as he quietly dissolved into pixels. As he dissolved, the Guardian gave out a brief pained inhale.

Ember exhaled. He defeated them. He protected his Protectors . . .

Taichi putted a hand on his head, gently. His head wasn't throbbing or even in pain. It was like he was half-asleep, half-aware of his surroundings. He thought that he saw a teenager with his face and a blue-clothed boy with two swords. He wasn't sure of himself and he sat up, clearing his vision. Right in front of his gaze, a boy strode toward him, clad in strange clothing of night blue and bright white. He carried a long sword, its blade a strange shade of fiery orange.

Taichi didn't tense up, only watching in mild awe and puzzlement as the boy knelt by him. His voice was brash and gentle, "Tai? Are you alright?"

The Master blinked. "Davis?"

Somehow, a shimmer engulfed the boy – Daisuke – a bold orange shimmer that changed his appearance. His armor was gone. The sword was gone. Even the white cape was gone, leaving the boy in his blue garments. The Crest of Loyalty was dimly glowing with the bold orange light. The goggles were back on his head, pushing back his bronze hair. There was . . . freshness in his eyes, Taichi noticed. Something courageous and friendly . . . Loyalty . . .

Daisuke grinned. "Yeah, it's me." Then great concern came in his face. "Are you alright?"

Taichi was taken back and only nodded in answer. Daisuke also nodded, as if in approval, stood, and went to the other corner of the room, where Taichi noticed a dazed Yamato sitting. Veemon remained with Taichi and he didn't say anything, equally surprised. Taichi stood up, regaining his bearings. He tried to figure what had happened. He deemed that he did see his twin. He never forgot the ash-cold eyes, the sadistic grin on his identical face, and the aura of fear.

He felt a nudge on his pant leg and he looked down. Veemon was holding something in his paws, looking puzzled. Taichi knelt down, wondering what the blue beast wanted and noticed something strikingly familiar. In Veemon's paws, two dolls grinned back. One looked so alike to him, with his orange tabard, blue pants, and the confident grin. The other was Yamato's twin, along with his blue mantle, green pants, and the half-smile that looked often like a smirk.

The dolls . . . Taichi inhaled through his closed teeth. Puppetmon's dolls. He thought they were gone! He thought they were destroyed . . . How did that happen . . .? He took a close look at the doll to make sure if he was wrong. The doll was different, yes, but he remembered that there was strange warmth from the body when he first held it, like it was alive. The dolls were used by Puppetmon to control the Digidestined's bodies.

Something odd was going on here.

"Daisuke," Taichi firmly spoke, looking up, standing. Daisuke was returning with Yamato, who was gaining his awareness. After he let Yamato sit down, Daisuke sharply looked back at his full name, and Taichi noticed that there was the calm gaze, hiding the fiery passion.

"Yes, Tai?" the boy simply asked.

"Tell us what happened."

Daisuke glanced down to Yamato and said, "Matt went in some anxiety breakdown, and I had to encourage you to overcome your fear of heights. Here . . ." He took a sharp gaze around, slightly frowning. "I met the Tyrant and the Outcast."

Taichi knew it. He exhaled out a soft breath as Yamato gazed at Daisuke with a disbelieved expression.

"What?! You saw them?" Yamato said.

Daisuke nodded. "I remembered what you told them. That was them." There was a twinge of sympathy in his tawny eyes and Taichi suddenly felt proud of him that he showed understanding.

Yamato stood up, now lightly frowning with his trademark glower. He glanced around and asked, "Davis, what happened to them?"

Daisuke almost visibly flinched and lowered his gaze. "I . . . killed them."

"Killed them? How?"

"With my power." Daisuke gazed back, shrugging with a mixed expression of awareness and puzzlement. "I don't know how did this happen. I was so angry that anybody would dare to hurt me friends that . . . I don't know . . ." His fingers curled around the crest dangling from his neck. "My crest burned and something inside me popped. I suddenly know I have a power and I know how to use it."

Yamato seemed to be surprised and gazed over to Taichi. The Master, though, didn't have the surprised expression. He met the bronze-haired boy's gaze with a certain look. "Show us."

Daisuke responded immediately with the flaring of his new aura. Taichi arched his eyebrows in surprise, feeling the strong protection in the bright blue aura with orange rays shining outward. As the aura appeared, the new clothing also appeared, the white cape seeming to flow down from his back, along with shoulder pads and shin pads. The goggles were gone, and in his hands, two swords sparkled penetratingly, one fiery orange and other as dark blue as the night.

Taichi stared at the swords with awe. A sudden thought appeared in his head and he simply called out his ward's name. Not to his surprise, the name came out differently. "Ember." Taichi grinned, immediately know what the name was. "Ember is your Heart-Name."

Ember was bewildered. "Heart-Name?"

"We will explain it later."

Ember simply nodded and returned his power back. Daisuke appeared serious as he scanned the room with discontentment. There was the tone of grimness in his voice. "I think we need to get out of here."

"How?" Yamato questioned. "The doors and windows are locked."

The boy shook his head. "This is not real. I don't know how I know, but I do know that this place is just a memory. The place you remember."

Taichi wasn't going to argue. Getting out and finding their friends were more important than musing over the fact that they were in a memory. "How can we get out of here, anyway?"

"This is how," Daisuke said, grinning, as his crest glowed brighter. The bold orange light illuminated the boys and Veemon, and suddenly, a faint glow appeared in the air. It seemed that the glow itself was radiating from within the air, breaking through the edges of the air. A hole seemed to open up within the glow, the lines of the orange light spreading out in size. There was a landscape from behind the hole, making it seemed like the glow opened another dimension. A dark grey-sanded beach was there, black waves crashing upon the shoreline, and two shelves rising high into the cloudy sky. Two lighthouses stood on them, a white one and a black one, shining out the lights of the same color, respectively.

"What's this place?" Taichi demanded. The sight made him think of what his sister told him, another world, with a dark ocean and the creepy feeling from within . . . Strangely, he felt nothing but calmness, certainty from the beach.

"A place where we will find our friends and be safe," it was the younger boy's answer.

'Are you sure, Davis?" Veemon finally spoke out, uneasy. "The place is not normal . . ."

Daisuke was silent, watching the beach, and then turned to his friends. "If we don't go out, we will be trapped here. We have to leave."

Yamato made a sharp nod, the pleading look in his face. "Yes, we have to leave . . ."

Taichi understood; Yamato still felt the pains of the ghosts wandering in the playhouse. He himself didn't want to spend another minute in the mad Digimon's home. He nodded to Daisuke. "Go ahead, Brother."

Daisuke grinned and he looked the same to the old boy with his recklessness and daring. As he stepped through the hole, Taichi exchanged gazes with Yamato and they smiled. The Master and the Guardian were proud of their Brother.

***

There was a terrible coldness around him, its icy fangs sinking themselves into his bare skin like needles. The bites sent thousands of stinging shivers and he felt like he was bleeding of the cold. He couldn't feel anything, nothing except for the cold, which seemed to a part of him. Somehow, he could see the cold in his mind's eye, glaring white and deep, deep blue, like a winter sky at nighttime. The whiteness and blueness were around him, hugging him, clutching him, caressing him. Somewhere in his mind, he knew that the cold was killing him and yet he almost let himself go, surrender himself in the cold, just hoping that maybe if he could give up, the cold would show mercy and end its pain.

" . . . Michael . . ."

A voice. It was too dissonant. It sounded like it was voicing his name, and he didn't know that it was his name. All he was aware of was the cold, blanketing him and deafening him from the voices. He could hear nothing but the stinging. He could feel nothing but the iciness. He could see nothing but the whiteness and blueness.

"Michael? Can you hear me?"

Who are you . . .? Why you called me? I can't answer back. I can't. So cold . . . too cold . . .

For a brief moment, something touched him and he was aware of that. He felt something solid, in the middle of the cold haze, holding him, supporting him. He almost screamed, mostly in relief, because the solidity radiated warmth. The warmth that again stung his skin and bones and soul. The warmth that softly caressed around him. He thankfully cuddled himself in the warmth.

"Michael, wake up."

It was a different voice and a familiar one. He tried to answer back. It was like the cold finally letting him go, leaving its fangs out and its arms from around him. But the bites were still there, the feeling still there. His body began to shake from the aftereffects of the warm cold. His teeth chattered, and he slowly opened his ice-blue eyes.

The face of Frankie appeared in his vision. The older boy looked deeply anxious, his hazel eyes darkened. His voice was thick, as if he was speaking in a choking fog. "You have to stay awake, Michael. I can't let you get frozen."

Michael weakly exhaled and saw his breath came out in white wisps. The cold was back, touching where the warmth forgot to protect, again sinking its fangs. His lips barely formed the words when his teeth slowed down in their shakes. "B-b-but it's s-s-so c-cold."

"I know it, boy," Frankie nodded. His eyes darted down to his hand, which was holding tight on Michael's arm. "You will be fine."

Almost abruptly, Michael felt something odd. He felt like the cold was being sucked out from his body. Its fangs were forcedly removed. It was like a cold blanket was being yanked off from over him, and suddenly, he felt the warmth surging in his body, eager to warm him up.

Michael's eyes were wide and he looked up to his Protector. "How did you . . . ?"

Frankie appeared slightly wearied, but he grinned back. "I can take coldness out of bodies, as I did to you. It won't make you warmer, but at least, you are not shivering."

Michael sat up, puzzled at the possibility to taking away the coldness. Nevertheless, he was glad he wasn't cold anymore. He then rested a hand on his Digimon's head, seeing the strong concern in his ruby eyes and letting him know that he was all right. He glanced around his surroundings. He was perplexed; it was not the same place he was at. The last place he remembered was at the battle where he and the other Digidestined fought Vampdevimon. They were too weak, vulnerable by the last attack of the Vampire. He was unconscious, then, felt nothing, and recalled nothing after that. Have he been moved by someone? By Frankie? Where was everybody else?

He, Frankie, and Betamon were in a middle of a forest, and the forest looked much like Central Park at Christmas time. Snow was everywhere, covering the trees, ground, and bushes like a gigantic thick blanket. The only other colors were Michael, Frankie, and Betamon. The fish was dark green with red fins and he stood out in the white background. Frankie and Michael wore mostly white and almost mingled into the background, despite Michael's red-striped blue shirt and Frankie's orange shirt and pants.

And it was cold. Very cold. Michael felt like he was in Antarctica without a parka, and Michael began to rub his arms. "How did it get so cold?" Michael questioned. "It wasn't cold earlier."

Frankie nodded, intently gazing around. There was a light grimace on his face, the orange streak in his russet hair glaringly against the snow. "It's a kind of strange coldness. It's not natural."

Michael gazed back. "But, Frankie, I thought you can control coldness." If he can do so, he can make the coldness go away. Michael was freezing. He pouted at the older boy's ability to resist the cold. He wasn't even shivering!

"Yes, I can," Frankie answered to his question. "What I'm saying is that this coldness is not natural. I can feel it and it's all wrong."

Michael tilted his head in curiosity. He knew that Frankie told him all about his power and the abilities, such as control ice and coldness. He wondered at how Frankie, a mischievous and spirited boy, could control ice, nature's heartless element. It didn't seem fitting to Michael. Frankie was too warm and eager in his heart. 

The blonde then thought about the ability of feeling the cold. "What is it like, feeling coldness as you do?"

Frankie replied, "It feels the opposite from what you feel. When you feel cold, I feel warm. Like when you are under snow, you feel warm."

"It's quite amazing," Michael said. Then something awakened in his mind, reminding of him of something. Michael fell silent, remembering about his other power. His other power. No one, except for his friends in New York, knew that he actually had another power, just like the powers of the Old Kids. He could feel the vastness, the timelessness of it inside his chest and mind, making him feeling old and young at the same time. In his mind's eye, he could see the colors of dark violet and ice blue, his aura, his colors.

He pondered over this. He knew that he and his friends promised not to reveal any evidence of their powers because, of course, having an unnatural power when anyone else have no absolute ability to control was bizarre. They believed it was too dangerous to even let their parents to know, so they kept their powers a secret. But then when he found out that there was other Digidestined who had similar powers, Michael began to wonder if it was meant to be. Would every Digidestined have a similar power? If so, why? Michael was determined to keep his power a secret from the Japanese Digidestined, but he was told by Sleet, his Protector that the New Kids will have their own powers, as well as he.

Should he tell them about his other power?

"Betamon, can you handle the coldness?" Frankie's voice broke through his thoughts.

Betamon grinned back. "I'm immune to the cold, so I'm fine."

"Good."  Frankie glanced to Michael. "Ready? Let's go and find the others."

The boys and the fish took a long stride down a hidden path, hopefully the path to the others they had been separated from. Michael took his time observing the surroundings; everywhere he saw were white. The sky was very clear, striking blue. It looked almost unusual for a snow environment. Seeing nothing else that might show evidence of his friends, Michael gazed around to Frankie. He was amazed with the self-confidence in the russet-haired boy. There were protection and determination in him. Frankie wasn't afraid at all. Michael felt a bit of pride to have him as his Protector.

Michael cleared his throat to get Frankie's attention. "Frankie, I want to thank you for helping me stay warm. If it wasn't for you, I would have gotten frozen."

Frankie glanced over his shoulder, grinning with both his mouth and hazel eyes. His eyes always smiled, rarely scowled. "You are a good friend to me. I won't let anything hurt you." His voice became firm, serious. "I never let my friends get hurt."

Michael blinked and asked, "Are your friends that important to you?" He was curious; he knew he had strong protection over friends, but mainly as a big brother. Frankie seemed to be a guardian, watcher over his friends.

Frankie's face went soft and his eyes half-closed as if was thinking of past moments. "Well, I was an orphan since I was nine, and so I didn't have any contacts with my old family and the friends I knew weren't as special as I thought so. The best and only friend I had was Joe. I valued and respected him, and I know I will be there for him anytime." The satisfied smile appeared. "Now that I got new friends, I learned that having friends make me who I am. Friends are valuable to me, and without them, I wouldn't be me."

Michael was quiet for a while, considering the powerful friendship he heard in Frankie's words. He knew he met Frankie only for a short time, but already, by some strange reason, Michael felt safe around Frankie. The first time he met him was the fourth reunion, which happened just recently. Oh, he had seen him before, already knew that he was his Protector, but not really met him in person. The first thing Michael noticed about Frankie was the protection radiating from him. It was strong. He immediately felt safe around him. It was a nice feeling, and Michael felt like that he can be a friend to him.

Michael's voice was quiet, almost shy. "Do you consider me as a friend?"

There was a merry laugh from Frankie and his eyes sparkled as he gazed back. "You are, of course! You have a strong, merciful soul. Reminds me of me. You value friendship as much as I do, though with different reasons."

Michael glanced down to Betamon, who was bouncing by his side. The fish's ruby eyes met his gaze, seeming to know what he was thinking. 'Not very different from what you think,' Michael mentally whispered to himself, thought of the experience he was forced to live through. He then said, "Frankie, what if you have to hurt a friend? Have to fight them?"

Frankie was suddenly quiet, almost worried as he gazed back. "Well . . ." He thought for a moment, appearing solemn. "Well, if it will help them, yes, I would have to."

Michael flinched almost noticeably. It wasn't the answer he was expecting.

"Why do you ask?" the Keeper asked. "Would you fight a friend if you have to?"

The Patron bit his lip before answering, " . . . No, but only with mercy, I will."

Frankie sounded puzzled and he slowed down in his tracks, watching the blonde carefully. "'With mercy?' Of course, you will show mercy. Is there another way?"

"I never want to fight," Michael honestly said, his ice blue eyes somewhat darkening.

"It's alright if you don't want -"

"No, that's what I mean," Michael cut him off. He stared at his Protector for a while, totally surprised at the twinge of jealousy of Frankie's self-confidence. Michael wished he could have guts enough to explain about his fear. "I mean . . . I had bad experiences that caused my fear of hurting friends. I hate to hurt. I hate to fight." His voice, which was rising with controlled fury, now cooled down, "I just don't want to fight."

The Keeper didn't say anything, now watching him silently. There was mixed worry and sympathy in his face, his hazel eyes full of honest care. Somehow, he knew how to respond, not saying the wrong words, and Michael again felt safe around him, feeling that he can trust him. Then Frankie softly spoke, " . . . Someday, you might have to."

Michael said nothing, lowering his gaze.

Frankie stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. Michael saw the reassuring grin. "Michael, you don't have to worry about this now." Frankie then gazed around, new apprehension in his face. "First, we need to find our friends, and then get out of here. I don't like this place."

Michael also gazed around, but found nothing threatening. "Why?"

"It doesn't feel right. It feels empty." Frankie frowned, nodding to the puzzled Michael and Betamon. "It does look real, yes, but it has the feeling of emptiness. No soul."

No soul? It was new to Michael. Does it mean the place has no life to it? It looked real to Michael. He moved around in his place, keenly, trying to find something that Frankie noticed about the lifelessness of the forest.

The blonde gasped as a sudden force was struck on his back. It wasn't strong, but just enough to startle his heart in rapid thumping. "Ow! Hey!" He whirled around in reflex, glaring up at where the force was coming from. He saw nothing but snow branches.

"What's the matter, Michael?" Betamon asked, seeing the perplexed frown on his child's face.

"Something hit me," Michael responded, looking down for something that might be the source of the strike. He then stared at a hailstone on the ground. A hailstone. A hailstone?

Frankie also stared at it. "It's odd . . ." He glanced upward. "There is no storm . . ."

Michael rubbed his back. "It hurts, anyway."

"Hey . . ." Betamon voiced, looking tense. "Is it me or is it getting much colder . . ."

"Yeah, I notice that," Frankie agreed.

The coldness again bit in his skin, and Michael rubbed his bare arms for warmth. It was strange; he could feel the coldness moving like winds, but there were no winds at all. The invisible coldness seemed to wrap around Michael, holding him in its icy arms. Michael was forced to keep his jaws locked shut from chattering. As Frankie cautiously scanned around, Michael suddenly felt something. A presence. A presence in the very existence of time. He can't feel where it was, but he can tell when it was, and it was present. At the very moment. Unmoving, but he felt it. He can sense movements in time, sensing the when, not where, and he just sensed that there was someone nearly. Now.

"Frankie," Michael hissed to him, "there is someone with us."

Frankie watched him with sharp bewilderment. "How can you tell?"

Michael opened his mouth, and then shut it, forgetting that he wasn't supposed to tell about his other power. "I . . . I feel him."

"Hmm . . ." The answer seemed to satisfy him, and he nodded. "You are right. There is someone here. Dangerous."

"What can we do?"

The Keeper took one watchful step back and murmured one word. "Leave."

As if the presence heard him and wasn't pleased, spikes of ice suddenly shot downward from above, like icicles thrown by an upset god. Michael gasped as he barely dodged a long icicle that stabbed a few inches away from his feet.

"RUN!" Frankie yelled. He even pushed him on his back for emphasis.

Michael quickly hoisted Betamon in his arms, knowing that the slow fish will not dodge icicles. Frankie easily dodged the icicles, using his sense of danger to know where and when the icicles come. If Michael weren't so lucky to have his other power, he would end up with spikes in his body by now. He summoned on his power, only enough not to have his aura appearing and not to make it noticeable. With his power, he can tell when the danger was coming and sensed it carefully, sidestepping or ducking whenever he felt the icicles aiming for him.

While the boys dodged, they ran as fast as they could, darting past bare trees. The icicles seemed to lessen in numbers, widely missing them, and Michael almost slowed down, his curiosity urging him to look back to find the attacker when -

His feet met ice. The ground instantly became a lake of blackish-grey ice. It was so smooth, so flat, that at the very moment when he stepped on it, Michael went into a wild slide, trying to keep balance. Frankie was surprised, as well, yelling out as he tumbled down. Michael crashed several feet away, hitting his head. He groaned, his hold loosing on Betamon, and he laid there, rubbing his head. In his vision, Frankie was struggling to stand up, his feet firm, and suddenly, by an instant, he sharply gazed up.

A blur crashed into him. The blur of white and orange was so fast that Michael couldn't see it coming. Frankie fell hard and laid there still, his face haggard with pain, unconscious.

"Frankie!" Michael yelled, staggering up to an unstable stand, trying to move toward his Protector. He didn't understand what happened next. In the moment, he saw nothing but the laying Frankie before him, and then the next moment, he saw Frankie standing just right in front.

"Uh-uh, you can't do that."

Michael froze at the voice. The voice was not of Frankie's, not playful, not friendly. Yet it was of his, but with a different tone, a different essence to it. It sounded dark, malicious. The blonde looked up to his face and exhaled in a breath through clenched teeth. Frankie was standing there, but it was not Frankie at all. The person looked exactly like Frankie in appearance and facade, but there was something . . . dark in the hazel eyes. There was dark pleasure in them. There was a sinister grin on the mouth. Michael remembered what Frankie told him about his adventures four years ago. The story that seemed to recall the haunted pain in Frankie's face. His other self. His dark self.

The Dark Frankie.

The dark Frankie looked mockingly ashamed as he shook his head to himself. "Oh, didn't I introduce myself? Hmm, how impolite of me." The voice held obvious gibe that it enjoyed to show. "I'm the Assassin of Nothing. The Dark Keeper, you know?" The Assassin placed a hand on his chest and bowed with mock grace. "Pleased to meet you, my boy."

"I'm not your boy," Michael snapped, fists clenched. Somehow, he could see himself in the Assassin, showing his cruelty and heartlessness he was haunted with some years ago.

The Assassin seemed to be pleased with the youngster's tension, but he didn't show the notice. He took a long gaze at him, as if was studying him.  "I know who you are.  You are the Keeper's little ward, the Patron, aren't you?"  His lips curled with scorn.  "It's the problem with the Keeper.  He has a soft heart for his friends and I'm sickened of it."  He hissed the word with disgust, even shuddered.  "I'm sickened of his compassion, his faith, his soul.  His soul is so full of life that I'm revolted of it."  He then narrowed his eyes in interest toward Michael, and then grinned.  "But, boy, you don't have much of a soul.  You have no compassion."

The words stung through his mental shield and woke up his other side. Michael's ice-blue eyes hardened into cold steel-grey, blazing with cold fire. His face steeled into an expression of wounded disdain. "How dare you say that about me. You know nothing about me," Michael growled. He knew what would happen. The Assassin will mock him, and Michael had to remind him that he wasn't anything like him. He was changed, finally changed.

The Assassin rolled his eyes in exasperation. "It's true." He muttered to himself, his eyes turning to see the unconscious Frankie. The cruel grin appeared, and he spoke, not looking back, "I ask you to stay back. I want to avenge my death on my sweet brother."

Before he could make a step forward, Michael warned, "Stay away from him." When the Assassin glared back, Michael resisted the urge to flinch, but continued, "What are you talking about, your revenge?"

The Assassin looked no longer as the sinister, scornful Frankie, but now as the real Assassin, calm and cold-blooded. He sounded upset as he answered, "He destroyed me. I'm part of him. I'm the 'bad' Frankie, the Frankie that he could've became if he has no soul. He destroyed me. He must know that I'm always part of him, no matter how often he kills me." His hazel eyes almost froze with colder-than-coldest ice. "I want my revenge."

Suddenly, the protection and friendship he has for his Protector burst out. "No! Don't hurt him!" Michael yelled almost pleadingly. He then stepped forward, in desperate hopes that the Assassin would stop for an instant and not destroy him in that moment.

Somehow, in the very moment, the Assassin took an annoyed sigh, turned around, and lazily gestured toward the blonde. In midair, an icicle was formed out of nothing, its tip aimed toward him. Then it moved forward, like an arrow strung from an invisible bow, hissing through the air. Michael paused, his mind a blank.

"Electric Shock!"

Betamon's attack leaped out from his red head fin and struck upon the icicle. It exploded, the pieces flying outward, falling on Michael's shirt harmlessly. Betamon glared over to the Assassin, his fangs bared. "No one touches my boy!" With a powerful bounce, he pounced after the Assassin. The Assassin sidestepped and backhanded a strike on Betamon. The fish cried out with pain and he crashed beside Frankie, harmed.

Michael rushed around the Assassin and stood in front of the vulnerable friends, his arms widespread as a shield. His face begged mercy as he said, "Please! Show mercy!"

The Assassin seemed surprised at the word, his face slowly scowling. " . . . What did you just say? Show mercy? Boy, don't you realize that I'm the Assassin? I show nothing. I feel nothing, feel nothing for you weaklings. I have no soul!" Then the sadistic grin appeared. "You know nothing about mercy."

Again, Michael's eyes blazed with cold fire, his arms lowered. "Don't you say I didn't know mercy. I know what is like to hurt someone without mercy. I learned it the hard way." He dared to scowl back, showing every bit of his fury. "Show us mercy."

The Assassin growled warningly. "How dare you order me." His right fist began to glow white, as bright as the sunlight upon snow and yet as dark as black ice.

Michael braced himself, prepared to use his power, surrendering to it. Instead . . . instead, he felt something new. It was like when he got his power. Something sparked inside his chest, filling him with warmth, stability, and power. He could feel it, its protection, its safeguard. Armor. It was bursting out, wanting to get out and do its duty. It was . . . a new power. One of the powers of the Children of the Armor. He was an Armor Child, no longer a Reality Child.

In the incredible slowness of the moment, he heard the Assassin shouting out, "Silence of Ice!" The words were slow, stretched in time.

His power erupted from within, filling him with power and strength and security, and Michael bellowed out, "Heart-Armor, Energize!"

His Crest of Mercy blazed out in the colors of ice blue. It become scorching, like a sizzling metal, burning its mark upon his chest, yet leaving no smoke or ugly blisters. Michael didn't notice the pain, his mind and soul full engulfed in his new power. An aura flared around him, taking in every inch of his presence, as dark as violet, as dark as twilight, as rays of pale blue, like the light of ice winking from within, shone outward, sharp and brief.

He felt something solid coming out from under his skin. They were much like ancient armor that medieval knights wore. The plates seemed to be formed under his skin and now were sliding out from hidden openings. It was like the plates were part of him, wriggling out from under his skin and resting over, finally wakened by his new power and ready to do their duty. They were colored dark violet with white outlines, like twilight and snow, perfectly covering his limbs, torso, hands, feet, and head, covering everything except for his face. His helmet was amazing; it was created to appear as a head of a grizzly bear, its metal fangs shading over his face. A face guard hid his lower face, allowing only his eyes to gaze out, the blazes of ice glaring at the frozen enemy before him.

He looked every inch as a violet-colored paladin, mighty and radiating nobility. He had a new name. A Heart-Name. Because he was delicate and durable in mind and heart, he was called as . . . Glass.

Still, in the slowness of the moment, as the beam of ice came from him, Glass smoothing held out an opened hand. At his command, a wide shield, like a knightly shield, unfolded from within his hand, spreading wide and wide until the violet shield with the white lines were larger than his body.

The ice crashed on the shield, but Glass didn't even flinch or stagger at the force. It was like he had the very strength of his soul protecting him. Nothing can break through his armor. The ice continued breaking, unable to break through the shield, scattered upon the ground. Glass removed the shield, the shield sucking back in his hand, and he stood there, glaring at the Assassin.

The Assassin was shocked, disbelieved at the sight. 'It can't be!"

Glass quietly clenched his left hand and summoned his weapon. His heart's weapon. The aura crept down his arm, the hand seeming to hold something unseen. The aura appeared to fill in the hold and it took in the shape of a large mace, resting easily in his ready hand. The aura now revealed a silver-colored mace, its rod deep grey, as long as his arm, and its head was dull ridges, raised from the top in horizontal rows, ending up with a round ball in the middle of the ridges. The handle was wrapped with black leather, perfect for tight gripping without slipping off. A deadly weapon to use if a wielder knows how to use, and Glass knew how.

The paladin's eyes narrowed and his voice spoke out from behind the mask, not even muffled, "I told you to show mercy." The mace screamed as Glass abruptly swung in the air toward the Assassin. It came in a silver blur, and the Assassin swerved from it, barely, his wide eyes darting at wherever the silver blur could be. Glass's gaze didn't waver, passion blazing. Midst, the Assassin cast out icicles, shields of ice, anything that he can summon, but with his strength, Glass easily smashed them down. When the ice struck on his body, the armor was unbreakable, protecting its wearer.

Glass moved smoothly, his body moving in perfect synchronization with the mace. While Michael had a grace to him, a grace that added to his charm, Glass had a new grace, a grace that added to his strength, a grace that radiated the fury burning in him. The Assassin acknowledged the grace, and he knew that he couldn't stop it. For the first time, fear appeared in his face. He tried to evade from the swings, but in the brief instant, he exposed his back, being vulnerable. Glass silently smashed his mace on his back.

The Assassin gave out a pained scream that stabbed in the air, and he collapsed, wincing. He was lucky; Glass had no desire to kill him, but his fury was enough to show such pain he wished to bestow upon the Assassin. The Assassin gasped with a struggling breath, rolling over to his back. He stared up to the incoming Glass, his hands gripping the mace, low and ready.

"Please . . ." The words barely came out from his tightly clenched teeth. "Show mercy . . ."

The Patron paused in his tracks, not confused, not hesitant, but willing. He cocked his head, the blue eyes observing him fixedly. "What do you ask of me?"

The Assassin hesitated, trying to take another breath, despite the surging pain. "Mercy."

"You want me to show mercy to you? When you showed nothing to me?" There was no scorn in the voice, only a question.

The Assassin slowly nodded. The corners of his lips slightly twitched into a deceitful smile.

Somehow, Glass didn't notice it. He lowered his mace and said, "Then leave. Bother us no more." He turned aside, turning his back to him, striding toward his Protector.

The Assassin crouched up, his gaze suddenly hateful. In his hand, a long ice spear formed, almost hissed in the air. "Fool," he whispered, and then he heaved the spear toward Glass.

Instantly, the paladin whirled around and held up a hand, using his other power. The spear froze, suspended in midair, its point almost a few inches away from his chest. Time was frozen in place. His body unmoving, Glass moved his gaze to meet the horrified gaze of the Assassin. "You didn't show us mercy," he calmly said. In a quick motion, he grabbed on the spear, time unfrozen, and he thrust the spear through the Assassin. The Assassin inhaled a hiss, his face now disbelieved. Slowly, his body dissolved, like a body of Digimon, white pixels appearing, floating, and then vanishing into nothing.

In the silence, Glass heard his Protector groaning from behind, but he didn't go to help. Instead, he stood in place, his eyes staring at the place where the former Assassin stood. Something was there, the remains of the dark Digidestined.  A doll, just the right size to lay on his palm, was there, looking every inch like the Keeper with his white coat and orange pants. Its grin was fixed, its beady eyes staring back. Glass crouched down, curling his fingers around the doll. It felt warm, soft. Standing up, he observed the doll. He noticed that there was something different about it. The doll had a hole in his stomach. The same place where Glass speared the Assassin.

Glass was suddenly anxious, not sure why he felt that way. He then gazed back to where Frankie was. The older boy was awake, looking haggard, but otherwise all right. He stood up, picking up the slightly hurt Betamon. Frankie seemed to try to figure out what just happened and was gazing at Glass, almost amazed at the sight.

Mentally, the paladin called away his power, and the armor vanished, creeping back under his skin, the helm, greaves, breastplates, every piece gone. His weapon was engulfed by his aura, disappeared, if as the weapon wasn't real and only was part of his aura. As he gazed downward, he could see that he was no longer clad in his 'American' clothing. His power must have given his new garments that reflected his strength and knight-like grace. He wore a tabard, much like Taichi's, this time it was in a different coloring and size. The tabard was cut short to his knees and was dyed dark twilight, along with white hem. His pants were loose and comfortable, also dark purple with white lining down the sides, along with black boots and a white shirt underneath. The dark clothing was striking and almost elegant against his blonde curly hair and pale blue eyes. Michael wasn't surprised at his clothing; somewhere in his mind, it was meant to be. It was part of his power, part of his appearance.

He gazed upward, again feeling anxious, as Frankie strode forward, a serious expression on his face. "Frankie, I -"

Frankie smiled, not the playful one, but the understanding one. "It's okay," he assured him. "You showed mercy after all."

He gently gave Betamon to Michael, and the younger boy took him, holding him protectively. He was glad to have the body of the fish in his arms, helping him feel safe. Frankie glanced over to the spot where his dark self was and grimaced. " . . . So . . . That was really the Assassin you fought. I thought I'd never see him again."

Michael also glanced back, then to him, his face awaiting an answer. Frankie quietly nodded. "When we were trapped here, yes. On my first adventure, I faced the evil Frankie, already. Even though that the other kids had been through much more than I did, I was changed the same." His voice softened. "Perhaps, it was because of him."

"So you did hear us," Michael said.

"Most of it."

"Why didn't you help me?"

 Frankie gazed calmly at him, seeming to watch him with thoughtfulness. "I want to see if you can handle it. I could've helped, yes, but I want to see . . . if you can. See if you can fight with mercy."

The blonde watched back in silence, and then asked softly, "Did I pass it?"

Frankie flashed his playful grin, but this time, there was pride in it. "You don't need to prove it. I'm glad you did."

Michael felt like he was the younger brother whose older brother found pride for being his brother, and he smiled back with shy pleasure. He then recalled of the doll and held it up for Frankie to see it. "I found it after I killed him," he said as Frankie took the doll in his hands.

Frankie turned the doll, scanning it, great puzzlement in his face. "I never see this before . . ." Vague realization dawned in his eyes. "Maybe . . . "

"Maybe what?" Michael questioned.

Frankie bit on his lips and shook his head. "I don't know."

Michael lightly frowned, not at Frankie's puzzlement, but at the feeling nagging in his mind. It wasn't exactly a feeling, but a sensation that there was something wrong. He then realized that it was part of his new power. The sensation was softly pulsating, as if was tapping him on the shoulder and telling him that the forest was not real. Not real . . . Michael silently scrutinized his surroundings. Sure, enough, the forest was not real. He didn't know how he could tell, but he just knew.  There was fuzziness to the scene, the very presence of the forest. Like . . . like he was looking at the scene with foggy eyeglasses. There was no clearness to it. Somehow, it reminded him of something familiar. Like a memory, like when he remembered of a memory, it appeared very slightly fuzzy in his mind's eye.

A memory . . .

"Frankie?" Michael whispered. He gazed back and noticed that Frankie was watching, waiting patiently. He already noticed the intense expression on his face and was silent, waiting for him to finish. Michael cleared his throat and said, "I think I know where we are. I believe it's one of your memories that we are in."

"My memory?" Frankie questioned. "How would you know?"

"Don't you see it? The fuzziness? The sensation that the forest isn't real at all, despite that it looks real?"

"I feel the same, but I don't see what you see."

"Maybe since it is your memory, you can see it clearly and I don't."

Frankie was shaking his head. "If it's my memory, then how did the Assassin get here? I didn't face him in here."

"I don't know how," Michael calmly said. "I just know that it is your memory and we are trapped in it."

Frankie looked like he wanted to disbelieve it, but from his experiences, he knew that it was not impossible. The Keeper sighed, glancing down to the doll resting in his hand. "The memory that I faced the Assassin . . ." He then shook his head in slight bewilderment. "Every day, my life gets stranger and stranger . . ." His fingers curled around the doll, and he looked up, attentiveness in h is eyes. "I suppose . . . you know a way out?"

Michael simply nodded. "I believe so." In such a way that it knew what he was asking for, the Crest of Mercy hanging from his neck began to glow with its ice-blue color. Then a faint glow appeared on the air. Not in the air, but on the air. It seemed to order the air to 'open', and soon, a hole was formed, spread in a circular shape, growing in size. As it grew, the group saw completely new scenery from behind the hole. It was like the place was the opposite of the forest. While the forest was white with little of the other colors, the beach, so as it appeared, was black, grey, white, and all the shades in between. It was a simple sight; a grey-sanded beach, black waters gently crashing among the rocks, and two shelves rising steeply, on which stood two lighthouses. One shone black light and other shone white light.

Even that Michael was surprised and a little uneasy at the dark demeanor, he felt

"Michael, must we go there?" Betamon murmured with uneasiness, his ruby eyes full of dislike at the sight. "It's . . . strange."

Michael assured, "We will be safe there. I just know."

Frankie smiled at him. "Michael, thank you."

The Patron shook his head with sincerity, looking back. "No, thank you. If it wasn't for you, I would not have any guts to fight."

The Keeper gave him a thumb-up and a wink. "Pleased to be of aid, buddy."

An exchange of grins, and the group disappeared into the beach scene, the snow forest dissolving away.

To be continued!