Guardian Algorithm

by Fizzy 13

1st in my NS Series: Set 5 years after D-Reaper, Takato is recruited by a covert government organization known only as NS-8 and on the first day, wonders why Rika works there, when she allegedly died in an accident 5 years ago. Chapter 8 Uploaded!

6. CHAPTER 6

AN: Ah, finally, newbi and I have done away with 'In the End'. Thank God. Now I can finish with Guardian Algorithm. Sorry if I left you hanging there with that extremely rushed fifth chapter. You guys are probably wondering what happened to Rika back there at the airport, eh? Well, you'll find out now. By the way, I thought about it, and now I think I have the right idea in mind. While I write Guardian Algorithm, I'm going to fill you guys in little by little on the events of Pandora's Fox. Then, maybe I'll be quieted down for once. Further more, I'm sorry about screwing up with Henry's father's name… must've misheard it… that has been corrected now, though… I hope. Ah, whatever! Just read my replies to you guys.

Skittles the Sugar Fairy: I'm sorry… were you currently working on Missing Link? Aw, hell. My bad for such a way-off-the-target guess. Tell me, what did you mean by your betting that 'any agent would wonder about Guilmon'? Anyway, hope you see this tiny installment, right? 'Cause if you don't, well, I won't be able to have fun anymore . evil laugh

Procrastinatorman: There's still a lot of factors in my writing that convince me NOT to get into professional writing, including the fact that I can't even surpass my idol from the Vandread section: Ender. You'll know what I mean when you read his fic entitled: Marooned.

Himitsu the Hunter: Why the bloody hell you didn't see this sooner? Hmm… well, that's probably because the chances of finding something like this in something as large as the Digimon section (28000 entries) is like looking for a needle in a foot-deep haystack the size of Texas… LITERALLY. Btw… sorry I wasn't able to read your serial yet… things are getting pretty busy at school and I can barely touch a computer anymore. Especially since I'm grounded for weekdays.

Tatsu-no-Houou: My, my, my… aren't we the thinker here. I'll tell you one thing, though and it's that Takato will get Guilmon back very soon…

Newbi: Having two Gallantmon fighting side-by-side does sound interesting, but let's just say that I need a WarGreymon for the plot to work out. As for the chicken, it's true. I saw it on Ripley's some time ago. Now for Mozart's laugh, I both saw it on VCD, and read about it in some historical records. As for the separation… hmm… Well, I saw on several sites that the purpose of Author Created Characters is to enhance character development of the series characters. I might as well get Takato to know Yuri, right? As for that 'idea', don't worry about Kazu. I assure you that both he and Kenta will be safe from Ryo's… um, homicidal tendencies? So safe, in fact, that they would be making an appearance later in the series… during the timeline of Pandora's Fox, which, as you can see, appears somewhat interesting… what, with the so-called 'Black' Renamon. At least I think so… By the way, thank you so much for finishing In the End. You have no idea how much that means to me. I can finally get my mind of one thing and back into another. Oh, and about that quote you posted there, I think it pretty much does suit the mood I planned to put Rika in… I'm starting to think that you're one kick-ass mind reader. Tell me then… what am I thinking right now as I type this question?

Disclaimer: My name is Fizzy 13, and I think you all know what I mean to say when I put something here in this space, don't you think? I'm currently trying to get through the phase in my life where I spit out some random scene from one of my dreams (namely seeing Kari taking a bath in a tub of ice-cold lemonade, don't ask me why) at the wrong person and debate with him (for about six weeks) about how I'm not obsessed with her. As if that wasn't enough, that person FORCES me to create a Kari clone for this story. Perhaps he's got an obsession with her? What do you think? I am also going through that phase in my life where whenever I see Zoë Orimoto, I imagine seeing her crying, chained to a dungeon wall wearing nothing but whip-lash cuts (fresh or otherwise) all over her body besides tattered versions of her clothes (I know, I'm one sick puppy). In any case, to relieve myself of the evil within (that's right, I've got pure evil inside of me), I decided to give her a special guest appearance somewhere in this fic (although I doubt the role to be that important) in some coming soon chapter. I was thinking maybe making her a European Agency Operative who gets captured and interrogated by the CIA (I mean she is Italian, isn't she?)? In any case, I suppose I should give the credit for this evil inside me to my favorite primetime super villain of all: Arvin Sloane (played by Ron Rifkin). Trust me, he's PURE, UNPROCESSED EVIL IN ITS FINEST FORM. And I LIKE THAT. By the way… does anybody here know the site of any Arvin Sloane fan club? Just mail me the address, will you? I wanna join one as soon as possible! Oh, and I don't own the damned original Digimon characters who appear in this fic, alright? That should be the sixth time for the record here.

Places to Go, Things to See, and People to Meet

Main Lobby, Tokyo International Airport

Tuesday, 2147 hours, Local Time…

          The area of the large commercial edifice that was usually the most crowded now lay in silence. Amidst the empty waiting chairs and information booth stood five men, clad in the standard strike team uniform of black helmets, black body armor with their respective agency's initials on the back, black combat suits, black combat boots, black… everything. Standing in the middle of the small crowd was a middle-aged operative, who had just tapped on his commlink. "Tanaka here, Main Lobby is secured. Apparently, the jamming signals evaporated the moment we broke in… It was as though they knew when we would come."

          "I see…" came the voice on the other line, "Anything on Nonaka's team?"

          "Nothing, sir," The strike team leader shook his head, "Looks like their transmitters are dead… Whoever is responsible knew exactly what to do. Perhaps the Agency does have a mole inside NS-8 – what do you think, sir?"

          "That is becoming quite a possibility, alright." Akira Sakamori shook his head. He had quite a few suspects at the moment, including people who ranged from men and/or women in his personal detail, to the lowly (if they could be considered lowly) desk-trained agents who worked on the eight different levels of NS-8's primary. More specifically, the few outstanding citizens included: Aya Sazaki, because of her technical knowledge that seemed to fit just about every situation a little too perfectly for her own good, Taberuni Pan, because of the implications that Sakamori's failure to accommodate Network Security's difficult requirements would result in his benefit, and maybe even Hiroshi Yamamoto. Why? It was a little something in him called 'unquestioned' loyalty that was beginning to become questionable to the point that he had become the ever-present 'last guy on the suspect list' of any offense done within the said NS Cell's jurisdiction. What had he done to achieve such suspicion? It appeared as though every mission he had gone through as of late somehow got screwed up as though he had, one way or another, engineered it to. "Virgin?"

          "Yes sir?" The digital sentience responded in a somewhat bored disposition. She had spent most of the 'alert' period scanning Network Security's vast Digital territory for the nth time, searching for – and not finding any – possible attempts at infiltrating their systems, save for some accidental visits to NS-9's network by unsuspecting surfers. It wasn't exactly one of her hobbies, but it was one of the routine tasks she was required – or programmed – (she didn't know which was more accurate) to perform nonetheless. The African NS Cells were currently their most vulnerable points, which was why she was required to increase security measures in that sector.

She couldn't blame it on anybody except mankind himself, for turning the said continent into the biggest collective of third-world countries on the planet, but what could she do? Mankind was, after all, nothing more than a monkey… a supposedly smart monkey, who was still, up to this point in time, unable to control himself and his environment properly to the point that they could coexist without one trying to wipe out the other. What were good examples of the ongoing war between humanity and nature?

Well, there was obviously man's first strike: Pollution and exploitation, the former of which caused nature to retaliate by engaging her greatest anti-mankind project of all, something Virgin called Operation: Molten Ice Caps. That was supposedly going to be her final strike, so while she was working on that, she unleashed several of her forces including natural disasters such as typhoons, twisters, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, flash floods, and the like. Apparently, though, it didn't look like either side was gaining the upper hand, if such a thing existed in this conflict. It appeared as though the only thing that was going to settle this once and for all was the deployment and proper use of Operation: Molten Ice Caps.

          "I want you to do a citywide scan for any signs of Nonaka and her partner – Digital, Thermal, Biological, every kind of filter that you possibly have. I can't let anything happen to her on my watch." Outside, he seemed calm enough, but his blood pressure, pulse rate, and heart beat, along with other signs, which Virgin was monitoring, said that hidden beneath the mask of emotionless professionalism was a terrified man, for what reasons exactly even her 10000 Terahertz Calculative Complex could not determine. It was quite hard for a sentience that had the emotional maturity of a ten-year-old to understand such things as the paternal worry that Sakamori had for a person who for some strange reason, closely resembled his beloved – and missing – daughter.

          "I'm on it…" there was a slight pause in the Virtual Digital Nexus' response, "Are you having some kind of fever, sir? Your vital signs are way off the normal chart."

          "No, Virgin, I'm fine." The NS-8 Director assured, "It's a human thing – something you would be incapable of understanding at this stage of your development."

          "My medical knowledge tells me that you are stressed for some reason, sir, and although I can understand that there is a problem in your system, I am unable to determine its source." She had quite a line of thought, as well as the stock knowledge to boot. It was at this point that Sakamori conceived the fact that it was her machine side talking. "Perhaps you, since you are you, a human, used to these kinds of experiences, can teach me how to understand these human lines of understanding."

          "You will learn in due time, Virgin… in due time. Tanaka!" Sakamori returned his attention to the team at the airport, "There's nothing more you can do there. I want you to do a citywide sweep for Nonaka's team. Don't stop until you find them… Find Rika at least. We need to know exactly what just conspired over there and why." He took a sip of his brewed coffee. The NS-8 Director had other things to worry about. Tomorrow was marketing day and since he lived alone, having nobody to do his groceries for him, had to go to the local supermarket and shop by himself. Bringing bodyguards along would only attract attention, and that wouldn't be good. 'The best security is no security', he'd heard a wise CIA Director once say. Since an important figure such as him was supposed to avoid problems such as attracting attention, what better way to keep a low profile than make himself look like some ordinary guy?

          "Yes sir." Tanaka had been with Field Ops Section for fifteen years, leading the strikes that ended up as NS-8's most successful ones ever since he first donned the combat armor that the strike teams used. He was your average seasoned veteran with unquestionable loyalty to the organization whatsoever. "Alright, team, let's move out!"

The NS-8 commandos spread out and proceeded outside the building, eventually making their way into their black strike team van and driving off. If they were going to do a citywide search with the utmost speed and efficiency, they were going to need more manpower than what they had now. This exact train of thought was running at about 160kph through Tanaka's head as he opened his link once again, "Sir, if we're going to search the city without wasting time and efficiency, I suggest you have Field Ops Section send us some backup… like another two teams per district." Tokyo was a vast, towering metropolis that had several districts including Shinjuku, Gion, along with a host of others. It would take days for a single van to search the whole city for two people. A highly clichéd and yet, by far, most effective idiom for this would be a statement that sounded like: They were looking for a needle in a haystack.

          "I understand your situation, Tanaka," the NS-8 Director replied, his voice steadfast and stalwart, "I've already anticipated the possibility of them losing contact while being pursued, and have ordered several other teams to remain on standby in several districts including your area." Sakamori paused, "I realize that you've just given me confirmation of what I feared the most." He was of course, referring to the loss of communication between them. If there was one thing that NS-8 – or any NS Cell for the matter – could not do without, it was communication. He tapped on a touch screen button on his personal terminal's monitor labeled 'GO SIGNAL'. "You can rendezvous with the other team in your area if you want. Sakamori out."

          "Sir," Virgin piped in as soon as he cut the commlink transmission, "Teams Bravo through Romeo have reported verification of you signal. They're on the move as we speak." She didn't mind speaking in terms of being frank, but sometimes, she just wanted to rant around about all the things she had been learning from her tours of the internet so far. Her current obsession was philately, the art, business, and perhaps even culture, of collecting stamps. So many kinds of stamps existed that no human alive, except maybe a philatelist (a man who's profession is stamp collection) could possibly comprehend. That was exactly what she wanted to inform her beloved Director about, and although that was the case, she didn't want last night's argument all over again. She could tell that that was highly feasible, since Sakamori was under much more stress than he was 20 hours ago. History repeats itself, she heard one of her sub-consciousnesses whisper thoughtfully.

          "Thank you, Virgin." Sakamori sounded a lot more tired than usual. His gray eyes showed a loss of focus on the screen to the point that his sight began to blur; that aside the fact that he was already experiencing double vision. What's more, he noticed that his head had been drooping with his eyes half closed for the past three seconds or so. He quickly raised it back to level with his Personal Terminal's monitor. Virgin had noted this, and concluded that he must be lacking sleep.

          "Sir, why don't you go home early and get some sleep?" the immaterial girl said with what could only be defined as genuine concern for the officer. "It's been a rough day for you. With only six hours of sleep, I'm surprised you're still able to come here every morning at 10AM. I assure you that Pan can handle this situation."

          "I suppose that that would be the case," the NS-8 Director surmised. He was, simply put, still human after all, and needed to recover from the past nights he had gone through with little sleep, although under the current circumstances, he doubted that to be possible. Not without knowing whether or not Nonaka is safe… he thought with a slight yawn.  "Listen, I'll be at home if you need me. Right now, though," Sakamori punched the intercom, "I think I should get Pan over here as soon as possible."

          The voice on the other end of the line was gruff, somewhat heavy. One could imagine this voice to belong to a heavy-set man in his late-thirties, probably large and barrel-chested, or perhaps large in some other way, like on the abdominal side. "This is Pan. What can I do for you, sir?"

          "I need you to fill in for me, Taberuni." Sakamori's voice was beginning to sound drowsy, and he didn't know if he was even going to make it home – which was about six blocks from Nikamura Crediting – without causing some large-scale sleep-depravation-induced traffic accident. "It looks like my age is starting to catch up with me…" Give or take, he was still young, four years short of qualifying for senior citizenship. Compared to Pan, who was still in his late-thirties, however, he was definitely starting to get old. At least he managed to make the most of his youth, starting out early in the Japanese Intelligence Section, being recruited into NS-8, and later, personally selected by Satoshi Nikamura to replace him when the latter's age got ahead of him.

          "Of course, Akira!" The bread-eating Deputy Director replied with utmost eagerness. He was the most indulgent – in terms of work, that is – man that Sakamori had ever seen, perhaps a little too eager. If Pan were the hypothetical Agency mole inside NS-8, this would be his biggest opportunity to screw up the entire operation. With over a dozen strike teams running amok in the city, he could easily have them confuse each other as hostiles and wipe the whole search party out, effectively rendering Nonaka and Shinigami as MIA. Of course, one could never be too careful, what with Virgin seeing and recording everything that ensued inside the building – inside every NS Cell in the world, to be more precise. "I'll be there in five minutes." At this confirmation of request by superior, the link was terminated.

          The NS-8 Director yawned again, picking up a 'Quick-Vit' pill and drowning it down his throat with what remained of his coffee. That would give him enough energy to move about for at least another hour. Those precious 60 minutes he would maximize perfectly. He already had a workable schedule in mind: Wait for Pan, five minutes, get out of the office, ten minutes, drive home, fifteen to twenty minutes (depending on the traffic), have a very light dinner, ten minutes, take a shower and make ready for bed, fifteen minutes. Maximized perfectly. One detail he noted in particular, though: even if he managed to get some sleep, he doubted that it would be peaceful. His main concern now was his little girl, – his new little girl, rather – his 'li'l Rika', the images of whom being tortured or perhaps even killed would pollute his view of the astral plain for the rest of the night.

Beijing International Airport

Tuesday, 2045 hours, Local Time… (AN: Beijing is two hours behind Tokyo, so a two-hour trip [that's the average time via 747, I think] going in that direction would be just like leaving Tokyo and arriving in Beijing five minutes later)

"Well, this is goodbye, I guess." Takato Matsuki scratched the back of his head as he eyed his best friend for perhaps, the last time in his life. Although, that probably wasn't the case, since there was this gut feeling he had that they would be seeing each other again, 'And quite soon, too', his gut added at that thought. "Hope you meet some new friends where you're going to live." An approaching airplane roared overhead.

          "You and me both," the vest-clad Tamer answered with a laugh. Moments like this brought smiles to his usually deep, thoughtful facial features. Henry Wong slung his large backpack over his shoulder, effectively adding another twenty pounds to his burden. Somehow, he just knew that everything was going to be all right despite the fact that he knew nothing more about China than what Mister Toroyama's lectures stated. After all, his grandparents were the ones who moved to Hong Kong (and eventually to Japan) because of deportation, not him. Exile was too heavy a word to describe it with. As far as he was told, though his grandparents were simply living their lives out, when the 'People's Army' (perhaps because they had a reserve of over 200 million troops?) suddenly busted in and told them they were being evicted. Talk about frankness.

          A pained cry of agony interrupted his musings, "It's… too… TIGHT…" this not-so-little complaint was being uttered by Terriermon who was once again being plagued by Suzie's by this time more powerful arms in what appeared to be a bear hug, or perhaps the rabbit's own death wish. Either assumption would properly suffice, however, since if one looked close enough, he could probably see that the cream and green Digimon looked kind of happy with what had been given of him by the three mythical old women who used the same eye – the Fates.

Suzie might have retained some of her childish habits, but she truly was growing up into what could only be described as a charming young lady. Unexpected, hell, perhaps even unacceptable at times, to her own family was the fact that she had become the queen of the classroom, not only in terms of grades, but also in terms of attitude, charisma and… how could one describe it? Beauty? Cuteness, maybe, but beauty? Unthinkable.

          "Look at it this way," Henry continued the conversation after much consideration of which he should prioritize first; his best friend who was going a few thousand miles west of his current location, or his partner who was about to die of asphyxiation. It wasn't like he wasn't used to it, though. It took about a week or so to get used to his little sister treating Terriermon like before, but he got over it. The same thing occurred frequently about half a decade ago, anyway, so where was the adjustment problem? "I can call you on your mobile once you get off at Moscow and cheer you on for the big competition."

The reassurance was so sincere that for a moment Takato felt like telling his friend the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Unfortunately, he had orders. He knew that the information would somehow find its way into Henry's possession though, and that he'd probably never be forgiven, but what choice did he have? Was their friendship going to end up like what happened to that of Sydney Bristow and Marcus Dixon for their period at SD-6? A big fat lie? The NS-8 operative could only do one thing. He took his friend into a tight embrace, wishing that he'd never let go… wishing the moment would never stop… wishing that the annoying tapping on his back would cease…

"Flight H13MC now departing for Moscow at Gate 16," the Pager announced.

          That was when the world came back to him, "Let's go, Matsuki. We still have a plane to catch." The voice belonged to Hiroshi Yamamoto, who, by this time had already acquired their tickets to Moscow. Apparently, he wasn't the kind of person to wait for these friendly affairs to finish on their own. What could one say? Yamamoto never had any friends in his entire life. He'd always been alone. He had no siblings to take care of or to be taken care of. His parents were always abroad on business trips, leaving him effectively unaided to fend for himself. When they did come home, the only thing said of him was, "Don't worry, Hiro. I promise I'll be at your soccer game this week," or, "I promise I'll watch your varsity tryouts before I leave for Los Angeles tomorrow afternoon, Hiro," or maybe even, "I promise I'll meet your friend Kazuko, Hiro. I'm sure she's a very sweet girl," none of which were ever realized in known history.

          His team lost the game that day, what with him, the star player, suffering a leg injury because his attention was focused on the bleachers outside the field. He failed the tryouts for the soccer varsity three years in a row, succeeding in the fourth only because Kazuko was there. Kazuko broke up with him because he allegedly puked in her favorite hat. That incident was followed by his alleged stuffing her locker with toads, and further augmented by his supposed cheating on her by going out with Madoka. Even that was nothing but a rumor. The only fact in all of that hooey was that he did puke in Kazuko's hat, but just because the cafeteria lady, who had a seething grudge against him, specifically prepared the poor boy some recycled food that she managed to recover from last week's biodegradable materials bin i.e. compost pit. Who wouldn't puke at that?

She died immediately afterward, however, from a major heart attack caused by the excitement that ensued from seeing him keel over vomit in his girlfriend's followed hat followed by a powerful slap to the right cheek and some random swearing and insults. Rumor had it that the cafeteria lady still haunted him in his dreams up to date, the sound of her cackling prompting the NS-8 officer to burst out from beneath the sheets in the middle of the night, and scramble six feet to his closet in order to get his gun before realizing that it was all in his head.

          Takato took one last look at his friend and silently whispered his farewell as he turned to the beckoning NS-8 officer. The two went ahead in the direction of their flight to Russia. Henry didn't worry at all about how the day was going to turn out. The sky, although covered from time to time by an airplane passing overhead, was clear, the full moon and stars shining brightly, barely a cloud in sight. That was a sign that the weather would be fine for the rest of the night along with the next day. "Henry!" his father's voice called. The Chinese Tamer turned to see a certain Janyu Wong having a conversation with an aging man in a suit that practically had the words 'Government Guy' written all over it in capitalized format along with the bold setting.

          Janyu turned to his son and spoke, "Henry, I'd like you to meet somebody." He gestured to the man standing beside him, his hairline receded significantly, as well as white from lack of melanin pigments. "He's offered me a job at Lotus Technologies Inc. I'm sure you've heard of it. It's one of the leading computer development corporations today! Can you imagine that?"

          "My name is Jen Lee Xing," the man offered his hand, which was apparently wrinkled with age, to the puzzled boy. "I'm the President of Lotus Tech." Henry reluctantly shook Xing's hand, the latter of which was smiling rather darkly, as though he had some secret agenda besides giving an immigrant a job. First of all, how did he know about this flight? Henry understood how he could've known who Janyu Wong was, after all, the Wild Bunch was globally known for their experiments in artificial life. Secondly, why would he hire a man like his father on the spot?

          Images of his father working with other scientists in a top secret laboratory somewhere in the Himalayas on the completion of some kind of diabolical super weapon were the first things to run through the boy's mind. Funny enough, those images were similar to the ones he saw in a spy movie the night before they packed the TV. Perhaps he was merely being paranoid again? "I've heard much of your father and his… group. He could bring great benefits to this country's computer technology along with our participation with the Global Internet Community. In any case, you shouldn't worry about the pay. I assure you that he'll bring home enough to give your family an excellent life."

          "Right…" Henry became even more suspicious about this man, "What exactly are you assigning him to do?"

          "Programming Division, of course," the President answered with utmost pride, "We're working on a website that teaches people about every single detail of Chinese culture. We need your father to work out some of the bugs that our best men can't get rid of."

          Typical answer… Henry thought, Just the kind that any evil leader of a secret organization bent on world domination would give. Maybe he was becoming paranoid. Maybe it was those twelve dozen episodes of 'Conspiracy Theory' that he'd seen throughout his life. Maybe both factors were responsible for his way of thinking. In any case, he was sure to be keeping his guard up for the rest of his stay in this country.

          "Perhaps you could visit our headquarters some time?" Xing offered. His smile had become warmer at that point, no longer showing any sign of 'conspiracy possibility' as Henry called it. "By the way, Henry, I've heard about your experiences with Digital Phenomena such as Digital Monsters. They were quite frequent back there in Japan. Perhaps it was because those people had advanced their Internet participation so much… Imagine… dozens of data-born monstrosities ran amok in your beloved hometown. It must've taken you all of your guts to get up on your heels and fight back. In any case, I'd like to have an interview with you if ever you do visit us. Your life must be a very interesting one, especially since you have quite a friend over there…"

          The man eyed Terriermon, who, by this time was sitting on Suzie's shoulder, returning the stare with a somewhat perplexed quality plastered on his face. His eyes then moved on down to Henry's pants, more specifically, the white and green electronic device that was clipped to his belt. "You'd better be careful with that toy of yours," Xing admonished somewhat darkly, "There are many swindlers here in Beijing who'd sell any kind of object they've stolen from anybody just to make a few bucks." It sent chills scampering up the blue-haired boy's spine.

          Henry clutched the arc with reflex to what the Lotus Tech Chairman said. His grip, triggered by conversational tension, tightened to the point that his knuckles whitened from blood depravation. "Thanks… I'll remember that," he replied, his composure shaky. Xing merely nodded, confirming that he heard what was said, and turned back to Janyu, who had gone to the concession stand to get some chips. He was definitely going to keep his guard up whenever he was around that man. He just didn't like the looks he gave him, his arc, or his partner. The Chinese Tamer walked over to his sister and plucked the nervous green rabbit off her shoulder, placing him on his own. "I think we should go for a little walk, Terriermon."

          "I'm with you on this one, Henry." He turned to Suzie and spoke, "Tell your dad that we'll be at the Lobby getting a taxi." The ten-year-old smiled childishly and nodded in approval as the partners walked out of sight. "That guy gives me the creeps, you know…"

          "I know, Terriermon… I know."

Digimateocon Mine, South Sector, Bottom Level of Digital World

Wednesday, 0234 hours, Shinjuku-Tokyo Time…

          Dig, dig, dig, and dig… the only thing ever done in the dark tunnels of this mine by any Digimon. Why all the digging? These caverns were filled with the ore –the raw form, if you will – of Digimateocon, the strongest material known to the Digital World. Who was in charge and why was he engaged in such an operation? According to the knowledge of the Four Sovereign Digimon, the one currently in control of this firm was a Digimon whose name was derived from what the workers here did… dig. Thus, it could be concluded, from simple grammatical equation of the word dig and the suffix present in every digimon's name, –mon, that this certain foreman was named Digmon. Why had the attention of the almighty author suddenly shifted from the bustling airports of the real world to this solitary place, you ask? The answer is simple. This place was part, somehow, of the occurring story.

          Dig… that was the exact word on a certain red dinosaur's mind as he clawed through digital bedrock in search of the 'shiny metal thingies', as he put it, in order to get some more bread from the nice big Digimon who ran the place. Guilmon was content with what he had been given of as a job. After all, what kind of idiot would deny the chance to be able to engage in one of his favorite pastimes and get paid three loaves of bread an hour while he was at it? It had been that way for the past five years.

          After being zapped back to In-training level and getting sucked into that Digi-Gate, Guilmon ended up in front of the opening to the 'big hole', as he put it, and was taken in kindly by Digmon. A couple of days worth of bread later, he digivolved back to Rookie level and made an agreement with Digmon to dig for ore in exchange for three loaves of the Digital World's equivalent of bread every hour. Takato and company had been on the back of his mind ever since. Being a 'master strategist', he figured that once the place ran out of 'shiny metal thingies', Digmon would finally let him go and find 'Takatomon'. Of course, there was a little problem with his plan… the tunnel didn't seem to run out of them. The pastry prize that awaited him every hour, however, was more than enough to overwhelm his desire to see his partner with the destructive force of a nuclear blast and then some.

          It was pitch black outside at this time, but that was no problem, since torches lighted the tunnels 24/7. Apparently, the simple-minded digimon had discovered another one of his 'shiny metal thingies' and was working on extracting the rather large irregularly shaped metal from the bedrock by thrusting his claws just behind it, putting both his hind legs onto the wall in front of him, and pushing backwards with all his might. That didn't end too well, since his claws, oily from the brand of bread he ate, slipped from behind the ore resulting in his flying backwards into the opposite side of the tunnel, or, as he would put it, 'did a horizontal jump.'

          He stood up rather groggily, not noticing the other digimon workers in the immediate vicinity staring at him, since the only thing he saw at the time was the ring of stars orbiting his head. "One, two, three," he counted the pretty lights that spun around and around, before keeling over into unconsciousness. Veemon, the closest that the downed worker had to a friend went to aid him.

          "Hey, Guilmon! You alright, buddy?" the blue creature shook his workmate gently, the lizard rousing with a pained moan. Apparently, Guilmon had hit himself on the head. Well, who wouldn't hit his head if he 'horizontally jumped' into the wall opposite of the one he was jumping off? Veemon seemed agitated at this problem, and decided to take his downed friend to the boss, when a gunshot disturbed his thinking. He helped the red dinosaur sit up before turning to see the root of the new problem.

          Apparently, the shot had originated from a Desert Eagle in the hands of a man dressed sharply in a black business suit, tie showing, shoes shined to the point of blinding quality, white earpiece in his right ear, but most importantly, black sunglasses plastered onto his face. "I would like to see the Digital Monster in charge of this facility." He said, not a hint of emotion showing on his face, nor heard in his voice, "I have an important matter to bring to his attention."

          Digmon, who seemed to be the fastest to move on reflex stepped up from behind the agent, confronting him directly, "I'm in charge of this firm, human. What's the meaning of this?" He tried his best to sound intimidating, and perhaps scare the mysterious man in black away. Unfortunately, it appeared as though the business suit man was not scared at all. If he was, in any manner, though, it didn't show on his face.

          The black suited man merely cocked his left eyebrow upward, in gesture of asking a question. "Tell me… do you have any subjects of Species 158463-GM under your wing?"

          Just great, Digmon thought, Another renegade Guardian Algorithm looking for trouble. "Look, Agent um…" It was hard to tell any of them apart. They all looked alike; same face, same attitude, same fashion preference, same weapon, but most horribly of all: same overly shiny shoes.

          "Cain – Agent Cain…" that statement, in itself, was an introduction… no matter how one looked at it. "And its common name is Guilmon, if that's what you want to know. I need his skin to replace my worn out Grizzymon Skin Rug."

          Digmon couldn't believe it. This disgruntled ex-law enforcing program was bluntly asking him to hand over one of his best and most hardworking employees over to become a living room ornament! He didn't know where exactly these monstrosities lived, but whatever the case; he would not allow this foolishness to go on. Stupidly enough, with Guilmon in sight just behind him, he denied the presence of the selected species, "We don't have any Guilmon here, Agent Cain, so please leave us be."

          Agent Cain, or whatever his serial number was, adjusted his sunglasses slightly, and in barely a moment, pulled the trigger of his Eagle, sending a cancerous package of data erasing technology straight into Digmon, who evaporated almost immediately. "Deletion Confirmed. Target: subject 12975 of Species 100326-DM. I'm sorry, Digmon, but that was the wrong answer." He turned to the two remaining Digimon in the tunnel (most had run away at the first gunshot) and noted the fact that they were both growling. "What about you, blue boy? Have you seen any Guilmon here?"

          Veemon had enough of this crap these renegades have been feeding him. He'd seen them take away several of his friends without doing anything… Among them were Drimogemon the wise, Hagurumon the sarcastic, Palmon the energetic… and now he was being asked to hand Guilmon the cheerful over to them without so much as showing his contempt? He stood up, fists shaking with rage, and cleared his mind to release the energy required to make this assault, "Vee Head Butt!" Unfortunately, Cain had anticipated the attack, and gunned the poor rookie down before he even got off the ground.

          "I guess I'm going to have to take you home myself," the Renegade Algorithm said emotionlessly as he neared the red dinosaur, who reacted by blowing a Pyrosphere in his direction. Cain dodged it effortlessly the only way a Guardian Algorithm could, unimaginably fast, and in the shortest fraction of a second fathomable to human understanding, was once again approaching the quarried Digimon.

          Guilmon could only growl as he backed into a corner, "You killed Veemon and Digmon… Guilmon won't forgive you!" At hearing this, the agent smiled for the first time in recorded history as he brought out what appeared to be some kind of harpoon. "Rock Breaker!" Takato's partner leaped forth, curled up into a ball, which upon completion self-ignited, and tumbled, still lively ablaze, into his adversary, who caught him with both hands that started cooking under the high temperatures well past three hundred degrees centigrade.

          Cain gritted his virtual teeth, growling throatily, as smoke began streaming out from between his palms and Guilmon's still burning flesh. The ball of fire finally lost its blaze and stopped spinning, uncurling into its original form. The Former Network Security Program sighed with relief as the feisty Digimon collapsed into his arms after he hit him on the back of the head. "Your kind has so far been the most resistant to our cause… now I see why." The agent's troubles weren't over as of yet, though since at the exact moment he relaxed, he failed to detect the presence that slowly crept up from behind him and whacked him behind the head with something that apparently carried enough force to break a stone wall in two. He dropped like a brick to the cold digital ground just as Guilmon regained enough consciousness to see what exactly had conspired.

          "What… happened?" was all he could say before he began counting stars again, which were, through some mysterious force falling to the ground along with him. Bread. That was one of the things that filled his subconscious mind… that, along with Takatomon giving him a bear hug. Another and probably the most disturbing dream image he'd ever seen in a while included Veemon and Digmon slowly vaporizing into tiny bits of data whilst they mutely called for his help.

          Perhaps he had hit himself on the head so many times that a key held back from unlocking his hidden complex intellect for so long had been shaken into place. Perhaps the unhealthy fats from the oily digital bread had finally gone to his brain. Whatever the reason, though, it caused to see odd things… things he didn't expect to see at all… things that probably would've literally scared the pants off him if he had any and if he were conscious. It was a ghost from his past, the one whose death he'd seen right before his very eyes. It was Leomon, standing proudly, brandishing his sword as he polished it with a pure white rag. The lion looked up from his current work and seemingly stared at the clueless Guilmon in a most serious of ways, "That is destiny, Guilmon. These things are not (I almost typed 'nuts') for us to decide, but for some higher order that our pitiful minds can hardly fathom. You can't change it… destiny has been preordained since the beginning… the beginning of all things."

          That was when he evaporated and was replaced by a familiar yellow fox and her partner. "Don't listen to him!" Renamon cried out, "You can change destiny! Rika and I have proven that!" Her voice softened by several decibels, "All you have to do is try…"

          "Don't give up, either," the redhead standing beside her continued, "Coz if you do, you're going to end up like Leomon… in the Digi-dead-zone, that is." Rika pulled out a blank card from her pack and pitched it in the red dinosaur's direction, the latter clumsily catching it and fumbling a little before taking a good look at it. Apparently, it reflected in his eyes what he truly wanted deep down inside, Takatomon. "You're the one who's supposed to decide your own destiny, not some mysterious ancient force that practically doesn't exist. God doesn't screw your life up. He only knows that your life is gonna be screwed by your own hands but doesn't do squat about it."

          "So stand up and tell Him, 'I won't be screwing my life this time, God. Thanks for letting me know that it's all wrong!'" Renamon added with a deep passion burning within her, "Tell him that you'll make sure you steer your destiny in the direction where it's supposed to be headed! That ought to make him feel happy about you."

          The two slowly faded out and in place of them stood the short, purple, and mischievous Impmon, "It's a dog eat dog food world out there, Dino boy! There's givers and takers, so make sure you pick the right side! Wake up and smell the daisies, Guilmon! That's life! Wake up!" Funny enough, Impmon's form became distorted, similar to the way a reflection in a pond becomes shriveled when you threw a stone into it. What's worse, his last words, namely "Wake up!" wouldn't stop echoing.

          "WAKE UP!" When Guilmon finally came to, it was at least the twelfth time that statement had repeated itself. Thus, it could be concluded that the crimson Digimon woke with a start. The first thing he saw were a pair of blue orbs staring back at him. A pair of hands, soft and silky hands, Guilmon noted, rested themselves on his shoulders and gently shook him. "You're awake?" a youthful voice chimed in, "That's great! Now I can question you!" This was said quite gleefully, and Guilmon didn't know how to react.

          The sapphire eyes darted away, leaving him free to survey his new surroundings. Apparently, he was sitting on a white clinical bed used in… what else besides clinics and hospitals? The rest of his surroundings consisted of pure white cabinets with transparent glass panels that showed their contents, which in turn stood on glass shelves. On the higher side, the ceiling was packed with several high-quality fluorescent light bulbs. There were no windows to the room, and standing in the only doorway, or rather, leaning on the only doorway, was a boy of about 12, his long, purple hair tied into a ponytail that went all the way down to his waist, currently preoccupied by some kind of electronic gadget on his right wrist.

          Beside him stood a midget (Guilmon wasn't sure if it was a midget or a digimon) in a kendo practice suit, polishing its bokken sword with the utmost care he'd ever seen. It was done gracefully, slowly, gently, precisely, the rag cloth not missing a single crevice on the fine wood. The only feature on this short character that gave away the fact that he was indeed a digimon was the tail that stuck out from his pants and the ear parts that seemed to be built into the top of his helmet, similar in shape to a cat's. When Guilmon scanned the immediate area for the owner of those azure irises, he managed to find a teenage blonde approaching him with what appeared to be some kind of paper.

          He'd seen many kinds of paper sheets all over Takato's house, especially his room, during his stay there. After all, 'Takatomon' was, so to speak, an artist. The only time he ever saw the same kind of paper as the one being handed to him at the moment was when the Tamers crew took a group picture using a camera. Since Guilmon had no idea on how photographs were made, he concluded it to be somebody's work. The 'artistry' was magnificent. He'd never seen a more accurate rendering in his entire life. And to think that the time it took to produce them took no more than an hour at the most! Surely, whoever made it must've been a master artist.

          NS-8 Optec Supervisor Aya Sazaki sighed as she handed the photograph over to the red dinosaur. How can Kai be so sure that this is Matsuda's partner, anyways!? It was Takamiya who had rescued Guilmon from becoming a renegade GA's Dino Skin Rug… Actually, Kotemon had done the dirtiest part of the work, knocking the rebellious Agent Cain silly with his bokken while Kai picked the downed miner up prior to firing a DSP at the offending program in order to get him recycled, and finally, opening a Digi-Gate to NS-8's primary using his MUD. All he ever told her as a means of explanation was, It's a Tamer thing. You techno-goobers wouldn't understand it.

          Speaking of the photograph, it was Matsuki's… when NS-8 had first identified and linked him, as well as the other Tamers, to directly or indirectly influencing Hypnos', as well as their own, operations concerning 'D-Zone' as they used to call it. Thus, in this picture, he was still of the age that Guilmon knew… more importantly, though, he was wearing goggles. Aya was quite knowledgeable with the Digimon trends, and just couldn't figure out why in the hell the 'unofficial leaders' of 'Digidestined' parties had to wear the most ridiculous headgear. They could've just worn sunglasses or even big wizards' hats labeled, 'I'm the Leader Here!' for all she cared, but why goggles?

          This was another great mystery of the universe that Aya 200 (that was one of the nicknames her co-workers gave her by attaching her first name to the nearest hundred of her IQ) would not be able to solve even if she had all of the scientific equipment that the world had to offer. It was simply a 'trend without cause' as she labeled that kind. Another question was why the American translators had to 'Americanize' the names of the characters. They sounded fine just the way they were. In fact, she thought that Hikari Yagami sounded a hell of a lot better than Kari Kamiya. I mean… it sounds like they're saying Car and adding the long vowel 'e' to it! How stupid can that sound!? And what was with 'Kamiya'? Wasn't Yagami good enough for their standards? Feh, she cursed mentally.

          Then there was T.K. What was wrong with Takeru? Nothing! It sounded just fine the way it was! The Americans also had this tradition of reducing some fine original Japanese name into a pathetic excuse for a two letter acronym, like Takeru into T.K., and recently, the third season of Digimon, Frontier, Junpei into J.P. What was up with that!? Although the side of anime that actually interested her was that there were rumors within the scientific community saying that 95% of ideas for anime weren't actually thought up by their creators, but were actually psychic impulses from some parallel universe out there where the events shown in the said anime truly happened. That could mean one out of two things. Either in some other universe out there, the highlights of this one (i.e. Digimon) were being watched by people as an anime… all the struggles, all the events, character – err human development, or that bitch Hikari really existed and was roaming free in her world while Aya continued to work like a slave for the defense of the Network.

          But that was enough musing. She returned her attention to the Digimon who was staring intently at the picture as though he was already drawn into it by some mysterious force. She decided to answer the question that currently plagued her mind, which she planned to ask him, "You don't know the guy in the picture, do you, red guy?"

          He looked up to his interrogator somewhat puzzled, but answered anyway, "Guilmon knows him very well! Are you friend of Takatomon?"

          Oh my God, I think we hit the jackpot! Aya's eyes widened at that answer. It was the statement of a simpleton, but what could she say? He was, to put it simply, still learning his grammar. Hopefully, NS-8's tutorial team would fix that problem. She turned to Kai hopefully, noting him grinning at her with an I-told-you-so look on his face. Now all they had to do was get Guilmon ready to meet his old partner again. That, she thought, Is going to be a feat in itself…

Moscow International Airport

Tuesday, 2058 hours, Local Time… (AN: Moscow is five hours behind Beijing, effectively making it seven behind Tokyo… I know, I'm basically nullifying the travel time of the plane by the time lag of the current time zone, but hey… it let's me keep track of things. It took me 30 minutes to analyze the whole time lag idea… so hard, you know)

          A paper ball flew in the direction of the stainless steel garbage bin, just missing a perfect shot, landing right beside it. The perpetrator for this serious, heinous, and most of all, unforgivable crime of littering sat on one of the monoblock chairs with her feet up, resting on a chair in front of her. One look at her face and you could tell that she identically resembled Hikari Kamiya, kid sister of the currently popular Taichi Kamiya, from the original Digimon series, the only difference being the fact that she wore sunglasses along with a black trench coat and cat suit. Two looks at her face, and you could tell that she was extremely bored. Not that her eyes told anything, since they were hidden behind those tinted shades, but her mouth… she was pouting quite noticeably, that beside the fact that her eyebrows met above her nose bridge in a rather violent manner.

          And as if that wasn't bad enough, her bored slouching position was fast becoming a lying pose as she slowly and deliberately slipped into the aforementioned state. The only thing that kept her from snoring off was the fact that she had to watch her partner, namely a wolf puppy-like thing with a big yellow horn on its forehead. Gabumon as the Digimon experts called him. Well, aside that was the fact that she had a big brother figure watching over her at that period in time. Her crimson eyes stared back at his emerald ones through her sunglasses, and, personally, she didn't like that look he was giving her one bit.

          "Why do I have to come with you in the first place anyway Yuri?" NS-4 Tamer Karya Hiakiim complained with quite an amount of spite in her voice, "It was your assignment to find the time and place for the damned Agency Directors' meeting, not mine." Karya was, simply put, a rebel of sorts. Losing her entire family in the US-instigated war on Iraq when she was nine was one of the reasons why she ended up in here in Russia. That incident was prior to being caught and hazed by some drunken American soldiers. The fact that she considered, as a personal opinion, that the American invasion of her homeland was a big booboo to world order was bad enough.

          Experiencing the torment of being beaten bluntly with rifle butts by some drunken American soldiers whom she had no quarrel with whatsoever was the straw that drove her out of the country into Russia. How was this achieved? During the 'renovation' period, Russia was one of the nations that volunteered, for some reason (they were against the war itself), to send in civil aid teams via airmail. With several months' worth of experience in running around and hiding from both American and Iraqi soldiers alike, it was no hard task to sneak past the guards at the airport and onto one of the Russian relief planes that was departing to its home in order to restock.

          Although she had gotten past the border, it was still far from smooth sailing. Karya had to get some kind of job to survive in the city of Moscow. It was busy, and had nights that were a hell of a lot colder than any she had ever slept through. What she had been living on? Food she had either rummaged for in garbage cans or for some occasions, goods stolen from various stores. It was also in Moscow where she learned how to pickpocket, her criminal records (yes, she's a felon) totaling to 25000 rubles in cash and jewelry.

          One would probably wonder how she stayed warm in an environment that had nights that were freezing compared to the ones she was used to. That was where the 6000 rubles worth of liquor that she stole came in. After all, it was scientifically proven that alcohol (alcoholic drinks, to be more precise) increased body temperature to the point where it could keep a Hawaiian comfortably warm in a barren Alaskan cabin that was void of any furniture (AN: correct me if I'm exaggerating here) for a whole night.

          Wine and food weren't the only things she stole from the stores that lined the streets of Moscow. Included in the list of articles that she had filched was a Petrovik Kalashnikov (PK-106), the little brother of the Alamovat rifle that the Militia used. Small as it was, in fact, that you could hide it in a trench coat without worrying about it getting discovered… unless, of course, you were stupid enough to go through a metal detector. But then that was what ceramic firearms were for, right? Of course, to counter the idea that ceramic firearms were completely undetectable except by strip search, the NSA had finished an X-ray scanner that could see through you and your clothing unless you were paranoid and wore a lead suit… which the government would not allow. That weapon was stolen alongside a full metal jacket's worth of 7.62mm ammunition totaling to 1000 rounds. How and where she used these weapons were a mystery even to the SVR's (modern day KGB, without the brutality) intelligence section.

          "That was papa's decision, not mine," Yuri replied. It wasn't like he didn't respect his adopted father's decisions. It was more of an issue on who had been assigned to him. He'd heard Karya's story. It certainly helped him understand why she was such an independent person; a lot more independent than he was, anyway. He had Agumon to aid him during his time on the streets while she had nobody. He'd also read from her records, that on several accounts of assault, she had deliberately attacked and wounded a total of sixteen American tourists in public areas, two of which died from blood loss and ruptured organs (she used a bowie knife on a few occasions). Karya was lucky enough to escape the Militia unhurt, although the same couldn't be said for the eleven pursuing officers whom she wounded on several arrest attempts. To think that it had all occurred within a year after her 'migration'.

          NS-4 had recruited her out of the slammer quite a few months after she was finally caught. For what reason, perhaps only Tezansky knew why. Some rumors that circulated included the possibility that Tezansky was a pedophile and kept her as a bedmate, although that was something that Yuri definitely rejected wholeheartedly as some sick perverted NS-4 programmer's idea for a pornographic novel he was working on. Then there was the more ridiculous notion by some of the younger, geekier operatives who said that he was a big fan of the Digimon series and that he took her in because she was an exact double of Hikari Kamiya. That was also something that the adopted Komanov rejected as stupid. He lived in the same house as that man, and he never saw anything that gave way to the possibility of such a childish claim. A rumor that Yuri was more inclined to believe though (he started it in the first place), was that Tezansky knew that she was the right partner for the Gabumon who had practically been spit out of the Digital World and into NS-4's proper. Or perhaps it was the idea that the NS-4 Director knew he could use her pick pocketing skills to their advantage. Whatever the reason, though, Yuri was confident that it was a good one.

          "Still, I don't understand why he had to ask help from NS-8, of all Cells!" Karya leaped back into her original posture, placing her hands behind her head after taking a swig of the vodka she had carried along with her in a stainless steel thermos. Until this point in time, nobody except Virgin, whom she had promise to keep silent, had found the identity of the liquid that she truly kept in there. Everybody else was convinced that she was bringing some kind of French soda with her (some ideas are just damned crazy, no?).

          "Director Sakamori is the only member of the Executive Twelve that papa trusts enough to ask help from in this situation." The two had known each other since the fall of the Soviet Union, when both had been instated to the E-12, being the best of friends from then on. Yuri spit some gum he had been chewing into the trash bin, a perfect shot if anybody ever saw one. "And that's the right way to throw your trash. Make sure not to miss…" a mischievous smile found its way to the Tamer's face, "Unless of course, you want 'Littering' to be added to your criminal record."

          That statement provoked an undesired reaction: a crumpled ball of paper flying into the speaker's face that is… "Let me remind you, that once my duties here at NS-4 earn the right stars, I should be asking you the question, 'What criminal record are you talking about?'" All that was derived from her reaction was a mocking 'humph'. Apparently, the joke wasn't that funny… that was of course, if she meant it to be a joke. "So Yuri, what's this person like, this… Yamamoto?"

          Yuri had only met Agent Yamamoto once, and that just happened to be a coincidence. It was during the D-Reaper Crisis of 2002. For some unknown reason, the United Nations had ordered all NS Cells to stand down, although there was some allowance for them to monitor the D-Reaper's progress for future encounters. Yamamoto had been with an NS-8 surveillance team returning from their assignment in Scandinavia, when an infected Russian SAM center shot their plane down killing most of those on board save the aforementioned officer. By the twisted hand of fate, Komanov had been assigned to correct that very SAM center's erring computer systems, and was seconds close to completing his task when that missile was launched. The first thing he saw upon exiting the facility was a ball of fire crashing several hundred yards south of his present location. Following instinct over intellect (as he always did), the NS-4 Operative proceeded to check the wreckage for survivors. He practically saved Yamamoto's life, and although neither could understand what the other was saying, everything was cleared out when through some miracle, they managed to get to NS-4's primary.

          "I couldn't tell… my linguistics training wasn't complete yet at the time and well…" he flushed with embarrassment, "I couldn't understand a thing he said. Looking back, though, I could remember a few sarcastic statements and quite a lot of 'I can't understand a damned thing you're saying!' in Japanese and English." The NS-4 Tamer forced a thoughtful look onto his face, "Although we managed to understand each other through sign language… I think." Karya laughed, "Well, once my linguistics training was completed, we began sending e-mail to each other, and now, I pretty much know him. He said he would be coming with his new partner, a Tamer just like us."

          "Big surprise…" the Iraqi refugee sarcastically commented. Weren't there enough Tamers on this pathetic excuse for a planet? She took another swig of the vodka. It was surprising that until now she still wasn't drunk. Her cheeks showed no signs of being flushed from whatever it was in liquor that caused them to go red. Neither was her voice slurred from all the drinking. She could swear that she had finished half of the thermos she carried; and to think that the blasted container had a capacity of up to three quarts. She had quite a threshold of withstanding drunkenness, especially since vodka was one of the most potent liquors on the market, next to tequila. "How much longer are we supposed to wait, anyway?"

          "The plane is due to arrive from Beijing any minute now…" Yuri had to admit, he was starting to lose his patience as well. He had been taught that the Earth rotated east around her axis at up to a thousand kilometers an hour, and that an average 757 could travel up to the same rate during a regular flight with no disturbances whatsoever. Thus, if a plane left from Beijing heading west toward Moscow, which was about 5000 kilometers from the former at a rate of a thousand miles an hour at 8PM, then it would land at Moscow International Airport at around 8:05PM of the local time zone. In short, time would've appeared to stand still, although it really didn't. It was simply the fact that the area in the sky that was being faced by Beijing five hours earlier was now being faced by Moscow. That was how he understood it.

          "Flight H13MC now arriving from Beijing at Gate 11." That was all the information he needed.

          "That's our plane, Karya," Yuri started walking in the aforementioned gate's direction, "Let's go give our visitors from NS-8 a little greeting."

          "You don't have to tell me that," Hiakiim answered, "I know the flight number of the target plane as well." She stood up and followed the older boy, slinging the half-empty thermos of liquor over her right shoulder. She turned to look at the trash can thoughtfully, keeping eye on the stainless steel bin as though preparing to shoot it with a high caliber rifle. The NS-4 Tamer took another piece of paper from her coat pocket, crumpled it, and took one last toss at the said container before continuing on route to her current assignment. She didn't see the rutted ball of processed tree bark go straight into the garbage bin and make a slight 'clink' upon landing at the bottom.

Pier 17, Tokyo Harbor, Tokyo Bay Area

Wednesday, 1023 hours, Local Time…

          Late morning sunlight bounced off the surface of the sleek unmarked black van that rolled up this abandoned pier, stopping within just yards from the water's edge. The side door slid open, three men in black suits exiting. Ryo Akiyama looked back into the darkness of the vehicle, catching the feet that seemingly thrust themselves out at him. "Be careful with her, dammit!" he scolded whatever was inside, "She's a key player for Marlon's game!"

          "Sorry sir," the person still inside the van apologized. "I never thought she'd be this heavy." The feet were followed by the legs, lower body, upper body, and finally, head of the body bag, which was being held up by another man in black. "Can she even breathe in there?"

          "She's clinically dead, you fool," Ryo reminded the agent, "Her heart won't start up until another ten minutes." This specific subject had been given a shot or two of what the Agency's labs called the 'Juliet' serum, namely because its effects were similar to the substance that Juliet Capulet of the famous Shakespearean Tragedy had taken in order to fake her death that she and Romeo might run away once she, so to speak, rose from the dead. Unfortunately, the servant whom Friar Laurence had sent to notify Romeo of this plan was quarantined due to some disease, and well, as Horus the Pharaoh's god might put it, one thing led to another. Romeo didn't know that Juliet was merely playing dead, and, in his desperation to be with her for eternity, drank some poison and died immediately afterward. When Juliet awoke, she saw her lover dead on the floor and ran herself through with her 'Happy Dagger'. Ryo smiled at the thought. Why didn't they just call it the 'Happy Dagger'?

          "Where do we put her, sir?" the agent holding the upper portion of the body bag asked. For someone of her age, the content of this black sac was quite heavy. One would wonder why, since, according to the hacked NS-8 profile, she was a vegetarian, as well as a person who laid off the sweets and meats. Her main source of protein was eggs and the occasional cricket crackers. Maybe it was just his imagination?

          "Just down here…" the two set the body down by the pier's edge, only a few feet from a drop into God knows how polluted water. "Once she wakes up, it won't be so hard to get out of there. The zipper's got a zip on both sides." Ryo took a small electronic device out of his pocket, placed it beside the bag, and switched it on.

          "What's that, sir?" another agent asked.

          "NS-8 tracking device. They'll have their search teams swarming all over this spot pretty soon." He sat down by the temporary cadaver and took a close scanned the black surface. "You guys go on ahead. I have some personal matters to attend to."

          "You sure about this, sir?" the lifter questioned Akiyama's sanity. After all, if what he was saying about the tracking device was true, then shouldn't he be worried about getting caught? It wasn't good to get caught. "Shouldn't we be getting out of here?"

          "Like I said… you guys go on ahead. I'll get back to HQ without getting caught." He turned back to the body bag and continued his strange activity of just staring at it in captivation, awe, and some other synonymous word that could possibly match how he felt at the moment. You were always the strongest. Now how does it feel to be the most confused?

          The three other Agency operatives merely looked at each other through their black tinted shades and through some miracle of chance, all shrugged simultaneously and got back into the van, closing the door prior to the said vehicle rolling out of sight, leaving the two behind to do whatever business the other wanted. "Sleep well, little pumpkin. You're going to need as much as you can get if you're going to live through this hell hole called life." He planted a soft kiss on what he assumed to be the cheek of the body inside. "I should be going now. Your buddies are coming to get you. You should consider yourself lucky that those guys at the airport didn't kill you, you know." He stood up and slowly walked away, vanishing without a trace.

          Within a few minutes of his departure, whatever… or whoever… was in the bag jerked its head upward, although it couldn't do so much as sit up, since, technically, it was an almost exact fit. The being inside panicked, and began groping along the insides of the container, searching for a means of escape. The fact that it was struggling a little bit too tensely proved that it believed that it could not breathe. It continued its seemingly eternal search for some opening, until finally, a few moments later, the body bag zipped open, and out burst a human head, gasping for air. Of course, simply calling it a human head would make the description too vague, thus it is required of me to further augment the picture. The person inside was sweaty, both cheeks puffed and flushed. Loose orange strands dangled from the sides of her head and a messed up ponytail, which could've been made neater if given more time. Rika Nonaka took long, deep breaths, thankful to be alive.

          The last thing she could remember was a slightly stinging sensation on her neck before she went out. She scanned her immediate vicinity, apparently surprised that it was far from the girls' room of Tokyo International Airport. What's more, when she realized what time of the day it was, she appeared to loose the last of her iron composure and screamed, clearly frustrated. "What in the screwed up hell happened here!?" She had to calm down. The worst thing to do in the middle of a field operation was to panic. She reached for the commlink in her ear, only to find out that it had somehow been removed. Damn! I should've known!

          The NS-8 officer searched the area for anything whatsoever that could be used as a means of communication. To her disdain, however, nothing turned up. Rika sighed, defeated, as she stood up and figured that walking wasn't such bad exercise. Although that option had left her as quickly as it had come, since it would definitely be odd to see a teenager dressed in a business suit and high heeled shoes to be jogging at what? 10, 11AM? She noticed a faint, almost inaudible, yet consistent beeping. Doing one last sweep, her lavender irises were drawn to the source of the sound: a small electronic device, apparently planted conveniently beside her body bag. "A tracking device?"

          Upon closer inspection, i.e. some tinkering with the device's satellite connection via palm pilot, she was able to determine that the signal that her little doohickey was projecting was programmed to tap into, and only into, Network Security's satellite tracking system. They set her up, it appears. "Well, that settles it…" if this tracking device was visible only to NS-8's eyes, then that meant they probably had a team on the way to investigate it as well. "I'll just wait for them right here."

Director's Office, NS-4 Headquarters, Sub-Level 8 of the Kremlin, Moscow

Wednesday, 0338 hours, Local Time…

          Tezansky's office was the perfect display of his patriotism for his country. The first thing that one would notice upon entering the NS-4 Director's room of operations would be the golden hammer and sickle posted onto a crimson background located behind his desk. Tezansky himself sat on a plush, fur-coated roller chair behind the ornately crafted oak desk, bent over the virtual stack of reports on Russia's currently increasing involvement with the Global Internet Community that was plastered to his Personal Terminal's screen. On the varnished surface stood a brass Cossack cavalier, his steed's forelegs raised up in what appeared to be a forward charge. The three-inch-high warrior held up in a defiant manner, a ring pommel saber, prepared to lead his battalion into the messy pile of paperwork and other related office materials that lay in front of him. Beside him lay a classic smoking pipe, the soft gray particles rising out ever so slowly.

Although it was pretty much an interesting sight to see a Russian horseman preparing to battle to the death with a clutter of processed tree bark, plastic, and paperclips, Hiroshi Yamamoto was more focused on the national emblem that resided behind the gruffly bearded man. "Here in Mother Russia, people consider red as color of beauty, life, and honor… pretty much as strange to you as how white in China is color of death..."

          The old man's still sharp… He'd caught on to what Yamamoto was thinking even before he said it. "Colors are a very subjective topic, Mr. Tezansky." The NS-8 Officer replied as he stepped in, Takato not far behind. "You mind giving us some more details on our assignment?"

          "Of course," the Russian replied in somewhat crooked English, never taking his eyes off the computer screen, "Get a seat…" Although it would've been easier for Tezansky to address the shades-clad agent in Japanese (since Tezansky had mastery over a wide variety of languages with the exception of English), it had been with deepest regret that he had to succumb to a 7:5 poll result during an E-12 meeting on whether or not English should be used for international affairs. Obviously enough, he was one of the five who detested and lost. It couldn't be helped. The Executive Twelve was composed of an American General, a Canadian Mountee, two Australian SEALS, a German Bureaucrat, a Japanese Banker, a retired Russian Intelligence Director, a Chinese Capitalist, a Brazilian Commander, a Peruvian Politician, a Pharaoh's Descendant, and a reformed Somali Warlord. Sakamori just had to side with the damned Westerners and approve the use of English as the official medium for international affairs.

          Shouldn't that be 'Have a seat?' was what Yamamoto had in mind to say to the former KGB Director, although it was a polite "Thank you," that escaped his lips before he even noticed. He guided his partner to one of the two seats that rest in front of the Russian-made desk, noting the fine red carpet that spanned the distance between them and the sliding door. He could've sworn that this room was within the Kremlin itself and not a facility beneath it, had it not been for the transparent glass portal that separated them from the rest of NS-4's proper. This was because even within their own citadel, the Russians still practiced the Iron Curtain policy.

          "I will get straight to point, Agent Yamamoto," the Russian started as he at last looked up from the view screen, his face reflecting its eerie blue glow even in the white light of the room. "We are running out of leads here. Agency's meeting could take place anywhere between Thursday and Saturday. We only have 20 hours to find out when, and where."

          "And you want us to aid in searching for more leads?" Takato answered with some anticipation. Both speakers' English dialects were pretty bad, specifically Tezansky's lack of several prepositions, and Takato's problem in switching 'l' and 'r'…

          "Actually, I do not want you to help in searching for more 'reads', Agent Matsuki, I want you to help Yuri track down his last and by far, most reliable lead." Tezansky was apparently one to talk. He already had his own problems with English grammar, now he was criticizing another beginner's accent when speaking it. "And in case you are still wondering why your partner is been sucked back into Digital World after D-Reaper's second dormancy is began, I can offer explanation." The NS-4 Director took a disc out of one of the desk's drawers, handing it over to the teenager. "Just check when you get home."

          "So, what exactly are we here for?" Yamamoto tried to return the discussion to its original course before the main topic became the 'Critique of Non-American Accents When Speaking English'.

          "Of course… Virgin, would you please start the projector?" The room's lights dimmed immediately after this was said, and a white screen proceeded to lower itself behind Tezansky's chair. The aforementioned character moved aside, of course, bringing out a laser pointer as a projector sent a photograph of a nervous middle-aged man to the clean surface. The laser pointer was aimed comically at the man's right nostril, giving the impression that Tezansky wanted to stick some kind of medical instrument inside and gouge out all of the dried mucus that resided there. "This is Dmittri Klevyorodov. He is Agency Russia Branch's Deputy Director… a candidate for defecting to NS-4 in exchange for protection of his family, and is willing to provide us with information that we want."

          "So this is the next lead?" Yamamoto carefully scrutinized the man: shifty eyes, boot-shaped pockmark on the left cheek, big nose with at least a dozen strands of hair sticking out, graying mustache, brown beret… How old is this guy? 40? 45? Whatever the case, he looked like your average escaped convict. Well, at least like your average Western escape convict. In Russia, he looked just like everybody else; everybody descended from the clan of Gog of Magog, that is.

          "Are you kidding me?" the Russian chuckled heartily, "He is not just next lead! He is last lead!"

          "The last?" Yamamoto was dumbstruck… NS-4, the most advanced Eastern European security agency in terms of technology and manpower, was betting every last ruble in its pockets on a lead that was most likely a trap. "But isn't it a little suspicious that he's given you all this important information, but hasn't defected yet? What if he's just a pseudo defector?"

          "I requested him to stay in 'service' of Agency, relaying several key data discs to us… recently, however, he is under suspicion and is trying to keep low profile… Dmittri has agreed to meet Yuri at the Kevalio Strip Club in Stukariy district around 5AM today… You two will secure back door of club in case he decides to back out and try to exit that way." Tezansky took his pipe and began to smoke. "This I prefer to cigars and cigarettes. At least you do not need to throw away a pipe when you are done smoking…"

          A blonde, casually dressed agent stepped into the room, a small brown and pink rabbit not far behind him. "You asked to see me, sir?" He was about 16, 5 feet 9 in height, and dressed in a green jacket, inside of which was a matching yellow shirt and slacks. His hair was slightly ruffled, a few brownish strands here and there. Clipped to his belt, one could not be mistaken, was a rust colored Arc, apparently shined for some reason.

          "Da, Boris. Sit down." The aforementioned Tamer took another seat from the side of the office and sat down between the two NS-4 Officers, casually taking a bottle of 'Minsk Xtra Strength Hair Gel' from his jacket pocket and applied it on his low-hanging bangs, straightening it out. "Agent Yamamoto, Agent Matsuda, I would like you to meet Boris Divvski, NS-4's second Tamer. He will be accompanying you two at back of club. Now go… we only have an hour before meeting."

          "So you're the Agent Yamamoto that Yuri has been fascinating Karya all of the time since you met, eh?" Divskki eyed the NS-8 Agent scrupulously. "You don't look like much, but apparently, you have her captivated." He thrust an offending finger into Yamamoto's chest, slightly pushing the man backward, "But remember this… Karya is my girl. Stay away from her."

          Yamamoto didn't flinch at the verbal assault, remaining as stoic as he seemed to always be behind those dark, tinted sunglasses of his. "I have no idea of what you're talking about." Although sometimes a joker at NS-8, outside, he was as cold as an ice cube on a snowy winter evening. "Agent Hiakiim simply wanted to hear some stories about my operations, that's all."

          "Ya think maybe he's just doing what he says he's doing, Boris?" the brown and pink rabbit piped. Lopmon wasn't much of a person to pay attention to conversations such as this one, although an occasional opinion would surface from the confines of his brain from time to time. Tezansky had assigned him to watch over Boris ever since his recruitment into NS-4, and so far, they've been getting along quite fine; bonding, in fact, was a highly accurate word to describe their relationship. When was this truly shown? Battles, of course. They would always merge at once, jumping directly to Lopmon's Mega form, Kerpymon. Although, it caused a lot of ruckus, NS-4 has somehow kept the media under tabs. Maybe it was because most of the incidents occurred inside warp fields?

          "Maybe…" Boris' finger retreated from Yamamoto's physique. "Sorry about that, I don't know what came over me."

          Yamamoto merely dusted himself, "No harm done… by the way, have you met my partner yet? This is Takato Matsuki. If you recall, he's one of the Tamers who aided in the containment of D-Reaper."

          "You know, my friend's sister used to have a Lopmon too…" Takato started.

          "What happened to him?" Boris asked, intrigued by the incidence. Somehow, however, Lopmon knew what the teenager was going to say.

          "Got sucked back into the Digital World with the rest of our partners. I don't think she ever got over it, though."

          "That's sad…" Boris might not have had any experience concerning the loss of his partner, although he did try to imagine how it felt to lose Lopmon… It ended up as a somewhat bittersweet hypothetical situation.

          "I'll tell you more about it on the way to the club."

Director's Office, 14th Floor of NS-8 Headquarters, Shinjuku, Tokyo

Wednesday, 1146 hours, Local Time…

"Welcome back, Rika," Akira Sakamori stated as the aforementioned Tamer stepped into his office and sat down on one of the chairs in front of his desk. "I assume you managed to get away from your captors somehow. Tell me… what exactly happened?"

          Rika Nonaka thought for a moment, racking her brains for an answer. Not that she had any to give, anyway. She had no recollection whatsoever of what they did to her those past 12 hours. Gods knew if they cut her into pieces and put her back together using advanced laser surgical technology, or if they used some kind of 'sleeper' brainwashing method on her. It was the kind wherein you were hypnotized and ordered to forget the whole thing until a specific person mentioned a certain 'activation' word, or statement, placing you under the person's control. "Not much to say, actually, sir…"

          "What does that mean?" his left eyebrow went up.

          "I don't remember a damned thing… after the airport… they drugged me." She rubbed the side of her neck to emphasize where she was hit. "And Shinigami… he's dead." Her eyes shifted downwards. She was ashamed to have lost a good man, not to mention the fact that Shinigami was her responsibility. Looks like I blew this one. "I knew I should've gone in alone."

          "And who knows what could've happened to you if you did," the NS-8 Director answered reassuringly. "I'm just glad you're alive, that's all. You're like a daughter to me, Rika. Remember that. I can't possibly stand losing you in whatever situation that might occur." Through a security camera that was mounted on the top corner of the room, the Virtual Digital Nexus studied both humans' stress and tension levels, silently trying to understand the deeper meaning of certain keywords stated during the conversation.

VOCABULARY ENTRY: GLAD…

STANDING BY FOR DEFINITION ACQUISITION…

DEFINITION ACQUIRED…

GLAD: ADJECTIVE… EXPERIENCING OR EXHIBITING JOY OR PLEASURE… PROVIDING JOY AND PLEASURE… PLEASED… WILLING… ARCHAIC: OF A CHEERFUL DISPOSITION…

RELEVANCE OF KEYWORD TO CONVERSATION: 96.831 PERCENT…

          "How can I forget?" the Digimon Queen replied in a somewhat gentle vocalization. "After what happened that night… that night I almost died…" her eyes darkened. " You saved my life, sir… I can never hope to repay what you've—"

          "I told you already, Rika." Sakamori interjected, "What I've done for you doesn't deserve any merit whatsoever… I was only doing what anybody would've done. Put yourself in my shoes for a minute… You don't have any debts for my saving your life. You simply deserve to live on. That's why I did it in the first place."

          "Yes sir…"

VOCABULARY ENTRY: DAUGHTER…

STANDING BY FOR DEFINITION ACQUISITION…

DEFINITION ACQUIRED…

DAUGHTER: NOUN… ONE'S FEMALE CHILD… A FEMALE DESCENDANT… A GIRL OR WOMAN CONSIDERED AS IF IN A RELATIONSHIP OF CHILD TO PARENT… ANYTHING PERSONIFIED OR REGARDED AS A FEMALE DESCENDANT… MIDDLE ENGLISH: DOUGHTER… OLD ENGLISH: DOHTOR…

RELEVANCE OF KEYWORD TO CONVERSATION: 87.342 PERCENT…

          "Whatever the Agency did to you last night… it won't get past the medical examination. Sazaki will be in charge of finding out just what happened to you." He took a sip from the omnipresent mug of coffee that always seemed to magically refill itself whenever it was on his glass desk. "Tell me… what do you remember of… your mother?"

VOCABULARY ENTRY: MOTHER…

STANDING BY FOR DEFINITION ACQUISITION…

DEFINITION ACQUIRED…

MOTHER: NOUN… A FEMALE THAT HAS BORNE AN OFFSPRING… A FEMALE WHO HAS ADOPTED A CHILD OR OTHERWISE ESTABLISHED A MATERNAL RELATIONSHIP WITH ANOTHER PERSON… A CREATIVE OR ENVIRONMENTAL SOURCE… A WOMAN HAVING SOME OF THE RESPONSIBILITIES OF A MOTHER… QUALITIES ATTRIBUTED TO A MOTHER SUCH AS THE CAPACITY TO LOVE… AN AFFECTIONATE FAMILIAR TERM FOR ADDRESSING AN ELDERLY WOMAN…

RELEVANCE OF KEYWORD TO CONVERSATION: 11.762 PERCENT…

          "Well, she's a popular supermodel…" she thought for one of her many nicknames that her boss could possibly have heard. November Nonaka, Rumiko of the Monsoon, or even… "Ever heard of 'Sweetie Ruu'?" Sakamori's somewhat dumbstruck reaction to her statement puzzled her. "What? Did I offend you in any way? You don't like supermodels, do you?"

          "No, it's not that, it's just…" he hesitated enough to allow the sudden outburst from his intercom actually sound surprising to both of them.

          "Sir, you have a call from Intelligence Section," came the eerily cheerful female operator, "I think it's about your wife…"

          "Your wife?" Rika's eyebrow rose, as well as her curiosity. "You never did tell me about your wife."

          "Place it on hold for a while," the NS-8 Director ordered the secretary, apparently trying to wrap up what was left of their conversation now. "Listen, Rika… What I'm about to discuss with Intelligence Section is a somewhat… personal matter," he noticed the redhead nod slightly, "I think you should go see Sazaki for that medical examination in the meantime. Don't worry, though. We will finish this discussion today."

          "Yes sir…" she stood up to leave, nodding before turning around and waltzing out of the sliding glass door.

          As soon as he was sure that the former Tamer was out of earshot, Akira Sakamori hurriedly punched on the intercom, eager to find out just what exactly Intelligence Section had dug up about his wife who had disappeared so long ago. "Patch it through."

          The next voice heard was the typical emotionless 'recording' that came from most agents, "Sir, I think I found something interesting about both your wife and Agent Nonaka's family."

          "Really now?" his disbelief was obviously broken at that sarcastic statement to the point that it didn't even sound sarcastic, "Why don't you fill me in on it, eh, Ishida?"

          "Well sir, does Seiko Nanaoki ring a bell?" Ishida just loved to play guessing games to start up his little yet important information releases, and Sakamori was his favorite player, since he got at least one question right practically all the time.

          "Of course it does, Ishida!" Sakamori exclaimed as though the man he was talking to on the other line was a fool who didn't understand a word he said, "She's my missing wife!" His exasperation was evidently building up. "Why do you keep asking me these ridiculous questions anyway!?"

          "Calm down sir," Ishida prompted. If he was going to let this information out, a calm and collective listener, not some raving maniac should take it. "Well, as you know, your wife and daughter moved out of your place and somewhere into West Shinjuku where we lost them about some 30 years ago, right?"

          "Tell me what else is new…" that statement was wholly sarcastic, showing the fact that Sakamori felt this was going to be another segment of the wild goose chase he'd had them go on for the past 30 years.

          "Well, my team and I decided to do something entirely unheard of!" Ishida sounded like the next thing that was going to come out of his mouth was a corny joke, "We decided to hack into the government census archives—I know, sir, it sounds stupid since we don't have clearance of any sort, but we just had to do it for your sake."

          "Go on…"

          "We searched for a Seiko and Rumiko Nanaoki in the archives. We didn't find them, but there was one entry under 'N' that had such a striking resemblance to your 'case' that we figured it could only be an alias or anagram at least. Sir, it's Nonaka. That's the only entry under 'N' where we found one female senior citizen and another female in her prime." This definitely raised Sakamori's lost interest in the discussion. Could it be? He had tackled the possibility in his mind before; although the lack of evidence broke his will to even continue considering that somehow, Rika was related to his Ruu, or even him. "They also live somewhere in the West Shinjuku district. Sir, it was just a hunch, but we had an intelligence team dig their place up last week when both were out."

          "And you found?"

          "Well, she's discarded most of whatever you gave her… except this little picture she keeps in her closet. Judging from the fingerprints and smudges, I'd say she's regretting having left you to do your job, sir. She misses you A LOT. Another thing we found really interested me, though…"

          "And what would that be?"

          "We found another picture sir. Apparently, there was a third resident who moved in about, what, 18 years ago? Although we don't have any evidence whatsoever to prove she actually lived there, the picture said it all. Your little Ruu has… or at least… had a daughter, a harsh-looking redhead. Does that ring a bell?"

          Sakamori was struck by lightning. Never before did he actually assume something as deep, but the evidence was clear. Rika Nonaka, the woman whose eyes he compared to that of his missing daughter, did have the eyes of his missing daughter, or rather, had inherited them from her. This was something big. But how could he possibly tell her? How would she react? Would she accept him? Disown him? Hate him? "Actually, it does… anything else?"

          "I have a team investigating her daily habits as we speak… I'll have to get back to you on that." Ishida had to admit; NS-8's Intelligence Section did have its basis in the CIA, where he was formerly assigned. Their methods were the most effective there were thus far, although that didn't ensure 100 percent accuracy all of the time.

          "Just tell me about it when I'm free, say, while I'm shopping for goods this afternoon."

          "Yes sir…" with that statement, the commlink was cut, and Sakamori was left alone, Virgin's prying camera lens still focused on him.

          "Sir?" the virtual sentience finally spoke up, "How is having a daughter relevant to happiness?"

          Sakamori hated the extra lack of privacy, but what could he do? It was like the UN was paranoid or something. Not everybody was an Agency Operative in disguise waiting for them to screw up… some people like him were true to their jobs. "That is going to take much time to explain, I'm afraid," he said with a chuckle, "So we might as well start now."

Kevalio Strip Club, Stukariy District, Moscow

Wednesday, 0513 hours, Local Time…

          The distinct odors of cigar tobacco mixed with the powerful smells of feminine perfumes, as well as the ever-present vapors of that all-time favorite Russian liquor called Vodka, filled the chamber. Why feminine perfumes? One could've asked the skimpily-clad strip pole dancers who banged their iron stage… poles… as to why even bother putting on that artificial crap when the natural scents of sweat and estrogen were enough. Of course, that would've resulted as a painful slap to the cheek on whoever was candid enough to ask such a ridiculous question. Sensual music filled the air, along with the rowdy cheers of patrons as well as first time customers, cheering these probably homeless women as they… (pardon the pun) stripped on down.

          Not too far from the stage was the counter, where several of the women's (and the drinks') patrons sat, raising frothy mugs of beer and God knows what other kinds of alcoholic beverages as they cheered the entertainers on… all except one, though. He was sitting quietly on the side of the counter farthest from the stage, his back to the 'entertainment committee' who by this time only had their… ahem 'special places' left to hide. He ignored the music, the women, the yells, and the occasional 'ooh' or 'ah' that majority of the club's male occupants let out as he quietly gulped down a glass of hard Vodka on the rocks. He knew just about everybody there, although he didn't bother to talk with anyone. Although most came here to see the strippers make a living of show their hooters off, he came for the simple pleasure of having at least half a dozen glasses of whatever the house had to offer.

A dirt brown beret rested on his head, purple jacket emphasizing his stocky build. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead as he top-bottomed his glass. Apparently, it was far from his first drink. "Hit me again, Ivan," he called out to the typical mustached bartender who was wiping the inside of a glass. "The Whisky this time…" His familiarity with the bartender's, and the manner in which the bartender reacted to his request proved that Beret was a regular patron of his club.

'Bart', as most of the patrons knew him, obliged to the order, popping open a bottle and pouring its contents into the glass that he was previously wiping. It was funny enough that they called him Bart, since his real name was Ivan, but that didn't seem to bother him at all. Placing the ¾ filled glass on the counter, he slid it in the bereted man's direction, his customer catching it with marksman's accuracy.

          Beret sipped yet again, swirling the remainder of the contents around somewhat sentimentally, amused by the sound that the ice cubes made whenever they hit each other. He felt a presence make itself known to him; sitting on a stool to his right almost immediately after its former occupant grew tired of seeing boobs and pubes and left. He could tell from the sound and somewhat lightness of the weight shift that his new 'companion' was both young and female. "This is not the place for women or children… or do you simply think that a combination of both can pass the security check at the entrance? How did you get in?"

          "The same way militiamen do," she replied, apparently trying to disguise her voice into one more masculine by lowering its tones. "Do you actually think that NS-4 is so secret that its operatives have no universal security clearance whatsoever?" Beret remained silent. "I thought so." She signaled to Bart by raising her index finger, "Get me a Vodka… on ice, not diluted. I want it crude."

          Bart, or Ivan, rather, raised his eyebrow at the order given by someone, who with respect to height was 14 at the most. Then again, how could a minor have gotten through the security check? That could only mean one of two things: either this person was a minor who snuck in, or he was a 23-year-old adult who was simply diseased with some ailment that killed his pituitary gland or something. The bartender couldn't tell, since the Cossack fur hat, sunglasses, flu mask and trench coat completely hid his age and identity, moreover gender. Although, he could tell that this customer was at least Caucasian, due to some pale-brown locks that dared to escape his cap.

          Bart's hesitation somewhat irritated this new customer, "What are you waiting for? Is there something you did not hear clearly? I said Vodka, on ice, not diluted… crude." The bartender immediately complied, sliding the freshly filled intoxicated glass of liquor at Cap, only to be taken by somebody else. Now whoever this individual was, he was definitely an adult and a man. Although, the excessively scarlet color of his oddly done hair along with staggeringly emerald eyes gave Bart the impression that he was a character straight out of a Japanese anime.

          Upon catching the drink, Red didn't hesitate at all to swirl the glass' contents before taking a sip, which irritated Cap even more. "You never did tell me you had such a high tolerance for alcohol, my dear. Was this the French Soda you carried in your thermos all the time?" He smirked as he went bottoms up, practically smashing the glass onto the countertop, feverishly shaking his head as though he'd just submerged his face in a tub of ice cold water and pulled it out. "So Dmittri…" he shifted his attention to Beret, who by this time, had given up on drinking, staring blankly at the collection of liquor bottles that lay untouched across the counter. " What can you tell us about the meeting of D-Tech's board of directors?"

          "More specifically," Cap added, "When and where here in Moscow?" She signaled Bart for another glass, this time, to be brought to her personally, thus preventing Red from taking her share of alcohol. The bartender took the 'second serving', tossing in a couple of ice cubes, pouring into a shot glass the clear fluid, from which came its name vodka, meaning 'little water' in Russian. He then handed it over to his height-deprived customer, who savored its scent for a few moments just before practically dumping everything save the glass and ice cubes down her throat. Wiping her somewhat satisfied smile free of any fluid whatsoever that might have spilled onto her lips with her trench coat's sleeve, she brought the tiny glass down onto the counter, smirking as she said, "One more…" in as masculine a voice she could.

          Beret, or Dmittri, rather, slowly brought his left index finger up to his lips in a silencing gesture. "See the two men at the table behind us?" he pointed his thumb in the said table's direction, where two burly Russian men in black business suits and sunglasses sat, boisterously arguing about which stripper had the biggest and shakiest tits. "They are Agency Operatives who are supposed to be my bodyguards and yet are too stupid to even notice that I'm talking to our enemies…" he pinched his graying mustache, rubbing it between his two fingers.

          "You realize that by even doing so much as associating with us, you are branding yourself as one of their enemies as well," Red pointed out. "Now are you going to give us the time and place of your superiors' meeting or not?" this was said in a somewhat irritated manner, giving Dmittri the impression that his questioner was ill experienced in these kinds of situations.

          They don't teach them like they used to… What a delicate transaction such as this one needed was patience. You wouldn't want the squealer's custodians to notice any change in their charge's routine, especially if you were in such a vulnerable state. "Patience, young one… the battle of Leningrad wasn't won in a day, you know…" This statement was indeed a fact, since the fabled battle started on August 24, 1942 and lasted until February 2, 1943, approximately five months, a week, and two days. Gods knew what General Paulus, or Field Marshal, rather, since Hitler promoted him on the spot the day before his surrender, was thinking when he raised the white flag up at the victorious forces of Marshal Zhukov. The fool was probably cowering in a wrecked house when the Soviets came marching in victoriously…

          "Alright, then, Klevyorodov, I'll play along with your little game…" Red signaled to Bart, who, by this time, was filling Cap's third glass. "Get me a Levinskiy, and another Whisky for my friend here." Bart handed Cap her precious 'French Soda' and proceeded with his next order. The biggest advantage of having this kind of conversation in a highly renowned strip club, if ever such a place existed, was that the audience's cheering never stopped because of at least three sets of half a dozen strip and pole dancers who enticed their howling to muffle any sound less than 80 decibels. "I appreciate the risks you're taking in order to help us out—"

          Dmittri cut him off, "You're appreciating the risks I'm taking? I should be the one thanking you for taking these risks. I don't really care about what they do to me, but just promise me that if anything does happen, you will keep my dearest Natasha and Galena safe." The Agency Deputy Director sipped his share of liquor, and looked back at his bodyguards, a pleased smile appearing on his face as he saw that they were still ogling at those bimbos on the stage.

          Cap was astonished at this man's selflessness, "And to think I thought that everyone who worked for the Agency was a self-centered bastard who worked for nothing more than his personal success." She gulped down her fifth glass, cheeks not showing the slightest sign of redness. "So are you talking or not?"

          Although the inside of the club was warm and cozy, just outside its back door was at least three inches worth of snow. Takato Matsuki shivered inside his sneaking suit. He knew that Russia was going to be cold, but he didn't expect the back alley of some wretched strip club to be this cold. He stole a glance at his partner, who was apparently used to these kinds of temperatures. He didn't know much about Yamamoto, although the latter had been kind enough to tell him how he'd spent some days in Russia after surviving a plane crash caused by a Reaper-infected SAM site. "S… s… so… what exactly is taking them so long?"

          "Who knows…" the NS-8 Officer stoically replied, "Maybe Klevyorodov is just stalling. For all we know, the whole thing might be a setup and at least a dozen Agency Operatives are headed this way as we speak."

          "Or maybe Karya has gotten into another one of her 'French Soda' drinking games," Boris commented sarcastically. His active involvement with the aforementioned Tamer's social life had brought about at least one 'kiss the girl' moment, although he usually backed out since she smelled like liquor. It was no mystery of how somehow he'd figured out that the thermos full of 'French Soda' was really full of 'little water'.

          "Jack-en-poi!" Since technically, 'pets' weren't allowed in the strip club, Agumon and Gabumon had to content themselves with a little child's game of rock-paper-scissors. Lopmon had placed himself on Boris' head, trying to figure out what made the Xtra Strength Hair Gel so darned extra effective. Boris didn't even bother brushing his partner off, since he was wearing extra strength hair gel after all.

          "This is starting to bore me, Boris…" Lopmon complained, "Just tell me how this stuff turns hair into halberds."

          "Figure it out…"

          I really wish Guilmon was here right now… Takato really needed someone to talk to. The people (Digimon included) who were present at the moment were definitely hard to reach. On one hand, his partner was as stiff as some kind of stone monument. On the other, he was faced with three bothersome Digimon and an extremely vain hair gel jock. Even the guys back at NS-8 didn't talk to him at all. Rika, on a third hand that shouldn't have been there, was rather cold and shut again, no thanks to his big mouth that seemingly asked nobody on how Renamon was doing quite a few times whenever they met.

 Bang! The eruption of gunshots and screams inside the building jolted him out of his musings. Reflexively, or rather, in the manner NS-8 had trained him, he drew his own pistol from its holster. He looked at Yamamoto, searching for a signal on the shades-clad agent's face for any signal to move in, but found nothing. Boris seemed distracted, now trying to rip his partner off his head in attempts to fix his hair before getting his gun. Yamamoto didn't seem to flinch at all. It was as though he was expecting this to happen and didn't care about the results. "They'll make it. Yuri is a professional at surviving and Karya grew up fighting on the streets."

          The sudden mention of Karya snatched Boris' attention and he suddenly whirred around to face the NS-8 officer, causing Lopmon to fall off his head bringing some loose strands with him. "What did you say!?" he went, somewhat agitatedly.

          "You're too edgy, you know that, Agent Divvski? I was only stating a fact." Sudden movement at the back door caused the agent to draw his own sidearm and aim dead straight at the doorway. "Who's there?"

          "Look who's too edgy," a familiar voice humored. Three shadows appeared in the doorway. Apparently, two people were holding a third up by his arms as they exited. Yuri Komanov, Karya Hiakiim, and the third man, the guy from Tezansky's briefing, emerged from the shadow of the hallway. It looked as though the third was shot, two crimson holes in his purple jacket. The NS-4 Agents laid him on his back on the snow.

          "What happened in there?" Takato rushed over to see if the man was still breathing.

          "Apparently, Klevyorodov's bodyguards were lousy drinkers and started shooting the place up when they started to argue about something…" Karya smiled like she was mocking their tolerance of alcoholic beverages. "Dmittri here got shot twice and we had to bring him out here."

          "They didn't bother with you?" Yamamoto seemed surprised.

          "Nah, they were too busy shooting each other—"

          "The Uleslovik Clubhouse…" Dmittri struggled to say as he saw his world darkening. "Tonight at 7PM… they will be heavily guarded with agents on the rooftops and streets…" He forcibly coughed out some blood, "Second floor has been booked by private party… them…" The Agency Deputy Director turned to face Yuri, "Remember your promise…" He reached into his jacket pocket and with the last of his strength, tried to hand the scarlet-haired Tamer a 5x8 piece of photographic paper, "Take care of… Natasha… and Galena…" His hand fell, cold, onto the snow, just as Yuri received the article.

          He turned it around to see a black and white picture of a cultured middle-aged woman and her seven-year-old daughter. Yuri glanced at the unmoving beret-clad man and placed his fingers at his neck to check for pulse. The gunfire of the dueling drunken Agency Operatives continued to echo from inside the hall. By this time, the screams had died down, followed by the addition of the sounds at least two other guns into the fray, most probably the bar owner and that stupid security guard who couldn't tell the difference between a 13-year-old girl and a 23-year-old guy with a pituitary disease. Yuri shook his head as he turned back to the other people present; eerily similar to the way a surgeon comes fresh out of the Operating Room to announce his patient's fate. "He's dead…"

Aisle 26, Hakura Supermarket, Shinjuku, Tokyo

Wednesday, 1628 hours, Local Time…

          "Tadaki! Clean up on Aisle 19! Move it!" The loudspeakers barked out. For the employees at Hakura Supermarket, it was another exciting day of working, cleaning messes that the shoppers are guilty of causing, smiling at everybody they saw, and of course, standing at the cash register doing nothing but counting money. For others, it was a day of getting one of the necessities of life: food and maybe some drink.

Akira Sakamori picked a 2 Liter bottle of Prune Juice off the shelf and placed it conveniently into his shopping cart. What better way to spend one's afternoon than a stress-relieving period of shopping? Not many things, really. Well, for one thing, he could've just stayed at NS-8, hoping to increase Virgin's understanding of humans by even a trickle more, although he doubted that it was a better way to spend his afternoon than this. He fished a liter pack of iced tea powder off the shelf and carefully positioned it in the back of the half-filled cart.

          What other commodities populated this means of transporting food and goods to the cashier, you ask? Inside was approximately two kilos' worth of potatoes, some oranges, apples, about a liter of milk, an assortment of vegetables including peas, carrots, tomatoes, and the like, along with a few kilograms worth of meat such as beef, pork, chicken, etc.

Nonaka had been dismissed to her quarters earlier after her medical exam, as Sazaki had reported. Apparently, nothing was out of the ordinary. Every part of her was in perfect working order, perfect condition. Well, save several milliliters of an almost completely fragmented drug of some sort, most probably the sedative used to keep her down and out for those 12 hours, as well as some sort of microscopic 'clot' made of some unidentifiable material in one of her arteries that never did seem to come to their attention.

Aya said that she would have to take it out in order to do a more comprehensive analysis, although the requirement of a surgical removal and the fact that Sakamori deemed the clot as unimportant was more than enough to convince the enthusiastic Optec supervisor to stand down. What could they have possibly done to her that would pass by a med exam? His speculations drifted over to the possibility of brainwash, or perhaps, hypnotic imprinting. Rika would have to go through psychological examination before he'd send her on any more assignments… just to make sure that she wasn't already turned.

          He rounded a corner into another aisle passing by a pyramid of canned Vienna Sausages on the way, beside which stood a sign officially putting them on sale with 25% off. What was the use of such procedures anyway if their only purpose was to get rid of too many units in stock?

The NS-8 Director picked out a can of herring fillets soaked in Sĕpĥaģün sauce, checking the fat content, although he found one major complication: even though it was of an international brand, the only translations of its nutrient contents were written in English, Spanish, Italian, German, Indian, Malay, and Russian. "What about Japanese? It's not like Malaysia is the official Asian superpower…" he complained in a murmur. Not even the instructions on preparation were legible. He'd have to give its manufacturer a call some time and explain the fact that if they were going to translate the instructions into Asian, they should make the selected language Japanese, or even Chinese, at the very least.

          He shook his head as he placed the herring back onto the shelf and replaced it with a more local brand of canned fish, more specifically, some tuna (do they sell canned tuna in Japan?). Yes sir, there was no other activity at all that was more relaxing to him than shopping for the week's supplies. All the food in the supermarket seemed to give out a calming effect, somewhat hard to understand except to those who knew the so-called 'true essence' of shopping for goods.

          Sadly, of course, this period of tranquil bliss had to end sometime… more precisely, the moment his commlink chirped, "Sakamori… what's the situation?"

          Yet again, as always, he was answered by the cheery female NS-8 operator, "Sir, you have a call. It's Director Ishida from Intelligence Section… something about your wife… he sounds pretty excited, sir."

          "Alright… patch him through." That was when he remembered having offered his shopping time to Ishida for any updates concerning his spouse and daughter's situation. He heard the click of the transmission's reconnection, and, when sure of who was on the other line, spoke up, "Status of the investigation?"

          "Well, sir, the Intelligence Teams have reported in and apparently, you've been getting within thirty feet of your wife every week without knowing it for the past 30 years." Ishida had set up a reputation for being a joker, and apparently, Sakamori didn't find this joke the slightest bit funny.

          He lifted two bunches of grapes from the food chiller on Aisle 24, trying to decide which would look better in his living room's fruit basket, "What the hell are you talking about, Ishida? I haven't even felt her presence in my gut… and I know I can trust my gut."

          "It's possible that your gut was always distracted by something else, sir… like all the food and goods you have to lay your eyes on weekly." Sakamori tensed. There was something in that joke that caused him to take it more seriously than what was intended. "I'm talking about the supermarket, sir. The Intelligence Teams have confirmed that your wife shops at Hakura every Wednesday around this time. Coincidence? Or fate?"

          The NS-8 Director's temper neared boiling point… this joke was definitely going too far, "Ishida, I told you to give me an actual report, not a crank call. I want absolute proof. Now where is it?" His pace started to quicken as his body began to believe what his mind rejected as fantasy. It was like he was searching for someone.

          "Sir, this is a big example of serendipity. The Intelligence Teams checked out some of the supermarket's surveillance camera tapes in order to see whether or not you were being tracked, ran a profile scan on everybody who always appeared in the same camera frame as you did. They found out that a certain Seiko Nonaka passed by the chiller on Aisle 23 in every recording, picking out some citrus goodies for some reason.

          "If you're bullshitting me, Ishida, you know that's going to come out of your salary—" his statement was cut short as his cart crashed into that of somebody who was apparently heading in his direction. All of his goods as well as the ones in the other person's lug spilled onto the floor. He quickly scrambled to pick up the one's belonging to the other person, since, he knew it was his fault, and help her put them back into the stainless steel container, "I'm terribly sorry, I wasn't looking at where I was headed…"

          "That's alright," the woman answered. Sakamori could swear he'd heard that voice somewhere before, "It happens to me at least twice a month… I'm quite the clumsy one, actually." She laughed.

He stood and dusted himself, noting that she was dressed in a yellow kimono. Looking further up, his eyes laid themselves on a face that had seemed to be the object of his dreams for so long, short-cut graying brown hair, several white strands already present. Now he was certain 0that Ishida wasn't joking at all, "Seiko…"

          Realization struck the person being addressed. Here, standing in front of her right now, was the man whom she'd prematurely left behind because of some foolish reason. She never did know the full importance of his job, whether he was the Bank's President, or just a banker trying to get a living. She hated herself all these years for having run away from him with their daughter, practically destroying what had the potential to be a very happy, loving, and cherishing family. Slowly but surely, the name she had longed decades to utter once more came forth in the form of a whisper, or perhaps, in the effect of shock, a simple motion of her lips without the addition of any sound, "Akira…"

To be Continued…

AN: Well that was unexpected, wasn't it? In any case, I'm sure you guys will know what exactly happens when Takato et al eavesdrop on the Agency meeting in the next chapter… thanks to this little sneak peak, that is.

          "Wait a minute…" the man in black pondered the matter in his head as he took a closer look at Takato's face, "I know you! You're one of those Tamers who messed up the Reaper!" He flicked the safety off his P229, shining its flashlight directly into the poor boy's eyes, "What was your name again?" He stopped to think once more, although his attention never left the tamer who was standing, hands on his head. "It was Takato, wasn't it? Takato Matsuda?"

          The aforementioned persona could only gulp. He was compromised by the very same man who was allegedly inside the club, lecturing the other Agency Directors concerning the, as far as he could tell, terrifying potential of Project: C. So much for my first operation… Maybe this is what happened to Jeri… this was how she… died. They caught her red-handed and shot her on the spot! The way he saw it, there was only one out of two ways out of this. Either this man shot him dead on the spot, like what he assumed to have happened to Jeri, or, at least one of the NS-4 agents who were supposed to be with him on this assignment found out about this predicament he was in and helped him out of it.

          "Oh, how rude of me!" the man smiled as he adjusted his sunglasses, giving Takato the impression that he was Agent Smith from the Matrix Movie, who could duplicate himself by thrusting his hand into other programs… or people… and turning them into clones of himself. "My name is Jacob Marlon, and I run the Agency… and maybe even the whole world. Now that introductions are done, though, I should focus more on eliminating the threat of your presence at this important Agency meeting." Marlon brought the silenced weapon's muzzle up to the Tamer's chest, which thankfully, unbeknownst to the Agency Chief Director, was lined with bullet proof material. He hesitated for a moment, the sound of a thoughtful 'hmm' escaping his nose as he reconsidered his options, and aimed at Takato's head instead as he began to pull the trigger.

          She never wanted to become part of the project in the first place… but it wasn't like they gave her any choices at all in life. They had found her around a decade ago, in a world not of her own; lost and unwilling to be found. She was then brought by them to the place in which they resided, and given a dwelling of her own. Every day since then, she had to get up long before daybreak and survive the trials that they gave her, improving every time, knowing that the next run-through would always be much harder.

          It had always been that way for the first five years of her being in their possession. She knew, or a fact, that she indeed was in their possession simply because they treated her as such. It was on that day that they gave her a box… nothing fancy, just a plain, ordinary box… a chest if you will. This, theytold her to open when, and only when, she was ready, which, at the time, she knew she was far from being.

          She had continued her routine of completing the requirements that they demanded of her for several more days, as if nothing had changed at all. Until one night… she had just finished what activity they had her participate in, when she thought she heard a voice, a cry for help, coming from the dwelling that theygave her.

          She traced the source to be somewhere inside her room, and scoured it for the voice's origin, but to no avail. The voice had ceased… Then her eyes had met with the box that they had given her. She saw that it was currently emitting an aura not present before. She did not 'see' it in the layman's definition of actually seeing with the eyes. Rather, she sensed it using the gift she possessed that they had augmented through those daily trials and tribulations.

          Slowly and cautiously she approached the olden chest, taking to mind their admonition of opening it only when she knew for sure that she was prepared. Truly, at this point in time, she was. Upon removing the lid, a luminescence similar to that of the sun itself engulfed her entire quarters for but a moment, dying out almost immediately afterward. What she saw next caused her eyes to water in joy, for what had just been freed from the box was what she had waited ages for: a companion.

AN: There we go… now you know some of Yamamoto's past, which was, pretty much, riddled with bad luck and extreme misfortune. Funny enough I couldn't help but laugh at what I wrote when I should be feeling sorry for him… Oh, and newbie, what I was thinking of when I typed down that question was 'I wonder what question I'm going to ask him?' God dammit, I finally finished this chapter… I've been working on this since Christmas but I had no idea where to start. Decided I'd work on a few side projects while trying to fix this chapter. This second sneak peak here is a cut out from something I wrote up in school to compensate as sort of an introductory scene for Pandora's Fox. It's pretty short compared to my usual writing, but that's because I wrote it on a yellow pad using a pilot fine point pen. What could you expect?

And yes, Karya Hiakiim is that Kari clone I mentioned in the note on top of the page. Von wanted me to make one, then fine! I'll make one! Decided to give her a little twist though… got so big that it arrived at the point where I just decided to turn Kari's entire image upside down… Right now, I have no explanation of as to how a 13-year-old could possibly take five or more shots of vodka and still stay sober. Boris Divvski was the product of watching the first movie on my PC while watching an episode of Johnny Bravo. Imagine Willis was that vain and that a girl chaser. And you guys probably half-expected Sakamori to be related to Rika in some way, right? Well, there's your answer. As for Project: Toto-Con, it's still in my head and I'm sure the little clues I planted would leave you guys thinking… not that I left any clues whatsoever… did I? Hope this is enough to keep you people hooked for the time being, since I'm grounded on weekdays for the next two weeks. Don't worry, though. I swear the next chapter won't be so long… Actually, I'm still trying to put my ideas together… Well, that's a rap. The last thing I leave you with here, is the same old same old message I leave all the time: READ AND REVIEW!!!