Alabaster's Graveyard

 

 

    Myrand clocked two seconds on his wristwatch. Concerned, he swaggered his index finger three times; northwards in the same direction with a second's rest in between each. His student leftwards rest silent, a scrutinized study during another set of finger swaggering. Seconds trickled faster than sand through a sifter. Watching sixty seconds wane on the watch, Myrand stopped pointing and turned to Rix. The digimon's eyes went void of answers, pupils a steamed mist in confusion or curiosity, maw lips frowning, ears flat. He sighed.

 

            "C'mon Rix, you know this sign. It's the easiest one of them all."

 

    Rix scowled. "There's too many of these sign language things." He said, jamming his head underneath pillows. "I'll never get them straight."

 

            "It takes time. You'll get most of them down, just focus on one at a time."

 

            "O-Okay. I'll try again."

 

    Myrand readied his hands. "Alright, same scenario. You're scouting out the area for me and I'm right behind you. It's clear and you wave," flashed the index finger thrice times again, "What are you telling me?"

 

            "That the area is all-clear and you should push forward?"

 

            "Correct! Now that wasn't so bad, plus you get a kiss from your girlfriend over there." Off Myrand's words Kiyra leaned over and lip-kissed Rix on the muzzle. "Don’t get him too excited."

 

    She pressed on, grabbed his mane in her maw before necking him, a purred satisfaction from them. They often necked when watching television or bedding on the couch every night. After these encounters, she mellowed out—completely languid—in her chores to keep board, cleaning without objection unlike before. Rix underwent change too. He appeared less tense learning appliances, like the coffee pot, at ease switching filters out and restocked the coffee. Mates together indeed. Now it would take just one's excitement to make them parents.

 

    Myrand broke his hand through their grip and scratched Rix's ears. "All right, let's keep going."

 

            "Gimme a hard one, so I maybe she'll kiss me more."

 

    The hand signal flashed once. Myrand's index finger rotated in twirls once, twice, and thrice then stopped. "That was the signal for regroup. Field commanders need to keep their scouts collected and ready for a springboard attack, so they used this command to bring them in. Sometimes a bird's whistle or dog's bark are substituted. With this information, can you guess what this means?" He pointed his finger upward, twirled once, slicing it down to point ahead of him. "Think hard, it might hurt a little too."

 

    Rix ignored Kiyra's chuckles. "If I'm correct, I get to tackle and kiss her for a while." Myrand chuckled. "The answer is Regroup at that Location."

 

            "Oh," The soldier grinned, "Correct again."

 

    The speckled blur raced past Myrand’s right and tackled Kiyra backwards. The male Renamon clambered up her body length until his maw suckled on hers, paws glued against her daffodil-colored shoulders. Grunts left his nose while his lips scrabbled for her taste. He hugged her closer. Fur tints rotted together, yellow speckled black and white, turning like a stale egg yolk. Rix gained purchase to mount her, weighed his legs on hers and arms locked around her chest. He thrust his hips into her pelvis. In short repeats, he dry humped her until the flinted edge of his erection slid from its white sheath, adrenaline stiff, searching to cleave its recipient’s hallow.

 

    Myrand’s eyes caught its pinking. A natural part of life for sure, but hell, nature can wait a little longer, at least until off of my sheets. He got on all fours and crossed the bed length, in position behind Rix. Their sweating muscles and hormones dripped in humidity. His arms tensed, wrapped around his partner’s mid-section locking in a firm grip at the stomach. He pulled. Up went the male, soft erection flailing, onto the floor at the bed’s feet.

 

    Wafts of steamed pheromones greeted his nose. “No little fur balls remember?” He harangued, pointing a finger at Kiyra, “You’re a bad influence.”

 

            “We’re mates, it’s what we do; make little fur balls.” She looked flush from the contact, but smiled. “To make your life miserable.”

 

    Rix climbed onto the bed again, erect down below. “That and to have sex.”

 

            “Holster that for Grace’s sake.” Myrand waved towards Rix’s maleness.

 

            “I can’t yet, its halfway there.”

 

            “Halfway?” Kiyra murmured. She eyed the four inches of soft pink. “He’s a big guy.”

 

            “Then put something over it.” Rix followed Myrand’s advice, stuffing a pillow on his lap. “No, not my pillow ya goofy fox! I got to put my head on that!”

 

    The digimon cringed. “I think I just lost it.” He peeled a corner of pillow and peeked underneath. “Yep, you killed it Myrand.”

 

            “Good. Now let’s get on with the hand signals again, and you come here.” Myrand wrapped an arm around Kiyra, scratching between the ears. “This time I’ll make sure it’s only kissing.”

 

    The three continued their lesson while afternoon waned to dusk. Myrand taught a myriad of hand signals, ranged from movement to attack, accompanied by short, somber kisses. Seven o’clock their shadows grew into column-thick giants and they stopped. Soon Rix would leave his mates bedside to patrol around Shinjuku’s streets. His anxious banter kept good company while the Jade Dragoon dressed, even driving Myrand into an admired smile. On the dwindling of the old hour both soldiers reside in the presence of Kiyra’s embrace on the living room couch.

 

            “It’s of eleven, time to go Rix.” Myrand said. He tucked the comforter over Kiyra, pillow wedged underneath her head. “Give her a kiss good night and we’ll be off.”

 

            “She’s a beautiful female. I hope our offspring inherits her looks.”

 

            “And not her snoring,” Myrand added. “Worst sounding demolition in years coming from that mouth.”

 

    Rix aridly kissed her forehead, watched her chest rise and fall. “Sleep well Kiyra.”

 

    The duo emerged outside the hotel’s vestibule. Cars lined the curbs. Sidewalks remained void except for a passing critter’s three legs, tumbleweeds of newspapers or, in latter blocks, passing drunks freshly grown downtown on migration to their homes. Rix shied glances at them, curled behind the Jade Dragoons armored body to slink in his shadow. But once the drunkards started herding in large flocks at the bars, he cocked his head at their strange antics, ‘swilly nilly’ dancing too.

 

    A woman burst through two tavern doors, bottleneck gripped in her swelled fist. She was a head shorter than the door’s windows. Her bile blonde hair frizzled at the bangs, covering gleaning jowls, forehead crowned in acne. Moments before, tab totaled at seven hundred dollars, she downed several Cognac brands like chocolate milk. Her feet refused to walk straight. She tipped at Rix with her free hand and the other buttoning her blouse.

 

            “That sure a strange doggy Mister.” She said. “Does it do tricks?”

 

    Myrand’s face deplaned behind the helmet visor. “He can do some.”

 

            “Mind if I-er, I ask him to do it?”

 

            “I think we’ve had a little too much to drink.”

 

    Her milk ashen eyes crossed at him. “Don’t worry bout me, I can always handle my boobs. Now show me some tricks doggy and I’ll let you in on a sip.” Without hesitation, the digimon begged his forepaws to anchor on Myrand’s uniform. He whimpered. “Heh-Hak, that’s a good one.” She dropped the bottle on its side. “’Ere ya go doggy.”

 

    Spilling Cognac leaked in a reflective pool below Rix’s nose. While Myrand watched the woman roly-poly down the street, he lapped at it once. His tongue burned, fire trickled down his throat until it stopped at his larynx, fixing its walls to throb in pain. Tears well in his eyes and he tried spitting the bitterness out. He picked Myrand’s water bottle from its holster downing the clear liquid until the pain dulled. The pillowed sting completely left him after draining the entire bottle.

 

    Rix threw the water bottle away. “What was that stuff.” He muttered a few blocks down, “It burns my throat just thinking about it!”

 

            “That was Cognac. And why you had to be a goof to drink it is another story.”

 

            “She said I could have some.”

 

            “If she offered to shave your fur for a bottle of Advil would you do it?”

 

    The digimon’s ears flattened. “Humans are weird.”

 

            “Nah you’re just a goofy furbag.” Myrand hugged him close and scratched his mane, “Always sticking that curious snout where it doesn’t belong.”

 

    Rix’s eyes returned upwards at the high-rises reflecting moonlight off their windows. “So this entire city is on our patrol?”

 

            “Not really. The city gets broken up into several sections, pieces, and then it’s those pieces that I base our patrol on. A good six to eight mile hike on average, it’s good for the heart.”

 

            “Oh.” Rix hung a curious look. “So what are we going to be doing tomorrow tonight Myrand?”

 

            “Same thing we do every night Rix, try to take over the world!”

 

    The digimon balked. “What?”

 

            “Their Rix, their Rix and Myrand, Myrand, Myrand…” The Dragoon reiterated. The cartoon jingle sounded better without the‘d’ in Myrand. “It’s an old cartoon show I used to watch when I was a kid. But we’re going to patrol the southern area of Shinjuku this week starting with Alabaster’s Graveyard.”

 

            “Whose graveyard?”

 

            “Alabaster’s Graveyard is a name for an abandoned air plane depot. It was founded by Alabaster Steel and used to traffic new aircraft to different landing fields around Shinjuku. As time went on Alabaster developed cancer, and it was rumored that his deceased body was buried somewhere in his air depot. Some say under the observation tower; I say he’s under the fuel dump. Now it’s used for dumping retired planes that’ll never fly again.”

 

            “And we’re going there?!”

 

            “You’re not afraid of ghosts are you?”

 

    Rix huffed. “Of course not. What kind of digimon do you take me for?”

 

            “Goofy.”

 

    Myrand’s answer caused him to growl. “I’ll prove I’m not chicken, I’ll go in first.”

 

            “You take the lead then.” The Jade Dragoon said.

   

    Fifteen walking minutes later they reach Shinjuku’s train station near the park. Myrand bought two tickets for the 1 a.m. fare to Chosi. When they would depart, a suitable hike toward Narita should bring them to Alabaster’s from the coast—the backdoor—and they’d set up from there. In the meantime he watched Rix fight with the Ticket Booths; his curious Renamon investigating what makes the turnstiles spin. He spun them around with his paws. Each time brought a murmur, eyes scanning the spaces where the protective case failed to cover, at the internal switches and gadgets underneath. Do all digimon act as goofy as he does?

 

    Half an hour rolled past and the train arrived. They boarded its caboose, took the seats near the other car’s connection hallway. Myrand undid his rifle sling, placing the weapon on an adjacent seat so Rix could rest against him. A quiet crept upon him, aside the soft clacking of train wheels outside, enough to hear Rix breathe on his shoulder. He glanced down. His partner’s eyes were closed, needed sleep recharging the energy lost in curiosity of the Human World. Smiling, Myrand reached over and gave a scratch between his ears.

 

            “The best digimon I could ever ask for.” He whispered. The rail signs for Chosi station paced two miles a sign and he let Rix snooze the whole trip.

 

 

 

 

 

    Sitting minutes in silence, Rix whimpered. “I-I am a chicken, you can go first.” He stood before Alabaster’s threshold, tail knifed through his legs. “I’m a very big chicken.”

 

            “It’s not that bad for crying out loud. All you gotta do is think happy thoughts and—“

 

            “That’s not funny Myrand!”

 

            “Oh for Grace’s sake get in here already.” The Jade Dragoon walked through the iron-wire fence. “Imagine what Kiyra would think if she saw you cower like a pup.”

 

    The male stiffened. “I’m not cowering! It’s just a breeze that’s making me shake.” He countered, trailing his Tamer into Alabaster’s Graveyard.

 

    Alabaster's airstrip was a single lane of cheap tarmac and soapstone concrete. Myrand stood at its dead end against Narita's shoreline, back against the rust-dusted fence. Dilapidated planes sidelined the strip with laden beds of thistle weeds and milk stalks choking their landing gear. Hallow frames towered above, eating Myrand’s shadow as he walked underneath their gullets, so monstrous in bulk they blotted sight to the hangars opposite of the field. Engine oil clotted in puddles around a wide section of places, jet-black reflections making the moon stale. He shimmied past and ducked under a disconnected fuselage into a head of thistle.

 

    Rix curled beside him, luminescent eyes unblinking. “What now?”

 

            “Can’t see anything from here. We’ll have to get up high, like that air traffic control tower.” He pointed to a structure yards from them. Its base clouded in dense fog. “I’ll get a perfect view from up there.”

 

            “Up there? Through the fog?”

 

            “Yes, that’s what going up there means.”

 

            “But what if there’s a wild digimon?”

 

    Myrand looked at him. “That’s when you’d run at him screaming like a girl and distract him enough for a shot.” Through the black visor, Rix soured. “Then if you’re heroic suicide ends up missing… I guess its back to the drawing board again.”

 

            “That’s not funny Myrand!” The Renamon shouted, “You know I don’t scream like a girl.”

 

    Myrand chuckled and scratched between his ears. “Just keep these ears tuned and we’ll get there no sweat. Use the shadows as cover and make a beeline for the tower. And keep this curious thing under control.” He twanged a few whiskers. “Can’t afford to nurse another one of you back to health.”

 

    Rix ran first until flat against the hangar wall, Myrand followed soon after he flashed the all clear signal. Something dwelled in the air when he jogged halfway across the gap. A strong petroleum waft, thickened and humid, lingered at the hangar’s entrance. They diagonaled towards the second hangar and smelled perfumed kerosene gas sift through the door cracks.  Their final hangar yielded clean air, but electrical hums symphonize working motors that rattled the backdoor. Before running towards the tower, obscure objects caught his eye, covered in tarp at the parking lot.

 

            “Rix wait.” Myrand shimmied to the hangar’s edge and peered around the corner. “They weren’t here before.”

 

            “What?”

 

            “Trucks,” Myrand said, “Dump Trucks. Three of them full to their girth in plane parts.”

 

            “Should we investigate?”

 

            “No, but keep an eye out for anything unfriendly.”

 

    The Jade Dragoon thought nothing of them while sprinting through the fog. But the longer he ran water condensed on his visor, sheets dripping like fallen rain. It smelled of strong copper and heavy wetness. Water on a hotplate perhaps or something more complicated; cooling poorly maintained engines for example. A dread formed in his belly, telling him foul play worked in those hangars. Black marketeer’s plane scrounging belittled evidence of their passing— they collected all the nuts and washers. Hundreds of different bits crunched underfoot.

 

    Rix fiddled the padlock on the control tower’s only door. “I thought this place was supposed to be abandoned.”

 

    Myrand nodded. “So did I.”

 

            “Any guesses on whose inside?”

 

            “Could be anyone, probably black market operators, but they wouldn’t leave all these bits on the ground.” Myrand handled his rifle. “I’m positive their armed, though.”

 

            “You mean with guns?”

 

            “Don’t worry Rix, they don’t hurt much.”

 

    Rix brightened. “Oh,” then darkened back, “that wasn’t funny Myrand.” He grumbled. The lock clicked and gave in his paws. “Let’s go!”

 

    Myrand grabbed his tail. “Let me go first, I’ll strike faster if there’s anyone up there.”

 

    They ascended the spiral ramp. Myrand hovered the rifle’s scope between his chin and clavicle, barrel pointed towards the advancing curves. He chose his steps so the oxygen-rotted escarpment gave voiceless sound. Rix made it difficult, his toenails click-clicking carried echoes straight into the tower bell. Each step revealed night sky in slivers, growing until an entire window panned moonlight in their eyes, right below bell level. Myrand charged four feet. Luck titled to his favor and emptiness greeted him.

 

    From the bell he could see Alabaster’s Graveyard splayed out. The sound and the runway’s dead end panned far eastward, obscured by plywood boards. He could make out the rows of planes on the runway, more cluttering hangar bays and alleyways. Five hangars lingered northward in a scattered heap. Three closest were repair bays; webbed widow’s walks built over nonexistent rooftops with latter foundations. Rix pried out the plywood blocking vision westward. The coastal road stretched in imperfect lineage until the horizon ate it. 

 

    Myrand brushed dusty papers from a nearby desk and sat on it. “Get comfortable.”

 

            “Finally some rest.” Rix said, mimicking on a chair. “It’s tiresome walking all this way.”

 

            “You’ll get used to it. Street patrols are more interesting than these far out places—the bars are open, convenience stores open all night, and sometimes you can squeak in a movie at the Apex Theater.”

 

    Rix tilted his head. “Movie?”

 

            “A long television show without commercials,” Myrand instructed. “But usually they're filled with couples and I’d leave feeling like the odd man out.”

 

            “So why don’t you find someone to make yourself even?”

 

    Myrand sighed. “I don’t know. No one pays attention to an aloof hermit like me anyway, so why bother.” He fidgeted his helmet to scratch an absent itch. "Rather be fighting wild digimon with my best friend anyway."

 

            "Sometimes warriors must take a mate to carry their bloodline unto their sons. I was stronger than my father, he was stronger than grandfather, and I hope my son will rival mine." Rix said. He leaned backwards to daydream. "We'll live back in the digital world, in a small den sitting on a tropical oasis. She'll bear cubs every year until we're too old to mount." His eyes returned to Myrand. "You ever plan parent hood?"

 

    Myrand stood and settled on the abutment slope before the windows. "I always thought of having a little girl. Don’t know who'd the mother would be, but I like girls more than boys—probably because I got in so much trouble when I was a kid."

 

            "Does this little girl have a name?"

 

            "Does your son?"

 

    Rix cocked his head. "You know, I never thought of that. Guess it would boil down to what Kiyra and I agreed on." He paused. "Jourmal… I like that name."

 

            "I'm going with Rika. It sounds rough and tomboyish."

 

    The Renamon cuddled in his chair, tail and extremities wrapped in fetal position. "Makes me warm just thinking about it."

 

            "You're a goofy soul. Completely off the rocker."

 

    Rix opened his mouth to reply, but an erratic beeping sliced through the conversation. Myrand searched his pockets. The mid-left vibrated and wailed, screeched a single note until he unzipped it, pulling out his digivice. It quieted upon his touch, screen illuminated with different arrows splitting in opposite directions. He noticed Rix's fur expanding into fluff; pupil's dilated over its irises letting only black remain. Tearing away from his partner, Myrand realized two separate fog banks rose in the airfield, white cloud devouring anything it touched. They thickened in color unlike its cousin surrounding the control tower.

 

            "Digimon." Rix growled.

 

            "Digimon, as in more than one critter?" The Renamon barked. "Looks like we stumbled onto a party."

 

    Myrand shifted back towards the desk he had sat on. He jammed the riflescope into eyesight, watching the digital fields with magnesium luminescent crosshairs. "What do you mean 'you stopped production'?" A voice bellowed. "I don’t care if those turbines ran with just water! Get them working now, or I'll see to it that you and your incompetent men are gargling for air!"

 

    The Jade Dragoon glanced at Rix. "Come again?"

 

    He shrugged. "I didn’t say anything."

 

            "Those digimon must not reach the repair bays. Take all the gunnery squads you can and stop those lumbering animals!" The voice harangued, raging to near wheezing. "There's fourteen of you and two of them—spell out the situation Odin, even the most dundersome soldiers could win with those odds!"

 

   Myrand peeked out. Below the window, two figures stood before the dump trucks, faces blurred beyond magnification.  A storm coat adorned by the shorter fellow, pistol armed in his tiny fist, attention towards his compatriot. The fellow seemed to mutter for a moment. A few minutes too long for his shadowed accomplice, stirring obscenities at the cropped digital field. Myrand assumed the storm coat was Odin, the lackey, the-captain-or-less. They exchanged non-verbal body signals and the accomplice jumped in the closest truck.

 

            "Kill this infestation before I get back Odin, or our Fuehrer will be unhappy; and if he's unhappy than I'm unhappy. I hate being unhappy!"

 

            "Yes General DeTrest, the Fuehrer's will be done. The shrapnel yard shall be standing when you return."

 

    The dump trucks roared to life. "It'd better be." DeTres threatened. Odin stepped back and watched each truck roll out onto the coastal road.

 

    Myrand recoiled back inside. His eyes settled onto Rix's worried expression. "What the hell is going on here?"

 

            "Beats me." Rix replied.

 

    Myrand turned his attention outside again. Floodlights sparked atop the hangars, focused on the encroaching digital barrier in search for the wild threat. The main doors below them swung wide, multiple black ants marching out. In full magnification these ants formed the bodies of fully armored men, submachine guns bared, some taking posts on the widow's walks. Tens more created a phalanx between two adjacent hangars. Others dotted behind dismantled engine blocks and wings, spread in a thin line in front of the closest hangar. The digital fog pressed on. Silence flooded over them faster than the digital fog.

 

            "Form a defensive line in front of the Fuel Depot, we mustn't let a stray shot puncture that wall." Odin commanded. "And Fuehrer protects us, the Fourth Reich protects us, so there is no excuse for dieing today. You will resist the enemy and drive him back into the digital plane."

 

    Myrand pulled back the bolt mechanism and settled a finger over the trigger guard, scope panning the troop formations. "Whatever happens Rix make sure nothing gets up here." He heard the faint acknowledgement, "I don’t know whose the enemy, but we'll certainly find out."

 

 

To be continued…