Fox On
Though the sky remained clear, the air grew colder. Clouds boiling at the ocean’s horizon slowed and drifted towards an empty coastline. People watched from hotel balconies as they gathered, laden with enough moisture to blot out the moon, smothering the stars in its expanse. Thunder peeled far out at sea. Tourists heard its clamoring music, walking for their hotel rooms located along the boardwalk—some exuding premature symptoms of people’s phobias; running, small children screaming in excitement, flinching whenever the thunder drummed. Dumpsters stacked high, three in each column in five rows of four, one for each beachside hotel to dump their trash after a day’s collection of leftover food or paper scraps. They were placed along a loading dock with only one road that led in the direction of the landfill no more than three miles away.
Nestled in shadows, Myrand waited among dumpsters in the third row, braced against one side. He gripped his sniper rifle tighter. Around him, open bags of orange rinds and coffee filters sat exposed, breathing over the rifle’s jade green face. Rodents scraped along his boots, searching for any wholesome scraps they could feast upon. Once in a while thunder clapped. The ocean waves crashed against the shore. He breathed slow, forcing his lungs to expunge miniscule amounts of air, and inhale. All attention focused down the scope, bulls-eye pointed down the two miles of splintered planks.
He retracted the firing pin until it locked. “I am stiff, locked in my joints. I never move, or fear my prey will detect me. I am a statue. My hands are firm and solid.” He chanted this over twice, something learned from his father and grandfather when they went out hunting sometimes. “The first bullet must hit its target.” Both feet dug deeper, past thick layers of old meats until snug on concrete.
In minuets the boardwalk emptied; loose papers, plastic bags, and sand, jellyfish through the traveling winds. Lights glowing from hotel windows winked out. Boardwalk lamps cast silver halos of vision, spotting circular patterns in a skewed path leading to the other end. The quiets of a blustery night drew digimon out of their hiding places. He knew this, and the beachfront was prefect lure for any curious digimon, Rookie, Champion levels, and so on. Snagging two or more would award him weeks of paid vacation. Such luxury, even the combination sounds euphoric: ‘paid vacation’.
Thunder rang in his eardrums. The wind grew into wailing gusts. Trash cans tilt and swayed before spilling over the boardwalk, rolling on their sides. “Well this is different. Maybe I should call it a night before the storm starts.” The scope fell away from his eyes until it pointed to the ground. One hand unlocked the locking pin, his other hand patted around his vest. “Damn, where did it go?”
“Looking for this?” He almost shouted in surprise as his water bottle lowered to head level. “Hello Myrand.”
The Jade Dragoon tilted his head upward, seeing her face curl into a smile. He slid the water bottle off her open palm, unscrewed the cap, and chugged most of it down. With quarter of it remaining he screwed it closed, offering the last to Renamon. She accepted. From below he watched her drink in the low lighting. Even in near darkness, her daffodil fur glowed, the white along her chest and feet turned polished silver in the street lamps presence. After suckling any left over droplets, she tossed the bottle in the wind, which threw it onto the beach.
“I see your wounds have started to heal over quite nicely.”
She picked at
her stomach scab. “Yes, the Aloe Vera and shampoo helped a lot, although I had
to empty Rika’s shampoo bottle.” Mentioning Rika made her frown. “She’s away on
vacation for the winter, in a place called
“So you’re all alone for two more months?”
“After battling Indramon, Rika’s mother thought it would be best if they went away for a while, to get away from all the fighting.”
“No shit …”
Myrand pulled away from the dumpsters. He brushed some paper slivers off his
shoulders, felt Renamon land close to him. “I grew up in
Her paw grazed
his shoulder, plucking an idle paper sliver in her plump fingers, and let it
fall away. “Do people in
“Huh?”
“Rika said her uncle lived in The Big Apple, so how big was your apple?” She gawked as he busted out laughing. “What?”
“The Big
Apple is just a nick name for
“Oh.” The vixen remarked, surprised more than embarrassed. “Sounds like a lovely place, too bad for me. I guess Guilmon wouldn’t mind a roommate in that big cage of his until Rika arrives, maybe I’ll get some peanut butter out of it. The park’s pond is always full of delicious water, although sometimes it’s a bit dirty, infested with flies and mold, and Guilmon’s bathes in it.” She puckered her face. “My fur will get all dirty and knotted in big, nasty tangles.” Her eyes studied his face. “I’ll lose sleep because Guilmon would want to play during the daytime, making me a target for any wild digimon.”
Myrand snapped his fingers, a delighted expression in his face. “You know what I just got an idea!”
“What would that be?” Renamon mirrored.
“I heard that the pound has this great plan. You check in for two weeks to find the best home, one that both you and landlords would agree to. You see it’s perfect; you have two full weeks to find a better place to live before they would euthanize you. With your looks I bet you could fall into the arms of some rich billionaire with a condo or mansion. Imagine that, right?”
She glared at him. “That’s not funny.”
“I bet you could bully some little kids for their candy if you wanted to.”
“Please Myrand—“
“ … Come on.”
Renamon drew back, unprepared for his answer. “I …”
“Just let me think about it while we’re walking back to my apartment, okay?” Both of them started down the boardwalk. “Oh and don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul that you started to beg.”
Thunder exploded over them. The vixen flinched closer to Myrand’s side, almost grabbing his arm with both of hers. Her head pressed against his shoulder to blot out another peel of thunder, spine tingling vibrations, ears folded back. Whimpers escaped her lips every time the racket descended from the cloud; never had thunder sounded this loud, so ear-shattering. She almost curled into a ball if not for Myrand’s strong hands keeping her safe with his sheltering body. Once in a while he rubbed the fur under her chin, and she relaxed until another round of nature’s music resounded.
They turned
down a side alley towards
Then again, Renamon was an exception to the rule. When she wandered into his life no more than a week ago, during the battle with Vahjramon, he grew curious. When he nursed her back to health from Flamedramon, gave her his bed to sleep on, that curiosity grew into wonder. She exuded the impression of acting tough like her tamer, but deep down there seemed another side of her just underneath the concrete exterior. It begged for Myrand to break through. He’d seen it before when she passed in and out of consciousness, it glazed the surface of her eyes, moved her voice to say ‘thank you’. Then disappeared the moment he forced her awake.
“Renamon are you scared?”
Her head lifted from Myrand’s shoulder, eyes narrowed at his. “No I’m not.” Thunder echoed. She recoiled against him, arms around his torso. “I’m just a bit nervous.”
“Admit it, you’re scared of thunder.” Despite his constant pestering, she refused to admit anything. “All you have to say is ‘I’m afraid’. Then I’ll be satisfied.”
There came angry hisses from her mouth. “Fine, I’m afraid of thunder. I’ve been afraid of it ever since I was a kit with my parents. Happy?”
“Actually I am.”
“You’re barbaric.”
Laughter escaped his throat. “But don’t you feel better?”
Exploding thunder stopped her movement. She didn’t flinch, but kept an eye towards the black sky. “A little,” Her gaze shifted onto his. “My mother told me thunder came from an angry Mega digimon that lived in a castle on a cloud. Every time he got hungry, he’d bang his mallet when he found little rookies who got away from their parents. Of course it was only a tale to keep children in line, but I always imagined this big flying giant coming to eat me, and every time it thundered I want to hide.”
“Well you won’t have to be scared back home, the walls are pretty thick, and I think their giant proof too.”
A smile, large enough to see ebony canines sparkle in the street lamps glow, stretched across her face. “You mean I can stay?”
“Sure, my door is always open. I don’t know if you’d feel comfortable living with a complete stranger for two months, but it would be better than living in a park during the winter. I heard it can get quite blustery during the night.” She gave no response. Instead, her arms wrapped around his waist and snuggled against him, snout buried deep into his armpit. Collective flower scents combined with the salty brew of the man’s sweat, creating a unique odor that drove her snout further. Cold wet skin met mildly moist atmosphere and she inhaled. “Uh, your welcome?”
After another second of breathing in his mature odor, she rose, smiling at his concerned expression before groping his chest with her cheek. “Can I give you another hug?” He nodded. In seconds she wrapped her furred arms around him, squeezing until he gasped for air then let go.
“You’re not gonna start acting weird now are you—well weirder than usual.” Renamon glared at him. “What, you think sniffing armpits is normal behavior?”
“It’s what we, as Renamon, do sometimes. We smell the scent of our friends so that they can be found, if they’ve lost their way or returning from a long travel around the Digital World. Now I’ll be able to watch you fight wild digimon.”
“Well thanks, I guess.”
“Your welcome Myrand.” She hugged him close. “You’re the best friend any digimon could have.”
He guided his hand along her cheek. “Thanks.” It took him a moment to realize he heard Renamon’s breathing, but no clamors of thunder. “I think the thunder’s stopped, so let’s go home shall we?”
“Thank you,” The vixen whispered, “I owe you everything I have.”
Myrand leaned to one of her ears, “I can settle for some chores around the house, deal?”
“Deal.”
They resumed their walk through the empty streets, arms around each other, enjoying their company as they approached Myrand’s condo. Trash choked the sidewalks. Their respective cans toppled over and emptied, knocked over from the gale winds from before. Broken tree branches lanced through anything they connected with; car windshields, car doors, and anything thin enough to break against their sharp edged force. Lots of insurance companies will profit from their customers despair this early morning. Good thing Myrand didn’t own car insurance, or a car for that matter.
When they reach the sidewalks end the vixen slowed. Renamon drew closer into his arms. The gentle banana colored fur uncurled straight, her rigid Goosebumps dotted along every area of scalp. He grazed them around her neck region, and grew anxious when she avoided his worried gaze by looking past him or over his shoulder at the scenery around them. Feeling sudden panic looking into her fogged eyes. It took him several tries in snaring her chin in his immobile grip. Surprise almost caught him as she struggled to free herself, near fighting away from his body. Her eyes rioted around their orbits, her voice almost screaming for him to let go.
“What the hell has gotten into you?” Aggravated, Myrand bear hugged her into submission. “Calm down already.”
After at what seemed like hours, she slowed, fur matting smooth against her scalp, and calming on his chest. He bent against one ear whispering something he thought would console her further, the vixen started whimpering.
“Shh … it’s all right. You’re all right. What’s wrong?”
She pointed down the across the street onto another road, at a sign rooted in deep seeded shadows. “You didn’t feel that? Something very cold came from that building over there, can’t you feel it in your bones?” His warm hands caressed her cheeks, eyes looking in the direction she pointed.
“Are you sure, or are you still feeling a bit nervous from all that thunder?” Myrand left her at the corner and crossed the street. “Stay there and I’ll check it out.”
“I’m not that helpless.” Renamon scolded, following his shadow. “Just kill anything that moves over there.”
He chuckled but regarded her request, shouldering the bulk of his rifle in both hands again. Through slides of the scope came zoomed visions of the building across the street with an occasional close-up of her white-shrouded tail. He moved in front, Renamon crowding his back, almost humping the tight calves under those thin Kevlar pants. She swaggered so that his body and his rifle stood between her and the building. It amused him at first then started to ebb towards irritation as her weight pushed the scope out of his control. He stopped in mid stride, turned around to face the now startled vixen, which collided against him and reeled backwards.
“I’m not the only one that can fight.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying that you can stand a couple feet away so I can breathe without choking on your fur.” Myrand gave her a hard stare. He glimpsed across every square inch of fur, saying nothing until Renamon boiled over.
She spoke with a callous frown. “What are you looking for?”
“For that ferocious fox I met back in Shinjuku Stadium. The one that could take down an Ultimate with no sweat; could’ve sworn she was here just a minute ago, maybe she ran away and accidentally left you here.” They exchanged heated glares. Myrand knew she took pride in being able to fight and insulting it could bolster enough anger into enforcing it. She walked a couple feet from him, arms crossed at her chest. “I don’t know why you’re so upset. That cold you’re ‘feeling’ is probably the old air conditioning still pumping the abandoned subway station full of Freon.”
“If it’s abandoned why keep it on?”
Myrand’s eyes widened. “Are you kidding? That’s Ares Station. I’m surprised the damn thing is still on after so many years, thought it would die just like every other electric appliance in there. All the indoor lights died after a couple months of closing, then the outside sign lights faded, then all the motors working the teller machines rusted stationary.” His stare went rigid looking straight into hers. “The last time I saw this place was when all the construction workers went to tear it down.
“All those men; some were fathers, some sons, and even some single bachelors, busied themselves around the entrance like ants, dressed in orange flak jackets. They swarmed just before the steps leading downward, bricking windows and boarded the vent gratings that lead to the furnace. But not one of them ever went down to the platform.”
Renamon leeched closer, felt the cold blast return up her legs and suckle the packets of heat stored in her fur. “Why not?”
“Because the story of Ares Station had reached their ears well before its demolition.” The Jade Dragoon noticed the wooden boards nailed across Ares Station’s entrance rotted through in some areas, but others remained stapled in odd angles, rusted nails threatening to crumble away on a whim. His back hairs shivered. “Needless to say they were discouraged to finish.”
“Did they?”
“Did they what?”
“Finish… did they finish the demolition?”
He looked back at the aging station. “Does it look like they finished?”
“Well—“
“After the outside preparations were set all the men lined up in single file. Every man held a pick axe. But in the other hand some held small bible’s, pictures of their families, or small religious trinkets—held them tight enough to make their knuckles bleed. A man in the back had a thick, gold crucifix dangling around his neck, and his grimy fingers kept rubbing all over it until the gold lost its luster under an inch of the man’s filth. His tear blue eyes were wide-awake, jerking in obvious seizures all around, almost as if being watched. In spite of his paranoia the line began their march down into the black abyss. That cold air conditioning condensed the sweat brewing on their foreheads.”
Renamon hugged him from behind, her voice barely above a whisper. “Then what?”
“They vanished without warning.”
“Vanished?”
“Taken by the story of Ares Station,” Myrand whispered, feeling the vixen cuddle closer. “After their disappearance the military sealed the gated section of the tunnel, tied any loose ends to cover the workers disappearance, even deceiving their families with faulty death certificates. But some still remember that fateful day, when the men in orange flak jackets faded to darkness never to return to the surface, and how Ares station claimed its last victims.” He placed an arm around her shoulder. “And I pray that it never happens again.”
That alluring yellow hue of fur glazed across his eyes. “Could you tell me the story of Ares Station?” Renamon asked. “So that one day I can tell Rika.”
“Sure, spread the words to every child you know.” He looked towards his condo, “But before I do that, let’s go home okay?” She nodded. They locked hands and strolled into Myrand’s Condo.
Minuets later Renamon found herself sitting on his leather couch, legs crossed at the knee. The man that gave her shelter now prattled around in the kitchen preparing something quite tasty (or at least by Myrand’s sworn words.) for the both of them. She didn’t care if the food came in a box, like those dinners Rika fed her once in a while—the one’s where you’d pop them in the microwave until it dinged finished—as long as Myrand made them. Somehow his magic fingers prepared the best meals she ever tasted. He did promise something good, however, if she acted past the doorman into the condo posing as Myrand’s dog. At first she faltered, but after performing several tricks with her new found owner (some of which felt a little degrading, like paying ‘dead’ and ‘begging’), the doorman let them in.
Myrand strolled in with two pastry dishes filled with ice cream and blueberries. “It’s not much, but I tried my best on such short notice.”
“That’s okay; ice cream is my favorite.”
“So you want to know about Ares Station?” She nodded, ice cream gushing her cheeks full. “Before I begin, you swear to me that neither you nor Rika will ever go down there.”
Renamon gave him an odd, analytic stare. “Swear.”
“The story of Ares Station isn’t really about the station itself, rather about its destination.” He shoveled some ice cream before continuing, “Chandelier Island.”
“A man by the name of Yamaki requested the place to be built, out somewhere along the coast. Apparently after he established his administration right here in Shinjuku, more space was needed to build the other facilities that his benefactors ‘bestowed’ upon him, so building a man-made island seemed the ideal solution. After a year of debates they granted it. This way, Yamaki could expand his research and technology faster, play catch-up with the rest of his competitors within the privacy of the Island, and hopefully take the reins as being the leader of military technology. They didn’t realize, however, the tremendous strain of commuting hundreds upon thousands of commuters going in and out of one security tunnel. It was madness.
“So Yamaki sat in his administration building and thought it over. He brainstormed solutions for about another year when the biggest idea came to him, a solution even better than creating Chandelier Island itself: Build housing cities around the facilities and have every worker take residence—their families too. An isolated civilization on an isolated Island. His benefactors must have loved the plan, for within years, four cities spread on the island like moss on a tree, and each city was given a name. I believe they were ‘Beta, Gamma, Alpha, Omega, and Supreme (for the facility compound itself)’. Sure enough people moved right in and everything seemed to flow as normal.
“Now this is where the truth begins to fade, as people think differently on how Chandelier’s success suddenly began to deplane. Some say it happened when Yamaki left his administrative power to his head scientist Doctor Augustine. Others say an experiment caused a virus pandemic throughout the whole Island. Few people also say the Island was invaded and taken over by hostile aliens. Nevertheless, on a Monday morning, contact with Chandelier Island started dieing. Yamaki didn’t see it at first, blinded by compliments from his benefactors, but when his Agents reported that Chandelier Administration failed to deliver their monthly production, his shining spotlight wasn’t too bright anymore.
“Someone told me he watched his technology empire crumple, sitting in his executive office with the lights out, watching surveillance videos shutter, flicker, and die. People heard screams. People felt anxiety when they passed his closed doors, afraid of witnessing another terrified sound. After a few weeks, Yamaki opened his office doors and stepped outside. A good friend of mine described his condition. ‘His tie was gone, that neutral and stoic expression his lips made quivered in an unfelt cold. His glasses were missing. I didn’t see a man walk out of that office, only what was left of him. Then I knew something was wrong’. No one ever saw those security tapes, now locked away in that same executive office, but felt the same terrific blow that sent their former administrator stagnant. The only thing he could do was to send in the military.”
An empty bowl clattered on the table. “That’s when Ares Station comes into play?” Renamon asked.
“Yep,” Myrand eat his last remnants of ice cream and set in down. “An entire battalion of men filed into those subway cars. It seemed simple, they took off without a moments notice on the one mile journey over, set up some sort of Command Post at the other side, however, when the cars came back, they brought back screams of a hundred dead men with their blood painted inside and out of its hull, gored remnants sitting inside as well. I don’t know much about the event, but every time someone went down there, they never came back.”
“So that’s it, that’s the big scary story.” The vixen thrust her hands on her hips. “You worked me up for just that?”
“Well I told you I didn’t know every detail. Just promise me you and Rika will never go down there for any reason what so ever.”
She leaned against him and sighed. “Promise.”
“Good, now I propose we get some shut-eye for the day.” He gathered their dirty plates, as with Renamon’s hand in the crook of his arm, first walking into the kitchen to drop off the plates, and then upstairs towards the only bedroom in the house, falling asleep soon after…”