Lucky Fox

 

            Myrand narrowed his eyes, tongue jutting awkward from his mouth, turned the screwdriver another forty-five degrees. The targeted screw spun lower, past tangles of wires until fitting snug against the skeleton. Another turn and it bore into place. Saturating his dry lips with more saliva, he went for another screw that rested on the table. He repeated. After tightening, he assembled the rifle face over all the exposed wiring, swore irritably, and repeated the process of screwing that to complete the rifle’s upgrade. He activated the onboard computer uploading a cricket memory chip in the butt. Deep whirring came from its belly, but slowed as the seconds passed. Inset under the scope, the screen flashed his ammo count, bullet I.D., and elevation level (measured in feet). Now the Jade Dragoon could shoot consecutive shots, know what magazine type was loaded, and relay precise coordinates to ground forces.

 

     His eyes drooped. Laying his rifle beside him on the couch cushions, he stood, still dressed in his uniform from the night before, and walked in clumsy strides towards the kitchen. Mountains of hardening batter lay crusted in thick layers along several frying pans. Some egg whites managed to drape along the black stove face and charred on a skillet, and the fresh fruit he bought dyed his linoleum floor odd shades of pink and copper blue. Dishes piled in the sink, bowls ranging in all sizes on his little island, but on the kitchen table sat his masterpiece. Crapes for an appetizer, fruit filled pancakes, accompanied with a tall glass of frosted milk. Inside one mixing bowl was enough pancake batter for another fruit filled cake. He cleaned out the frying pan and began anew. Before cooking, he observed the honey glazed ham simmering in its boiling juices. Smells of cooked swine made him salivate.

 

            “I hope she can eat this. She’ll need the protein and vitamins just to get out of bed.” Suddenly he shook his head, chuckling to himself. “Listen to me, like I’m an expert on taking care of a fox.”

 

     Myrand remembered how Renamon watched him tend to her wounds. It was distant, underneath falling eyelids. She kept that stare upon his face. From toe-claws to the tip of her ears, he dressed wounds most ominous to infection with alcohol and iodine, and besides a grimacing sneer once or twice, she never flinched. His fear of being bitten prevented any serious treatments around her head, every time he went to dress a cheek wound, the adhesive glue never applied properly. After playing medic, there came thanks upon the thin trails of whisper, and he looked to her, seeing those soapy blue eyes twinkle. Then she fell asleep.

 

     After finishing the last fruitcake, he filled the sink with hot water and liquid dish soap to let everything in it soak. “All this for one occasion. Even I don’t know why the hell I did this. There’s a McDonalds down the street, should’ve bought her a Happy Meal. Then again, I’m trying to heal her, not to finish the job.” Snickering, he gathered both crapes and milk in hand.

 

     Nestled in one living room corner, he clambered up the spiral staircase that fed upstairs. Not much to relish upon the second floor, just enamel carpet with matching walls, which led to his Master Bedroom at the hallways end. Myrand revisited those images of helping Renamon through the narrow passage, standing her battered feet down and carried her shoulder to shoulder until inside his room. Blood managed to rub off her fur in areas, leaving streaks of fleshy pink glaze. He noted to clean them later with bleach. Further down theirs streaks grew, bled in thicker tints, where the digimon stumbled to stand. Soon he faced the entrance into the Master Bedroom, closed shut for privacy, but his ears could sense even the slightest breaths deep inside.

 

     Myrand felt his hand close around the knob. He tried it, then let go, stepping back for a moment. Two days before, he lived the life any man could dream of, great paying job with all the insurances, apartment included, and enough money to last until retirement. Life presented on silver platters. In spite of such imagery, there was no one to share it with, which left him yearning. Women around town passed him without hints of interest and often reached for the men less secluded in life. But hope refused to let him die alone or a hermit’s life whichever came first.

 

     From dreaming of this granite figured woman, tall haired, and leaf-green eyes, he pushed the door open to see Renamon still in bed. Her yellow fur glowed like daffodils on sun-drenched hills, her cloud colored tufts of hair seemed smooth to the touch, eyes hidden behind closed eyelids. Pillows kissed her head, slim frame cocooned in comforting sheets. She still smiled while slumbering away. Setting both crapes and milk aside on the weathered nightstand, he wondered what she was dreaming of. Must be of that Rika she’s always tagging around with, Myrand thought.

 

            “Hey …” He spoke softly, despite his rising urge to wake her. “Hey wake up.”

 

     She grumbled unintelligible words. “Renamon,” he nudged her shoulder with a hand.

 

            “Damn it you must feel better if you can sleep like a rock.”

 

     He gave her another jolt to see an eyelid flutter open. She sliced the air with her gaze towards him and yawned, serrated teeth encased with thick saliva. It took her a moment to pass the ugly taste in her mouth, tongue raking across every dry patch of skin, waiting for the moisture to take effect.

 

     She frowned. “Where am I?”

 

            “Well you’re in my apartment.”

 

            “Myrand?” Her face twisted into confusion, “I don’t understand.”

 

     Relief flooded his mind, glad that she remembered his face, but worried that the room would frighten her into panic. “Yea I was kind of afraid you’d forget. But don’t be alarmed, just relax and rest for a moment while I figure out where to begin.”

 

     She groaned in pain trying to sit up, peeling away covers to find heavy bandages laced around her body. One tethered across her chest began to taper at one end, so without fear she unraveled until it and the gauss fell away. An aggravated area of pink flesh pulsed in fresh air. It resided just above her right breast with muddy veins encircling, where the fur detached from their anchors in the skin. Faint smells of disgusting odors wafted into her nose. She averted her gaze downward, seeing numerous others bandaged tight.

 

            “Did you do this?”

 

     Myrand stepped forward, arms length away from her. “I put the bandages on.” He continued, “You were pretty beat up from fighting that Flamedramon from last night.”

 

            “Where’s Rika?”

 

            “I suppose she’s at her house.” Myrand watched the vixen rise to sit up. She grimaced, gulping air into her lungs until upright. “Everything still hurts?” She nodded. “Don’t worry, after you get something to eat and rest for a while, you’ll be good as new.”

 

     Puzzlement wrinkled across her face. “What happened to me?” It took Myrand another moment organize the events. Then he unraveled everything about last night, the bus, all the children, herself, and the fight between her and Flamedramon. He blushed, explaining how she ended up in his apartment. “Thank you for taking care of me. This must be a burden for your wife.” Renamon bowed until pain forced her upright.

 

     She was taken back by his snorting laughter. “Wife? Hell no, I’m not married, don’t even have a girl friend yet.”

 

            “You live alone?”

 

            “Yea, for now. I made you some food while you were snoozing.” Seeing the crapes presented on her lap, milk pushed within arms length, she felt her stomach growl. “There’s plenty more where that came from, so eat as much as you want.”

 

     Renamon wasted little time in replying. She took one look at the closest crape before biting off its end. Nothing prepared Myrand for anguished squeals that came muffled from her mouth, eyes growing wide, and tongue slithering over her lips. Soon the crape met its fated end, embedded in her blue stained maw. She swiped the glass of milk off his nightstand and downed its contents without breathing. Blueberry lingered on her tongue with slight tangs of cream cheese. The velvet liquid parched her thirst, leaving quite an unusual after taste, but satiated that rumble in her stomach. She bit down on another crape. This one had cherry filling and some sort of lemon preserve, grunts of pleasure escaping, washing it down with another round of cow’s milk.

 

     The Jade Dragoon watched her with curious eyes. “Wow. I didn’t think you’d be that interested in my cooking.” His words fell on deaf ears. She finished off her last crape, moans and all, licking every area close to her face, afraid to leave behind some flavor. “Guess I’ll get you some more milk and the first entrée this morning.” She belched which made him laugh a little.

 

            “That was incredible … I’ve never tasted something so tasty.” Even now the fruity essence remained embalmed on her tongue. “Thank you Myrand.”

 

     He blushed. “Ah. It’s nothing; I’ll be right back. Yell if you need anything.”

 

     That said he vanished into the hallway. With him gone, Renamon looked around his room once, shocked to find it almost featureless. To her right rested one window, low enough for her to gaze outside from just sitting upright, orange-red hues filtered through his half-slatted blinds. Of course, his nightstand stood at attention to her left with one alarm clock and a marble based lamp. His dresser stood opposite of the bed, caddy cornered, but what attracted her gaze were the medals adorning its top. They rested on stands or plaques, ranging in various colors and awards. Some dressed in ribbons while others remained naked in color.

 

     Myrand reappeared into the doorway with another plate and glass. “Well I hope you like the pancakes like you did the crapes.” He chuckled, exchanging plates on her lap. “Is something wrong?”

 

            “Those medals over there on your dresser, are you some big hero?”

 

            “Oh, those things,” He walked over them, head hung low, “these were my father and grandfather’s. My grandfather fought in World War II, destroyed a column of Panzer Tanks from re-taking a small Polish village called Lublin. That medal with the most ribbons is the Medal of Honor, the highest honor any soldier back in those days could accomplish. That one over there with the eagle on it is the Prisoner of War Medal, he was with all those Jewish people in the concentration camps. My old man had his medals too. See that one shaped like a star? That’s the Silver Star Medal, he held off Serbian Rebels in Afghanistan and Kuwait, and the Bronze Star was awarded for saving a soldier from being captured.” Speaking about his ancestry made him smile.

 

     Which lasted until Renamon asked an innocent question between bites of food. “Where’s yours?”

 

            “I don’t have any.”

 

            “Why not?”

 

     He sighed. “According to our supervisors, we don’t exist, we don’t acquire military rank, thus no medals.”

 

            “But you fought digimon. You should get them to make your father proud.”

 

            “Would have made him proud.” Myrand sat on the bed’s edge. “He died before I enrolled into the service.”

 

     She dropped her fork. “Myrand I’m so sorry.”

 

            “For once I wanted him to say ‘I’m proud of you son. You’ve got the Silver Star just like your old man, good job’. Now the day will never come. Ever since his death I couldn’t gather the courage to visit his grave, too ashamed of being a failure.” He placed her glass of fresh milk on the nightstand. “Ah, it’s okay though, you didn’t know.”

 

     Renamon picked at her food. “You want this last pancake? Making all of this food must have made you hungry.”  To her surprise he accepted with little concern for modesty. She watched him roll it into a cylinder and take several bites, mimicking moans of undistinguishable noise. His brown-chestnut hair matted with sweat, wild and untamed, like her fur whenever it rained outside. Heavy raccoon bags under his eyes. Shock crawled over her face, realizing that The Jade Dragoon sacrificed most of his time for her health. She wondered why.

 

            “What’s it like,” Myrand swallowed the last gulp of strawberry, “to be a digimon. I mean—it’s not like you can walk around town.”

 

            “Its not as tough as you might imagine. Sleep during the day and take a walk around at night, there’s no one around with plenty of darkness to conceal our looks. Guilmon has the best place if you ask me, right in Shinjuku Park.” Myrand asked her who’s Guilmon. “He’s a friend. A red dinosaur that acts childish all the time, maybe you’ll get to meet him.”

 

     Before asking another question, her tail fluffed into the open air, bristling with errant twists. It coiled around its new environment until its tip tickled his pants. “At least one part of you is doing well.”

 

     The vixen smirked. “You like it?” Her expression changed when he grabbed hold of it, and began to rake his tips against the tail’s scalp. “What are you doing?”

 

            “Making sure there’s no cuts on your tail.”

 

            “Do you always treat guests like this?”

 

            “Like what?”

 

            “Royalty.”

 

     Myrand stopped, lurched back, and looked up at the ceiling with a rather quizzical pose. “No. Only those who are injured and need my help.”

 

            “Why did you help me?” The question seemed appropriate, but she needed to feed that growing curiosity. “I mean, you kill digimon to save humanity.”

 

            “You really want to know?” Seizures of nods followed. “When I saw you help out those kids in the stadium, and then the kids stuck in the bus, well, I just couldn’t do it. You save humanity too. When I saw you lying there in the rubble, couldn’t watch you suffer, so I brought you here. I know there are plumes of digimon that still want to hurt humans, but there must be some that help too.” An idea struck him. “For instance, humans have wars against themselves right?” She nodded. “Even though most of the people hate the other, there are some who are neutral.”

 

     Her tail coiled around his arm. “Thank you Myrand. If it weren’t for you I’d don’t know where I would be.”

 

            “Ah think nothing of it.” The Jade Dragoon petted her velvet tail then stood at the bedside. “How about we go downstairs and take a look at those bandages. Can you stand?”

 

            “I think so.”

 

     Renamon unfurled her bandaged body to the rising sunlight now crested well above the horizon, luminous white light highlighting every edge of hair on her body. She hesitated, one paw feeling around every cloth wrapping, before she dangled one leg over the edge. The descent continued until her foot contacted the carpet. She tenderized the impact for several seconds then swung the other leg around so she sat with her feet on the floor. With one push she rose on them, took one step, and fell forward. Air pushed past her, eyes keyed on the carpet—to have Myrand’s chest slide right in front of it. A soft grunt escaped his lungs. She collapsed into him, arms grabbing hold of his. The pain in her legs flared and subsided. She heard his chest thunder, looked up to see him smile wide.

 

            “You’re okay. I got you.” His whisper matched the tenderness in his voice. “Do you need to lie down?”

 

     Renamon pushed off of him but kept the hold on his hands. “No I’m all right. I just need to borrow your arms for a minute.”

 

     They took careful steps into the hallway. Myrand noticed she kept both paws on his shoulder and arm, never breaking away from him, her eyes focused elsewhere. At the stairs she stopped. He went to guide her feet on the step down but she froze, muscles rigid. “I don’t think I’ll make it.” She whispered, staring over the living room.

 

            “Yes you will.” Came an answer. She turned to see him smile. “Just hold onto the railing and step down one at a time. I’ll go down first so you have something to break your fall, if you have one.”

 

     Little comfort came from his words, but gave her enough courage to take the first step down. She counted the reaming ones. Eight more. She could make it, as long as Myrand kept in front, keeping with her slow pace. Two steps further she stopped again to regain an upright composure, feeling strength yawn and flow in her legs. The Jade Dragoon waited until one paw nudged him to continue. Another three down and then vixen could tell she was making good time, her pace quickened, and legs that were once rubber now became stiff. She entered the living room with her regular stride, guided with Myrand’s hands to sit on the couch.

 

            “All right, wait here and I’ll be right back.” Again he disappeared from view.

 

     Renamon noticed that the living room matching his style of life. The couch encompassed the back wall and caddy cornered its ends, facing inwards towards a wide, glass faced living room table, long enough to reach from one end to the other. It took a couple moments to realize the T.V. inserted into some special little cubbyhole in the wall across from her, speakers ranging in size dotted around it. She could see outside through the large bay windows that digested most of the back wall. It’s early afternoon, judging where the sun hung, in a cerulean sea that burned different shades. Colonies of birds flocked around rooftops and some perched on long electric wires that ran from them. If she watched long enough, the occasional airplane or two would streak past, tails of jet wash following soon after.

 

     What rested beside her drew some concern. Myrand’s rifle idled, its onboard computer flashing random information, barrel pointed away towards the stairwell. Although she never cared for weapons, curiosity egged her on into touching the butt with on paw. Hard rubber gripped sensitive skin. Then her fingertips trailed onto the face, smooth and moss green, almost without hard edges like the butt. She swiveled herself so that she could peek through the scope, even more curious than before. Through the zoom, canyons, crevices, and wrinkled rivers of the couch’s leather surface swallowed her vision along with a red bulls-eye.

 

            “How could anyone see anything with this thing? Everything’s so big.” Despite being disappointed, her tail slithered in utmost curiosity. “What’s on the table?”

 

     Bullets, in groups of ten or more, ranging in shapes and sizes, tips face up in uniform lines. One grape shaded bullet caught the most attention, glowing in eerie energies her pupils mirrored. She reached for it. Halfway there her breath grew shorter, fingers shaking in excitement, seeing purple shades glide across her fur. In one full push she seized it. Amazement uttered from her lips, and rolled the shell between her thumb and forefinger.

 

     Suddenly she heard Myrand’s strong voice. “Curiosity killed the cat you know. I bet the same rule applies to foxes.”

 

            “But they’re so pretty.”

 

            “They are at first glance. Now put it back.” Myrand strode in carrying scissors and a thin plastic bottle. “Unless you want to stay here longer.”

 

     She nudged over one seat inviting him to plop beside her. “What’s that one?”

 

            “That’s called an Acid Wash bullet. They’re labeled with the purple filament shells. When the bullet hits a target, it explodes sending this shower of purple acid inside of the target, eroding its innards until unable to fight.”

 

            “You’re barbaric.”

 

            “Aw your too kind. Now lets have a look at that leg.” He motioned for her left flank, grabbing hold of the bandaged ankle. “Let’s start with this one.”

 

     Strong hands caressed her fur while unraveling layers, careful that each piece didn’t shank any more hair from their roots. When the bandages fell away she could see a deep sliver of flesh running across her ankle face now scabbed ruby red, sensitive against the cool air, muscles tensing in his hands. Myrand poured some oily-clear solution from the bottle onto her wound. She moaned. Icy drenches of numbing relief massaged around the scab, absorbed through skin into wires of tense muscle. The waves continued while another bandage began to unwind. Her eyes smiled, locked onto his, grunting in glorious pleasure.

 

            “I take it you’re enjoying this.” Myrand repeated his treatment along her leg. “This should prevent anymore infection and keep your fur clean as well.”

 

            “What is it?”

 

            “A mix of rubbing alcohol, Aloe Vera, and hair shampoo, about 25/50/25 combination. The alcohol is to clean your wounds. If you want just the nice feeling on your skin, take the Aloe Vera and shampoo, makes your skin and fur nice and healthy. Usually I make it just Aloe Vera and alcohol, but in your case, I added in some shampoo.” 

 

     Myrand squeezed the solution onto her stomach wound. It bore deeper than the previous injuries, slim cut along her abdomen, past the epidermis and dermis to see some layers of raw tissue. Time used its magic, coagulated sections already started to mend with living skin. When he massaged the area there came deep rumbles from his patient. He couldn’t distinguish if she was in pain or lost in pleasure, but played it safe—gingerly stroking the scabs over until every drop of solution disappeared into her skin. She stuck her tongue out at him.

 

            “What was that for?”

 

     Renamon leaned against him so he could access her chest bandage. “I do that sometimes when I’m relaxed, force of habit.”

 

            “Oh you find this relaxing?”

 

            “A little, if I didn’t have to sit so awkwardly.”

 

            “Well, lean your back against me with your head resting on my chest, that way you don’t have to strain your muscles.” Myrand waited as she turned around then lofted her head against his chest. “Better?” That infamous tongue stuck out again. “Your such a ham.”

 

            “I have never been treated like this.” She stretched the tension from her body. “Fighting digimon, keeping watch over Rika, and trying to keep a mean attitude, that’s all I do.”

 

            “Mean? Aw, you seem like a fluffy stuffed animal to me.”

 

     Her mouth opened in shock and looked up at his playful smile. “I’m pretty terrible at times … I just let you slide because you’re treating me so nice. You obviously want another Diamond Storm in your gut.”

 

            “Aren’t you just the cutest when you’re annoyed?”

 

     Growling his crisp remark she pointed a claw at him, threatening to tear tissue with her simple stroke. “I’ll embed my name into your forehead.” Moans escaped her lips upon the impact of his nimble fingertips. She could only glare, afraid that trying to speak would lead to more pleasurable noises, and watched him massage her chest wound. “I despise you.”

 

     Without notice he stroked the fur under her chin. “Well all done, guess you’ll be wanting to leave now.”

 

            “Leave?”

 

            “Well yea, Rika must be worried about you by now, not showing up for a day and all.” To his surprise she rose with little effort, and looked out the window. “Oh that’s right, you can teleport.”

 

     Her blue eyes met his. “Myrand I want to thank you for saving me. I owe you my life.” The usual remarks of modesty came afterward. “No, I’m serious, and well, I want to …” She trailed off with worry in her voice. Renamon walked over and wrapped her arms around him, tight but loving, in a bear sized hug that left him wheezing for air. “If you tell Guilmon about this I will have to hurt you.” She playfully threatened.

 

            “Later…” Myrand replied, observing her image shimmer and melt away. “See you around.”

 

     That said Myrand flopped on his couch and dozed off into a much needed nap…