Saving a Monster
The most conflicting thoughts had a way of influencing Myrand. Almost twenty-five and an introvert, working sixteen hours a day, only came home to sleep despite his single bedroom condo, he kept to himself while off or out on the street, and he was a soldier, and his mind’s usually sharp and deadly. But the day after Vahjramon’s defeat, on a brisk Friday afternoon towards the train station, full armored with his rifle strapped to his back walking in a sluggish stride, fell into a most troubling indecision. Was there good in monsters?
Children shrieked by him barreling up the platform, their young expressions filled with sugar and soda. A porter sitting in a nearby bench yelled something in his Texan jargon, pointing an accusing sausage finger at the eldest child, the presumed leader of the pack. Whatever he said worked, they began to amble down towards the main street, but some stragglers remained. One child, a bit ratty from far away, tipped over a garbage pail. Through metallic clatters he fled from the porter’s red-faced fury.
He tried not to do it, however, seeing this portly man turn red, his sweat gleamed off the rolls under his neck, Myrand couldn’t keep it in. Chuckles of amusement escaped his pursed lips.
“You find something funny son?” The porter glared at him from his wooden bench. “Is there?”
The Jade Dragoon
plopped next to him. “No sir.” He looked out past the high-rise train track to
The porter grunted, “I suppose.” He looked at his neighbor. “What the hell are you dressed up as, Halloween’s not till tomorrow.”
“I’m dressed up like a soldier, heading out of town for a party, but I won’t get there until tomorrow night. Even with taking the train.” He lied.
“Huh, a soldier eh? Are you a good one or a bad one?”
Myrand’s eyes furrowed. “What?”
After the porter saw Myrand’s reaction, he shrugged, wiping some sweat away from his forehead. “All’s I’m saying that there’s good soldiers and bad ones. The good ones don’t think with their superior’s orders all the time, they deviate with their own morals, and in turn save lots’ of people; men, women, and children. Good soldiers think with their head, not their eyes.” He illustrated with his hands and continued, “Bad soldiers make their own laws letting. They make the power theirs. They kill innocent people. All to make a pretty buck. So, are you a good soldier or a bad one?”
“In all honesty… I don’t know.”
“What?” It was the porter’s time to frown. “You mean to tell me you can’t choose between what’s moral and not?”
“I do. It’s just, well, I got this friend right,” The porter nodded and Myrand continued. “My friend was trained to be this sorta Special Ops. Soldier. His superiors told him the enemies were ruthless, vile, disgusting creatures that would eat a child if left alive for too long. But a couple days ago he told me that one of these monsters protected the lives of three children from one of its own brethren. He couldn’t kill it, even though all these monsters are killers, and let it walk away unharmed. Now he’s been a soldier for a long while now. This is the first time he ever had these doubts, does that make him bad?”
Suddenly the porter let out a beer belly laugh, his cheeks reddening. “Well my boy, it seems your friend is seeing another side of these ‘monsters’.” Then his coffee brown eyes reflected the train pulling into the station. “If you follow your heart instead of your eyes, then you’ll answer that same question.”
“Huh?”
The porter smiled showing his ceramic white teeth. “Your train is here, have fun at your party ‘soldier’.” Myrand picked up his rifle, slung it around his back, and made his way to the train. “Don’t judge a book by its cover, even if she’s nothing but fur.”
Myrand turned on his heel—the porter disappeared--just an empty bench with some gum stuck on the seat. The doors slid closed, his shocked reflection glared back. The train whistle blew and he wandered in the closest seat, rifle lying at his feet, his eyes staring out the window. The thrum of the train’s electric tracks died. After a minuet of silence he wondered if this was the right train. Tearing his eyes off the window, he spied around. In the first row of leather-orange seats sat a frail Negro woman with a green shawl fastened around her sloping chin. Her plump pinkish-brown lips hummed an unfamiliar tune. Cuddled inside her arms was a baby swathed in loose cotton blankets, Bugs Bunny’s face laughing at Myrand from the safety of her cradle.
Her eyes circled around the car then returned facing front as if she was afraid of something. She did this once a minuet then progressed more rapidly until her entire body wracked with movement, twists and turns scrunched up the bottoms of her blouse, which had already been torn at some time, patched up with different colored fabric. Her body froze when she realized Myrand sat behind her a few rows back and jerked her attention forward.
The back car door opened, Myrand turned, he smiled at what walked in. She walked in long strides, her feet narrowed in tall high-heels, her freshly shaved legs smelled of vanilla and cucumber disappearing under a uniform blouse. She smiled at him, her cerulean eyes studying his frame. Those thin lips dressed in ruby red lipstick. This heavenly woman nodded at his train pass, she even smiled again, and then pressed further on towards the elder Negro lady.
Like Myrand, the woman showed her pass, but the train hostess shook her head. “Sorry Ma’am that ticket only reaches here, you’ll have to buy another ticket.”
“No. That can’t be right, the conducta told me this ticket was good for da whole thing.” The Hostess shook her head. “Please lemme stay dear, my grandbaby’s sick, he needs the doctor in the city.”
“I’m sorry Ma’am I can’t do that.”
The Negro woman deplaned right in front of Myrand. “Just this once, please, have mercy on me, my baby’s sick.”
“I’m sorry.”
Myrand cleared his throat, both of them looked in his direction, and he beckoned for the Hostess towards him. Straightening her uniform, she obliged, almost running in those high-heels. “Is their something the matter sir?”
“Yes, um.” He looked at the nametag. “Brittany-“
Her eyes suddenly jumped from their sockets. “Gosh how did you know my name?” She drew herself back as if stricken.
“Uh, luck I guess. Anyway, you see that old lady sitting up in front?” Brittany nodded. “She dropped his on the floor a little ways back.” It was then he produced an extra ticket from his back pocket, a reward for joining the metro membership. “And wait—she dropped a couple bucks along with it.” Twenty dollars later he stopped rummaging through his wallet. “See that she gets it please.”
Brittany bowed, “Yes sir right away.”
She walked towards the Negro lady again, her backside humping the back of her blouse. “Fine piece of ass that one, but not enough tools in the shed.” Myrand chuckled to himself.
“God bless you sir!” Came the shout up front, the elder lady waved his money with one hand. “Thank the lord for people like you. You got a good heart.”
“Glad that I could help Ma’am, if you need directions towards the hospital I can give them to you.”
After a few Hail Mary’s and Amen’s later, the train stopped and they both made their way to the street. He gave her directions before departing in hopes she would make it without trouble. She thanked him again then left for the hospital. Myrand didn’t know if she was telling the truth, she could have pandered the money to support her drinking habit, or use it to purchase drugs off the street, either way he put faith into what he did. Rifle slung on his back, he journeyed into the dense city wilderness.
Jaguars roared passed him turning onto the street he just crossed, their black-tail exhaust boiled away into the atmosphere. People gawked at him as he passed, mouths all agape in silent expressions he didn’t care for, he kept walking in a brisk gait down the street. Swarms of children rushed by Myrand. They came from the little card shop tucked in between two corporate bulldogs, Starbucks and McDonalds, with one of those booster packs in hand. He forgot that trading cards became the latest craze among kids.
Something cried over the city banter. It was a long wail, like a siren but trailed in choppy sobs. There, darting between the legs of men and women, knocking over idle trashcans, it emerged in Myrand’s proximity. In instinct the Jade Dragoon reached out and grabbed the little girl by the wrist. She kicked away screaming at him to let go but still he held on. Her pink ruffled dress began to tear, her slacks fell to ankle level, but overall she started settling into a sobbing statue. Myrand noticed her coal-black ponytail unwound and her princess crown beret hung in tangled strands. Her body shook shuddered into every sob, whined exhaling vaporous air.
“What’s wrong?”
The little girl wrung her eyes from tears. “M-my brother is stuck on the bus.” Her face soured. “Everyone is stuck on the bus!” She tried to run again but Myrand held her fast.
“It’s all right, quiet now, I’m here to help. What’s happening, who’s stuck?”
“We were coming home from a recital, then this monster came from no where and attacked us. My poor brother is still there.” He asked about her escape. “This other monster was fighting it and my brother told me to run for help.”
“Where are they now?”
“Up the street in the middle of a cloud.”
The word cloud made Myrand’s eyes widen. “Keep running towards the police station, don’t look back, I’ll go and help your brother out okay?” One nod and she flew away from him.
He sped in the opposite direction. He pushed past people, carved a path through their numbers, and forced himself through. One hand held the rifle on his back while the other kept his helmet on. The only guide keeping him northbound lingered in trails of inky drifts of fog that grew denser with time. His boots sang in glass cutting squeaks, they slid frozen at the street corner. Many brave men marched into that cloud of fog. They came out as men, but in tatters, shadows enveloped in fear, blood, and broken beyond any medicines doctors could offer. Some never came out at all, for when the cloud would life, bodies lay slaughtered on the ground, organs missing from recessed chests and exposed ribs.
It beckoned for Myrand. Tendrils wrapped around his ankles, pulling a boot on the street. Slowly he accepted, not for himself, but to save the lives stuck inside. Sergeant Roland had told him marines die but their spirits live forever. Rifle in hand, he marched the rest of the way in.
The digital fog engulfed his eyesight, swirled around his legs, made disfigured shadows out of the cars moored in the street. Myrand crept on a crouch and his head swam above the current, wary of what lurked underneath. All around him seemed endless white, like snow but thicker, grainier gray up close. That familiar indecision rose again. Based on what the little girl told him there were two monsters, and one allowed her to escape into the street, so that must account for some sign of good, however, it could just be some sick game monsters play with their food.
“Only one way to find out.” He muttered under his breath. “I hope its not too late.”
He slid back the rifle bolt hearing it lock into place. Six pockets aligned the vest underneath his carapace armor, all of them held different bullets ranging in shape and color. Myrand chose pocket number three. A blue-tipped slug slid into the chamber, hammer pin set against its back. His favorite toy by far. Unlike its cousin the Ripper Shell, the Shredder Shell tip has built in chemicals that bounces off a certain density, like bone or concrete, and keeps bouncing until the chemicals dissolve. It could kill multiple targets or liquefy a single one. That in mind, he walked through the last bank of fog.
Renamon made sure she wedged between the enemy and those children locked up in their school bus. Her body ached in pain, wounds exhausted, refusing to coagulate into scabs, letting blood mottle her delicate fur. She cringed. No one could help, Rika still attended school along with the other tamers, and their digimon kept themselves scarce. Behind their windows, the children watched in horror, as she could barely stand without tenderizing some open sores. In spite of these injuries some cheered her to fight on.
“Why don’t you make it easy on yourself and hand over the children to me?” Flamedramon leapt up onto a car roof, caving it in with his weight. “Maybe we can feast on them together when nighttime comes?”
“I’d rather die.”
A gutless chuckle escaped his lips. “Yea I know, but I’d just had to ask.”
He came at her claws drawn, she ducked, driving her claws against the slack of his face. He cried out, wheeling backwards against a car door. Deep claw marks uprooted fresh from bone inside his cheek. Growling, he came at her again, but this time with his claws tucked against his chest. Renamon stalled in her fighting stance. Seeing this he ran faster, smile broadening. She remained that way for a moment later before setting loose serrated diamond shards, their lights haloed into a car. The explosion deafened her ears but not her eyes, turning to see his thick tail smash against her jaw, sending her into the bus. Children surrounded her crushed body. She looked as if praying, paws clasped together, head lying flat on the dirtied floor with flesh falling, in a phony prayer to deceive instead of keep. One child tried to push her head up. Another pried her body from the floor, and others following, settled her to rest in a padded seat.
“Don’t go. Please.”
“Wake up.”
“Ah get away from me!” A boy from the back screamed, kicking at the now engrossed Flamedramon. His bellow let out a growl fiercer than the digimon. But he wised up from before, standing outside trying to corral a child into his clutches. “Help!”
“Stop squirming and die.” Flamedramon bellowed.
Upon hearing his words Renamon opened her eyes, fades of color entered her deplaning pupils. She watched the child scream for mercy. She didn’t feel pain anymore, just fascinating numbness down every nerve. Her feet slid along the floor, shakily rising to stand, then with a burst of data she tackled out of the bus with such force, it sent her and Flamedramon splintering through another car. Pain returned. It tore away at her arms, down through her body, to the very nails on her claws. But she sacrificed herself in vain, Flamedramon stood over her shaking his head. The grainy gray light revealed his armored unscathed, much less scratched.
He brushed away some loose fur away from her eyes. “Such a beautiful digimon. Shame you have to pass on soon, that is, after I eat the main coarse.” Hunger in his eyes, he went for another run at the bus. “Come here my delicacies.”
“No … take me instead.” She crawled; it became hard even to do that without threatening to loose consciousness. “Leave them alone.”
“No use of eating you my dear fox, your data, I’ll absorb you anyway, to increase my metabolism on the ride back home.”
Flamedramon leapt into the bus. He reached for the closest child–hunger drenched his pupils–only to have dinner pulled away from him. Something caught hold of his tail dragging him back out, despite digging his claws into rubber flooring, and soon fell outside. A blow to his jaw sent him crumbling on all fours. Surprised, even embarrassed, the blue dragon roared, turning to see his oppressor. Instead of Renamon, stood one human armored in emerald green. His facial expressions hid behind black plastic, his gloved hands gripping an elongated stick, pointing it straight towards him. Flamedramon still smiled. He rose from the ground and looked at his new query.
“Mmm, more food.”
Voice turbid, almost in uncontrolled fits of anger, came hallowed behind the human’s mask. “Yea I got something real nice for you to chew on you bastard.”
“Then let’s have it.”
The human pointed that strange stick at him again, pulled the trigger closed. Great clap of thunder mixed with explosives resounded in Flamedramon’s ears. Blue smoke blanketed the man in front of him, a flash of light, and Flamedramon fell to his knees. He convulsed, felt his organs tear in the middle, and then convulsed again, soon developing into a constant seizure. Fire bloomed in mushrooms all across his body, until, the succulent exit wound from his throat. Blood gurgled in fountains. He collapsed onto the ground.
“ … So cold.” Flamedramon felt his hands recede. “I can’t feel-“
The human approached where he writhed, his black soles inches from Flamedramon’s eyes. “I guess you bit off more than you could chew.” With that said, Flamedramon coiled into a ball feeling his warmth fading faster, whimpers escaped his throat. The world collapsed and he disappeared.
Myrand watched the data float away. Honestly he couldn’t explain why he killed a living creature in such hatred. Guess they don’t teach you manners in training, he thought, slinging the rifle on his back. Children rushed upon him like an ice-cream man serving in his truck, all alive with smiles and vigor, euphoria touched in those black pupils. The fog boiled away revealing city blocks for miles down. Everyone cheered. One boy, however, tugged on Myrand’s arm with one hand, his Raggedy Andy hair matted with sweat.
“Where’s Jenny?”
“Who?”
The boy pulled out a picture from his pocket, a ballerina about the age of five. “My sis, she ran for help after escaping that monster.”
“Not just any monster, Flamedramon.” Murmured another boy in the crowd, “A champion-armor type.”
Suddenly Myrand remembered Renamon, but kept his focus. “Oh that Jenny, yea she’s the one who gave me directions in finding you. What I need you guys to do is get back on the bus and wait for her and the police okay?”
“Thank you mister.” They chorused, climbing into the bus once more.
The Jade Dragoon waved them goodbye between growing wails of police sirens. He jumped at the noise, looking around to detect their direction, but to no avail, he dashed to Renamon. Her eyes closed, he felt for a pulse and found quivering against his skin. Relief helped him cope with all her wounds. Bleeding from the head, tears up and down her sun-drenched yellow fur, her belly once white now turned muddy pink. She moaned when he bent low to pick her up. He froze for a minuet afraid his actions injured her, watching the windows around them glow red and blue. If the police found her they would make it worse, so summoning any courage of not getting bit, he cradled her in his arms, stunned that she was lighter than he imagined.
Again the children yelled him goodbyes. He moved to the street corner, where he hailed for any taxi. “You aren’t a monster.” Myrand whispered into her ear. “I’ll save ya, even if it kills me.”
The fox opened her eyes and nodded weakly, before falling unconscious. Again he waved, this time being answered with Shinjuku’s familiar blue and white taxis. Myrand opened the back door lowering himself and Renamon inside. He closed the door, pausing for a moment to let acute smells of treated leather gouge at his sinuses. Then tapped on the driver’s shoulder. One glance behind him, the driver grunted at them both.
“What the hell are you two dressed as, Halloween’s not till tomorrow.” His Texan accent brought Myrand’s attention. “Where to ‘soldier’?”
“Y-your that damn porter from the train station!”
Blue eyes grew wide in shock. “How dare you—I haven’t been on a train since I was six.”
“You are that damn porter, don’t lie, your turning red just like he did!”
The driver shook his head. “Just tell me where to take you, so I can get paid and you can get t’hell out.”
“Sixth Avenue and Martin’s Prince Court. And step on it.”
“Aye ‘soldier’.”
The taxi lurched from the curb, accelerating for some yards then shifted gears, settling out. Images blurred past Myrand’s window, but all his attention drew towards the collapsed fox resting in his lap. Once in a while he pruned her fur of any bloody clumps, he stroked the side of her face with his backhand, gentle strokes that were soft to the touch and soothing. When it became too quiet the driver spoke up a conversation.
“You like her?”
“Huh?”
“The way you look into her eyes, stroking her cheek, you must have some feelings.”
Myrand averted his gaze away from the rearview mirror. “I can’t explain it. Not even if I knew what it was, how to put it into words seems impossible.”
“That bad huh?” The Jade Dragoon nodded, watching her chest rise and fall. “Things work out in the strangest ways, you’ll see, take everything in stride.”
“She’s a good soldier, but what does that make me?”
“A Guardian Angel, son, those who protect the good.” The driver gave him a real hard look. “She looks like someone who could use you.”
They passed Patuxant Boulevard. “But she already has a friend like that, Rika Nonaka, who I bumped into one day,” He paused, pulling another blood clump free. “Unfortunately.”
“I see, but she’s just a child ain’t she? The Digimon Queen, I read about her in an article. See I’m talking about an older friend she can look up to, talk about things a child wouldn’t understand.”
“Yea but we’re complete strangers to each other, sure we’ve met a couple times, she hardly knows me.”
Before the driver spoke he eased onto Sixth and Martin’s Prince, stopping at Myrand’s condo. “That’s how you get to know her. Here we are, pay me.” Myrand hastily gave him forty dollars, more than enough for the fare. “Thank you kindly. And Myrand.” He turned with Renamon still in his arms. “You’ll find out you have a lot in common.” In a wink the driver, as well as his cab, disappeared.
Myrand frowned. “Now … What the hell was that and, why in the hell does this keep happening to me?” Renamon moaned in his arms, jutting him out of confusion. He walked through the doors and into nearby elevators to his condo on the thirtieth floor.