The Fourth Reich
The rifle shot startled loose dust from Odin’s storm coat. He fell backwards onto an adjacent airfoil. In moments he sank to his knees at the foil’s base, hands glazed in blood, and hoarsely shouted in surprise. A soldier parted from his shelter waving for others into following. Muzzle fire exhaled and the soldier limped. He stumbled, helmet cracked in two pieces—the raw ichors pouring out in ribbons, felling the man in mid stride.
Odin gaped. “Get back to your posts! Stay out of the open!”
His plea fell on deafened ears. Another bang killed the closest soldier into a stumbling fall. Yet they still charged the death in the tower’s bell, possibly confident that three soldiers could survive the gauntlet. A silent intermission allowed one to drag Odin in cover behind the foil. As the soldier rose, a bullet pierced his neck sending it awry and bent.
“Kill that sniper.” Odin’s voice suddenly weakened. “The Fourth…”
Myrand slammed another clip home. Satisfaction creased his smile, sliding a fresh copper shell into the loading chamber. He toggled his rifle scope between the lump bodies for Odin or the remaining soldiers. The target hairs crossed hunkered shadows and dust clouds, coming across moon-gleaned blood puddles along the strides. Footfalls echoed the tower’s exterior in all directions. He lowered his rifle and glanced at Rix standing at the stairwell railing, hunched on his knees, claws bared.
“Get ready.”
Rix nodded. “I hear two,” His ears twitched. “Make that three men all wearing clunky armor.”
“I’ll shoot the first and you follow up.”
Myrand hadn’t planned on shooting Odin first. His death would attract more soldiers than wanted and break the formations guarding the hangars, dissolving a distraction for the wild digimon. But when the officer watched in the open, it was too tempting a shot. On a positive notion only a contingent of soldiers came. He shot three dead and missed on a fourth before reloading. Now it shimmied down to coincidental luck for hitting the remainder up close.
Down below, the tower’s door crashed open. From the resounding echo’s Myrand realized they moved in bursts, three feet or so before pausing, then paced again. He hunkered behind the desk he had toppled over; its upright edge served a makeshift steady. Rix paddled backwards aside the stairwell and braced himself. Rubber footsteps hailed. Their echoes swelled until they turned solid, louder, and more compact. Myrand sucked in a full head of air.
“They’re here.” He mouthed towards Rix, getting a nod in return. His crosshairs pandered the plane where the stairwell and bell met.
Shouts rang and an oil black helmet speared the visual. Myrand pinched his trigger. Thunder bellowed. Ashen white ballooned from his barrel, obscuring his visor of sight, yet the wet splatter and grunted scream was enough to know he hit his target. The rifle smoke lifted showing a crimson smatter along the railing and broken instruments. Rix had disappeared. In his confusion, Myrand lowered his guard thinking his partner dismembered the latter two.
“Rix…” He slowly rose, “Rix are you there?”
A muzzle flash blinded his eyes shut. He found himself falling backwards onto the floor, his left shoulder afire. The pain tore at him like a lemon sting feeling numb to his gloved hand. His eyes blearing, he managed to glance at it before his throat hissed in pain, feeling blood circulate. The fabric of his tunic had been burned off revealing gored red underneath. The textured green pattern turned a shit stained brown, smelled fresh too. Footsteps tore his eyes away and he paled behind his visor. The two soldiers towered above him, guns drawn.
The Jade Dragoon tried getting up. A scuffed boot slammed him back down on the floor. “So it’s a little green man.” One inquired to his other. Myrand said nothing. “How such a little man like you shoot something like this?” He picked up Myrand’s rifle off the floor.
Myrand grimaced. “Steroids.”
Each soldier sported a full helmet like Myrand's except their black color ate the moonlight entering the windows and held re-breather masks instead of chin straps. Hoses twined around their necks over to their backs where they disappeared from sight. It reminded him of those old Frankenstein rejects back home, human parts combined with bulkier machine ones. He noticed their white tunics under black armor, some blood stipple around their chests, contrasting what he saw from far away.
The left soldier’s mask whirred. “Ah, a funny green man,” He patted the sniper rifle’s body. “He can kill four men and make me laugh at the same time. How trite.”
“I say we shoot him with his own gun.” The right chimed, “Kill him like he did the others.”
Again the left whirred. “We will, but first,” The soldier reached for a scabbard on his belt. “We cut out funny man’s tongue.”
"
The right soldier laughed—if one called it that, more mechanical wheeze than anything else. "This coming from a man who uses a long rifle with scope? Herr Green Man, surely you can do better than that, for we aren’t human at all."
Myrand’s eyes grew wide. As a gloved hand reached for his visor, his mind panicked the thought of what lurked beneath the solid clothing. Even the knife’s hilt bore the crooked cross, gold and embroidered with decoration, but they’re not human? The left soldier pulled off Myrand's helmet and the right loaded his rifle. He saw clear moonlight give way to the blade’s shadow prod on his cheek. Blood dribbled. He struggled to kick his legs out from the knife-wielding soldier, but choked on a boot in his gut, winding him.
“Any thing else to say funny man?”
The right soldier pressed the barrel against Myrand’s forehead. “Do it.”
“Rix help me, Rix, help!” Myrand screamed. He tried punching his right arm but the soldiers’ weight girthed it down. “Grace’s sake help me you goofy fox!” He tried screaming more but a leather glove intruded his mouth, grabbing hold of his throbbing organ, pulled it out until resisting.
The blade nicked cold against his tongue flesh. “Don’t worry; I’ll keep it as a good luck charm.”
Myrand pinched his eyes shut.
A roar split through the teetering silence. Myrand felt the blade slip away—off his tongue. The barrel rose from his head. He opened an eyelid a crack finding both men turned towards the landing. The left soldier donned a pistol while his friend wielded the sniper rifle, their heads searching the bell, muttering between each other. Myrand took the distraction to draw his pistol, held against his chest while a free hand scraped his helmet closer. Another growl shuttered the windowpanes, rattling the glass.
"What was that?"
One soldier stepped near the stairwell. "It's nothing, the wind maybe."
Bestial thunder clapped inside the tower bell.
"Diamond Strobes!"
The closest soldier pivoted late and forced back a step. A winkling diamond struck him between the neck and clavicle, driving moans from the recipient before another pelted his chest. Then another. And another. Soon groups of five or more knifed through Flak Armor, pulping flesh underneath, tendons and blood vessels severed like licorice. Blood splayed in fantastic fireworks, thick plumes obscuring the soldier's helmet from view. Seconds later he slumped backwards. The surviving man staggered away, attention fixed towards something else, Myrand's rifle still poised in hand.
"Hey; Jerry."
He turned. A bullet thudded his chest. He staggered against the observation window. Two more broke his wrist, disarming him. The last he never saw, gaze scraped at the floor when it bore into his helmet, toppling him backwards. Myrand plunged the pistol's trigger, it's hammer dry clicking on an empty clip, until his shock receded and the barrel dropped beside him. His shoulder throbbed with every heartbeat. He lied supine, closing his eyes to embrace the pain coursing through him; terrific aches absorbed his tongue.
"Myrand?" Rix whimpered from somewhere inside the bell, concerned and saddened. "You're not hurt are you?"
Myrand lifted his head to see Rix had squat at his feet. "No, I'm not hurt. Just a little winded from almost having my tongue used as a good lucky charm."
"I'm sorry—the muzzle flash startled me and…"
"Come here." Myrand interrupted, "Just come here."
When Rix paddled close to Myrand's arms, the Jade Dragoon embraced him with both arms despite phantom pains tickling his spine. He sat up. He pulled the digimon onto his lap scratching along the head, mane, and ears, his mind recanting Hail Mary's that tonight's brawl wasn't the last. He squeezed him tight, re-adjusted the beret his fingers knocked off, noticing the Calico hues gorge moonlight and varnished the fur. They sat for three minutes then rose from the floor.
Rix brought Myrand his rifle. "I think this belongs to you."
"Thanks." The Dragoon watched his partner hover above the diamond-studded soldier. "So how does it feel killing your first enemy?"
Quiet settled on his face. "Satisfied. Satisfied that I defended my tamer."
"Next time just kill them a little bit earlier so they don’t get the chance to play with my tongue."
"So what next?"
Myrand scratched Rix's neck. "We make sure those soldier's are dead and clear the area, then we call it a night."
When he turned towards the window his Renamon gasped. "Your arm!"
"Flesh wound." Myrand grumbled, "I'll patch it up when we get home okay?"
"You better."
Shouldering his rifle, they returned to the outside
again. What greeted them left both awed beyond word or notion. Two hangars
blazed in gasoline fire, translucent blue gouts of flame coiled from under
caved rooftops and awkward steel supports.
"Want the honors?"
Rix shook his head. "Nah, it's better watching them fall down in a puff of smoke."
"After they're finished, we sweep the grounds. No running off this time."
"Right."
Myrand dispatched the stragglers, getting a purr from Rix as the final victim dripped off a widow's walk. Despite the accuracy, he bit the inside of his cheeks to keep groaning pains secret, his arm hot like burning fire. When they left the tower he slung a submachine gun across his back. He found Odin's body wedged between an airfoil and steel girder, pistol clutched in rigor. He searched the storm coat pockets for any documents—underlining motive—anything, but discovered lint instead. Rix lead him around the still raging infernos to the intact hangars.
They rounded a corner and gasped. "Guess that group of soldiers didn't last long." Myrand muttered. "Looks as if they got narrowed in."
Rix gazed upon the eviscerated seven, sprawled against the hangar walls. "You think there's no more wild digimon?"
"Would they have been searching for wounded if they didn't?"
"Touché."
Myrand's pocket hollered again. His Digivice compassed northwards, directly pointing at a hangar door left ajar during the chaos before. The closer he approached it's red arrow darkened, blood red to mud-brick color, fading transparent. It bothered him. Kiyra said a Digivice acknowledged a wild digimon or a partner, but each differed on the compass's hue. Brighter was a wild one and vice versa—darker meant a partner. A Tamer couldn't tame two digimon, could he?
He kept it to himself. "After you Rix."
"Thank you Myrand," The Renamon pushed inside. "Myrand, get in here!"
"I'm right behind you and—Grace's sake."
They entered a small room, branched from the main hub, with only a walkways space between them and the inner door. Rows of test tubes sat on long bulbous racks. Some looked thick; others were covered in a fungus mysterious to him, liquid colors ranging in a sick rainbow, and, after cringing in disgust, found preserves in sealed jars. But nothing prepared Myrand or Rix for the shock leftwards. The Dragoon looked with disgusted fascination, a fresh wave of pale weeding his face, at the wide cage.
Her eyes pleaded. She tried gnawing the shackle around her ankle, biting off fur and dead skin. Her emaciated arms crawled through aged excrement on the floor, a tattoo visible cuff-like around her arm, flailing to sit up. Myrand couldn't process what he was seeing. Rix burst through the other door and the soldier heard the heaves, surely sickened beyond measure. He couldn't tell if she was a Renamon, or a shit clotted rag, the lifeless tatter too caked to ensure. Yet he saw the pain in her eyes. The translucent amber reminded him of raw honey.
"Help me…" She whispered. "Please."
Myrand busted the lock and opened the gate. "It's okay, you're safe now." He armed his pistol and slammed home another clip. "I'm going to snap that chain off. You need to be strong one more time because this might sting."
Even if it did, he assumed she wouldn't feel it or grew immune to physical pain. Taking a chain link in one hand, he formed a bend over the pistol barrel, pointing it at a leant-to in disrepair. He fired and it snapped in two. Before turning around, she crawled onto the cement floor. Excrement inked the white tile. Now free, she appeared thinner than in the cage, like a picture from an anatomy book. He pitied her crippled form, forced on weakened legs.
"You poor thing." Myrand bent on his knees. "What did they do to you?"
"What didn't they do?" She looked up at him. "But thank you stranger."
"My name's Myrand, the other Renamon is Rix. We're going to get you outa here and cleaned up."
She nodded. "Nadya, my name is Nadya."
Rix slinked inside; head low, tugging a hose in one paw and two sponges in the other. He kept his stare on the floor. When he came to a streak stain, his body visibly shuttered. "I got a hose and turned the water on, maybe we could scrub some of that stuff off. But I don’t see a drain around here."
Myrand scratched him between the ears and lifted his head, eyes threatened with tears. "I know it's tough to see her like that," He whispered, "But we're going to make her beautiful okay?" Rix nodded. "Don't worry, we're gonna make her comfortable as possible."
They approached her, Myrand armed with the hose, Rix with the sponges. "Time to get some of that muck off."
She said nothing. The Dragoon unscrewed the nozzle jetting water over her midsection. While it flowed, the sound of rainwater hitting hard leather made him curious until realizing where it came from—off of her hide. He shuttered. He forced the thought aside and minded Rix, who scrubbed the grime away, disguising his pain when each swipe thinned her hairline, but kept pace. Their combined effort cleaned her entire flank in less than thirty minutes. Myrand once-over Nadya's muzzle and Rix repeated, mimicking on her tail, paws, and feet. Some excrement traces clung her privates, yet they could tell she appeared more relieved than before.
Rix scrubbed her with the dry sponge. "Wow." He murmured, staring at the silver fur patches and cloudy brown mane. "She looks a lot better."
"Better yes, but not a hundred
percent. We're taking the back route out to the train station.
She eased it on her maw once and swiftly butchered the meal down in two gulps. "Thank you."
He bent low, his hands lifting her into a fireman's carry. "Come on Rix we don’t have much time." Grace's sake, she's like paper. "Hold my rifle."
The three bounded outside. Below him, Nadya watched the nature around her, mumbled something inaudible. "I've never been outside this airfield."
"Well there's a world just waiting for you." Myrand said. "After you get patched up we'll take a night on the town."
"You can’t imagine how grateful I am—"
"Ah think nothing of it, rescuing digimon is my specialty."
Skies ahead layered in different hues of
bruised blue and pink, announcing dawn. Down the coast road Myrand
heard whispers of
On the train ride home Nadya fell asleep in her own seat, Rix and Myrand sat together with their weapons on an adjacent seat. The two said nothing during the trip. Myrand couldn't resist thinking Rix was avoiding him, for letting his tamer almost lose his tongue. He kept scratching Rix in all the favorable places, satisfied by purrs and pants. Shinjuku's skyscrapers parted, gold dawn light glazed upon its inhabitants, giving the outskirts something to envy upon.
"You did good Rix. You should be very proud."
Rix closed his eyes. "You couldn't say that if they'd succeeded."
"Rix…"
"I'm supposed to be your partner, your protector. I shouldn't have run."
Myrand tousled his mane. "I would've been surprised if you did."
"What?"
"Every soldier goes through it, that indescribable fright. On my first mission I flinched too."
"Really?"
"Sure, I was supposed to kill a
tyrannical king from some Disney-disaster kingdom in the middle of a jungle.
The bullet missed and killed his head-wife, mistress, and mother-in-law. Hell I
don’t even think he'd been happier someone bumping off the in law, but I had to
leave to keep my stealth about me." Myrand said.
"Another time I shot the wrong bullet type and destroyed a statue a Luther
the IV in
"So even good warriors hesitate."
Myrand hugged him. "Most of the time."
"But that's the last time I'll ever let it happen."
"On the subject, you did something I could never do." Rix cocked his head. "Does Diamond Strobes come to mind?"
"I did it?" The digimon blanked for a moment. "I did do it!" He smiled and snuggled his partner's hands. "What did I do?" His face blanked again.
"You told me yesterday you fought with bare paws all your life, not knowing a single attack to protect yourself. Now you do."
Rix brightened. "Oh!"
"You're a goofy one, definitely a goofy Renamon." Myrand corralled the Renamon into a headlock and plucked a few hairs. "But you're my goofy Renamon."
They batted until the train car slowed into Shinjuku, Nadya in arms, greeted by the new dawn ahead…