02-15-2004, 06:22 AM
Simple and Clean
By Wolf O’Donnell
Author's Note: As long as Governments refuse to address the problems that cause poverty and injustice, there will always be a need for stories like these. In many cases, prostitution is a last resort to stave off starvation and life on the streets, and in many cases, people are forced into prostitution without any choice. They are degraded. Their dignity is stolen away from them. They become sub-human. Without a safety net to catch people who fall towards poverty, there will always be homeless people, people who cannot afford to eat, to drink clean water, to have an education, to have a home safe from fear. And when their anger boils? What will they turn to? Where will they vent their anger? Who will they vent their anger on? Will they rebel or will they resort to terrorism? Is the War on Poverty interlinked with the War on Terror, and if not, will it be so in the future when the poor realise that the rich are forcing them into lives of squalor?
"If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face- for ever" - 1984, by George Orwell.
* * * * *
Already there were two pictures of him out there on the Internet. One of them was of him dressed in a slightly over-sized navy blue T-shirt with his favourite pair of goggles around his neck, cum splattered on the lens and soaking his smooth legs. The other was one of him devoid of the goggles, cum splattered on his face, dribbling down his neck, a sticky strand on his finger as he poses in front of the camera in a lewd position sure to set the heart of any fat, perverted old man racing.
Takato could still remember when the pictures had been taken. He could still remember the old pervert looking over him, calling him dirty names and filming every single one of his actions. Those memories of kneeling there in front of the old pervert, as the man masturbated in front of him and then sprayed his thick, sticky, disgusting semen all over his face and on to his neck and part of his chest. That was his first sexual experience and it was the beginning of a nightmare, a third nightmare that had been preceded by two previous ones, each becoming worse as time progressed.
The first nightmare– D-Reaper.
The second nightmare– Losing his parents.
It was a struggle for survival after that. Somehow, the Child Welfare Services had failed. Thanks to D-Reaper, Takato didn't have a friend left in the world. There was no family member he could turn to. There was no friend he could turn to. All had been consumed or dispersed by D-Reaper. He was no longer in contact with Ruki, no longer in contact with Jiangling. Even Hirokazu and Kenta were distant memories and the portal to the Digital World had been shut forever, so even Guilmon was no longer there for him.
Before, food had never been an issue. But when you're homeless and don't have a penny to your name, everything becomes a struggle for survival. Society looked down on the homeless. They don't care for those that had to rough it out on the streets amongst the drug dealers and the criminal gangs and thugs. Once you're out on the streets, getting a job becomes impossible. Climbing back out of poverty becomes impossible. The walls are steep and there's the barbed wire of prejudice on the top of every one, and it is far easier to sink lower, go deeper than rise back up. It is far easier to seek alcohol or drugs as a means to escape the bleak reality that suffocates your very soul.
Takato could remember the hunger that bit into him every waking moment. He could remember watching from the alleyways, as people passed him by, not caring for him, not even noticing him. To them, he was invisible. To them, he did not exist. They pretended not to see him. They couldn't see him, they wouldn't let themselves see him.
The brown-haired youth had done everything he could to get money. He attempted making paintings on the pavement with chalk, in order to attract some kind-hearted people, but his art was not good enough for them. They would not give him even the smallest of pittances. Besides, he was always chased off by the police, whom always saw it as graffitti and saw him as a no good bum. Yet, how could they have not realised that he was far too young to be out on the streets? Why didn't they help him find foster parents? Perhaps because it wasn't a part of their job and that sending him to the proper authorities would be too much work.
He had even tried selling his own possessions, what was left of them. He had sold quite a lot of them early on in his days of homelessness and what was left were his goggles and his D-Arc, all that was left of his memories of Guilmon. Yet they weren't enough and there is only so much you can sell, before you have to resort to selling one thing over and over again.
That was when Takato had met Mamoru. This man had come across him and offered Takato a job and a place to stay. He had offered Takato a chance to escape from his situation. Takato could still remember that time. He was out in the alley when Mamoru had approached him. They had talked and for that very moment in time, Takato felt as if he had found someone that could genuinely help him. His hopes had been raised. A job. That meant money. A place to stay. That meant warmth during the nights, security when he slept and freedom from the diseases that stalked the streets like the Devil personified.
A tear rolled down Takato's cheek, as he sat there.
What Mamoru had offered him was worse. When you have sold everything you can sell and there is no money left, when not even the State can save you, when no one can save you, there are only two things to sell. One- your body. Two- your dignity.
Yes, Takato could still remember the first night in the brothel and the very first customer of his entire life. He could still remember the image of his first punter and the fearful wait in the brothel. His very first customer, had looked to be about thirty or so. The man was tall, semi-built with stubble on his face and eyes as grey as steel. He had been rough, uncaring and wild. Takato could still remember it, the pain he felt as this man stole his very dignity and virginity away from him. He had been slammed about for three hours, until his insides had bled and had mixed with the man's sticky semen. Takato had felt as if he had been torn apart and wished he had died along with his parents.
All for 3600 Yen. So his life, his body, his virginity and his dignity did have a value after all and at 3600 Yen or approximately $30, they were a bargain.
Night after night, he would endure customer after customer. They were all middle-class men or upper-lower class men. Most of them were the sort that were married, the sort that went behind their wives to have sex with guys too beautiful for them, to defile youths that were as beautiful as those that they could never ever have.
Few would talk. Most of them, he had seen out in the streets when he had been homeless, the sort that gave him long lingering looks before leaving without giving him a single penny. They were the ones that could have helped him out of his rut, if only they had given. They saw him as an object, a toy to satisfy their unsatiated desires and used him accordingly, raping him, tying him up, forcing themselves on him without protection, sometimes without lube, other times beating him as they pounded his arse with rough, forceful thrusts. Some were even police officers and brought in cuffs with them, chaining him to the bed, as they forced their cocks into his mouth, as they forced themselves on to him, doing with him what they pleased without him able to push him away.
They would make him cry out, mostly in anguish, mostly in pain and leave him lying in sheets covered with his own blood and their semen mixed with that of other customers.
And now those fools in government had banned prostitution. They had made it illegal.
Takato laughed at the very thought of it. It had already been two weeks and the brothel still existed. When you ban something, it goes underground. When it is underground and out of site, things get worse. His very rights had been abused and his pay had been reduced to a meagre 2400 Yen per night. Every session become worse, more violent.
There suddenly came a knock from the door and it was opened up by a man in his thirties, with thinning hair and an inane grin on his face. It was Mamoru, the very person that had brought him to this Hell hole.
"You done good tonight, Takato," chuckled Mamoru, as he walked in. "You pulled in more punters than the rest of the others put together."
Yet Takato was not listening. He was thinking about the guy he had bumped into in the street earlier on in the week. The man was old and seemed quite familiar in some strange way. He could still remember the man's words, how he had given Takato and address.
"I've seen you out there," stated the old man. "All alone, abused, used like an object. Society doesn't care about you, but I do. Whenever you get tired of your current employer, slave master, you come round to my place and we'll talk. I can offer you an opportunity like no other, and it isn't anything like the ones those brothel keepers can offer you."
A sigh escaped Takato's parted lips, as he sat on the edge of the stained bed underneath the single, weak lightbulb. He was tired of life, of his life, of having to sell his body just to survive, of having lost his dignity and his virginity to those that cared not for him, to those that would have left him to die out in the streets. Yet his mind was abuzz with activity. It was the one thing he barely ever used. The very thought of what he had become made his soul cringe and wither like a plant without pure, life-giving water. He was nothing more than a whore, an object. He was not human. He and his kind out there on the streets were not human at all. They were sub-human, to be used, raped and discarded as seen fit, like the animals, like the environment, like the very planet they lived on.
A thought occurred to Takato. Why should he care? Why should Mamoru care about him?
"You don't look too well," said Takato quietly. "You all right?"
A smile spread across Mamoru's face.
"Well, I'm fine," he told Takato, as he approached the brown-haired youth. "I've had a long day, that's all." He brushed the back of his hand against Takato's smooth cheek. "A very long day," he added, as he leaned in and gave Takato a kiss on the cheek. His right hand landed on Takato's shoulder, as his left hand began to lower and trail down Takato's front.
So, this is what he wanted, was it? Takato should have realised that it was Saturday. This always happened on Saturday. He would be abused once more, this time for free, this time by Mamoru, his so-called protector.
"Mm, Mamoru, please, don't," gasped Takato, as a rough hand slipped past the waistband of his shorts and towards his crotch and he was fondled roughly. "Not tonight, please," he said, as he tried to push Mamoru away. "Please don't," he begged.
But Mamoru loved it when Takato begged. All his customers did. It was a turn on. It was what got them going.
It wasn't long before Mamoru had stripped Takato of all his clothes and had forced the youth on to the bed, forcing his rapidly thickening and hardening penis against his rear. Takato's chin slumped against the bed, his rear raised into the air, he remained silent. There was no more point in begging for Mamoru to stop. This man, like the customers before him, were determined to get their way. He forced himself into Takato without any lube, without any protection, creating a searing, burning pain that racked Takato's very insides with pure agony, thrusting with force that he sent Takato's face slamming into the bed, tears streaming down his smooth cheeks.
Mamoru continued to slam his hips against Takato's rear, and as Takato lay there, all he could hear was the squeaking of the near broken bed and of the slapping of skin against skin.
Though it had been four years of this, Takato still hadn't got used to being taken so roughly. Every night, as he lay there underneath the customers, he would long for his distant, forgotten childhood and the happy days he had then. He would long for his virginity back. He would long for his friends, for his family. Takato wished that he could somehow turn time back and do things differently, and somehow avoid this fate. Yet time is unrelentless, like the thrusting of the cock into his used and badly injured arse.
"Yeah, you like that, don't you, bitch?" growled Mamoru, as he continued to slam against Takato. "Yeah, that's right. Take it." He grabbed Takato roughly with his hands and swivelled the youth round on his cock, dumping Takato on to the bed on to his back, before continuing to bugger the youth savagely and enjoying the pained expression on Takato's face.
Takato could hear Mamoru's panting. It sounded laboured, forced. He knew that Mamoru was close and waited. He thought about his childhood, about Guilmon, about how he had tried to camouflage Guilmon with pain, about his friends, about his family, about Juri, Jiangling, Ryo, Ruki, Hirokazu and Kenta.
"Please, just get it over with!" thought Takato, his very thoughts screaming in his mind.
He heard a cry and felt a spurt of something. Wet and sticky, it coated his very insides.
Tears streamed down Takato's cheeks, as he lay there on the bed. He felt more than sore. His entire body was aching with anguish, pain of a pure nature. It felt as if his very soul had been cut at with a long, steel knife. Yet there was something else. There was a rage within him, building up, a rage that he had not felt for years, that had been dulled by so much abuse. As he felt Mamoru pull out of him, he realised that there was nothing else left for him in this world. He would sort everything out. He would escape.
* * * * *
On the breastpocket of the old man's blue dressing gown was a symbol. It was a white circle and within it was a black gear. It was the symbol of the Black Gear Army, the terrorist organisation that had been devestating the Earth with its attacks on nuclear power stations, chemical factories and on corporate buildings and American Military Installations.
"So, what did you do to Mamoru-san?" asked the old man curiously, as he turned to face Takato.
The youth looked away, trying his best to hide his blood stained hands.
The old man chuckled.
"That is all right, Takato," he told the youth. "I had a feeling that you'd do something like that." A smile spread across his face. "You look so beautiful, like an angel. I wonder. How can they have the courage to abuse and rape an angel?" He then turned away and walked into the kitchenette area, bringing out a glass and placing it on the bench in front of him and pouring out some juice for Takato. "I'm glad you decided to come and have a talk, Takato-kun. It is refreshing to see a new face."
"Tell me, what do you think of the present state of the world?" asked the old man curiously. "The way the Governments spend so much on the military, whilst letting the public schools go to the dogs, letting the people go without health care, letting the poor people starve, whilst giving tax cuts to the rich so that they can have more money. What do you think of it all?"
Takato rose up from his seat.
"I'm sorry," apologised Takato as politely as possible. "I... don't think that I..."
"Belong here?" finished the old man for the youth. "In this world, in this society, perhaps you don't belong, but in our organisation..." He trailed off deliberately, as he handed Takato the glass. "Ever since I saw you, I realised who you were. You've been to the Digital World, haven't you?"
"Well, yes," replied Takato awkwardly.
"Out there in the Digital World is the remains of D-Reaper, you know," stated the old man. "Have you ever wondered whether the D-Reaper was right about humanity?"
Takato bit his lip. He didn't want to reply to that question. Of all the questions that could be asked, he dreaded that one. He looked away from the old man as best as he could, not wanting to meet his gaze. There was something about this person, this old man that made him cringe in a different way to Mamoru and the customers of that infernal brothel.
"There are others out there like you," continued the old man. "They may be homeless. They may be prostitutes, being used as objects. They may even be slave labourers, working in sweat shops. All that is common about them and you, is the fact that you have all been used." He sighed, as he took a seat on the other side of the coffee table to Takato. "If the Governments of the Earth spent a little bit more on welfare, on attempting to combat poverty and the causes of poverty, then perhaps these people wouldn't exist in such a context. Do you think it fair that companies pay people little more than a dollar a week to produce products they sell for $16 or more dollars? Do you think it fair they make all the profit, that they make millions and millions of dollars everyday, only to not pay their contribution to society?"
Thoughts battled and raged within Takato's mind. He was beginning to agree with the old man's train of thought, but then again, he had always agreed with that train of thought. It was the solution the man proposed that Takato didn't quite like, yet it sounded more and more enticing the more he thought about it.
"There are countless other Mamorus out there, preying on the innocent," continued the old man, as he placed an object down on the coffee table.
Pupils widened. Takato couldn't believe it. That object on the coffee table was his D-Arc, the very same one he had sold so many years ago. He thought he would never see it again and now it was right in front of him!
"There is a way for me to send you to the Digital World," stated the old man sternly. "You can find D-Reaper's code for us. There, you can become D-Reaper yourself and judge the human race." A smile spread across the old man's face. "You will be able to destroy the injustice that plagues this world. Think of it. The world will burn at your feet and the disgusting human vermin will die along with it. All you need do is take your D-Arc." He sighed. "But enough of that. What do you say we watch some television while you think about it, hm?" He reached out for the remote, but a hand stopped him. He looked up.
Takato removed his hand and then picked up the D-Arc.
The Leader of the Black Gear Army smiled and Takato smiled back.
The End?
By Wolf O’Donnell
Author's Note: As long as Governments refuse to address the problems that cause poverty and injustice, there will always be a need for stories like these. In many cases, prostitution is a last resort to stave off starvation and life on the streets, and in many cases, people are forced into prostitution without any choice. They are degraded. Their dignity is stolen away from them. They become sub-human. Without a safety net to catch people who fall towards poverty, there will always be homeless people, people who cannot afford to eat, to drink clean water, to have an education, to have a home safe from fear. And when their anger boils? What will they turn to? Where will they vent their anger? Who will they vent their anger on? Will they rebel or will they resort to terrorism? Is the War on Poverty interlinked with the War on Terror, and if not, will it be so in the future when the poor realise that the rich are forcing them into lives of squalor?
"If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face- for ever" - 1984, by George Orwell.
* * * * *
Already there were two pictures of him out there on the Internet. One of them was of him dressed in a slightly over-sized navy blue T-shirt with his favourite pair of goggles around his neck, cum splattered on the lens and soaking his smooth legs. The other was one of him devoid of the goggles, cum splattered on his face, dribbling down his neck, a sticky strand on his finger as he poses in front of the camera in a lewd position sure to set the heart of any fat, perverted old man racing.
Takato could still remember when the pictures had been taken. He could still remember the old pervert looking over him, calling him dirty names and filming every single one of his actions. Those memories of kneeling there in front of the old pervert, as the man masturbated in front of him and then sprayed his thick, sticky, disgusting semen all over his face and on to his neck and part of his chest. That was his first sexual experience and it was the beginning of a nightmare, a third nightmare that had been preceded by two previous ones, each becoming worse as time progressed.
The first nightmare– D-Reaper.
The second nightmare– Losing his parents.
It was a struggle for survival after that. Somehow, the Child Welfare Services had failed. Thanks to D-Reaper, Takato didn't have a friend left in the world. There was no family member he could turn to. There was no friend he could turn to. All had been consumed or dispersed by D-Reaper. He was no longer in contact with Ruki, no longer in contact with Jiangling. Even Hirokazu and Kenta were distant memories and the portal to the Digital World had been shut forever, so even Guilmon was no longer there for him.
Before, food had never been an issue. But when you're homeless and don't have a penny to your name, everything becomes a struggle for survival. Society looked down on the homeless. They don't care for those that had to rough it out on the streets amongst the drug dealers and the criminal gangs and thugs. Once you're out on the streets, getting a job becomes impossible. Climbing back out of poverty becomes impossible. The walls are steep and there's the barbed wire of prejudice on the top of every one, and it is far easier to sink lower, go deeper than rise back up. It is far easier to seek alcohol or drugs as a means to escape the bleak reality that suffocates your very soul.
Takato could remember the hunger that bit into him every waking moment. He could remember watching from the alleyways, as people passed him by, not caring for him, not even noticing him. To them, he was invisible. To them, he did not exist. They pretended not to see him. They couldn't see him, they wouldn't let themselves see him.
The brown-haired youth had done everything he could to get money. He attempted making paintings on the pavement with chalk, in order to attract some kind-hearted people, but his art was not good enough for them. They would not give him even the smallest of pittances. Besides, he was always chased off by the police, whom always saw it as graffitti and saw him as a no good bum. Yet, how could they have not realised that he was far too young to be out on the streets? Why didn't they help him find foster parents? Perhaps because it wasn't a part of their job and that sending him to the proper authorities would be too much work.
He had even tried selling his own possessions, what was left of them. He had sold quite a lot of them early on in his days of homelessness and what was left were his goggles and his D-Arc, all that was left of his memories of Guilmon. Yet they weren't enough and there is only so much you can sell, before you have to resort to selling one thing over and over again.
That was when Takato had met Mamoru. This man had come across him and offered Takato a job and a place to stay. He had offered Takato a chance to escape from his situation. Takato could still remember that time. He was out in the alley when Mamoru had approached him. They had talked and for that very moment in time, Takato felt as if he had found someone that could genuinely help him. His hopes had been raised. A job. That meant money. A place to stay. That meant warmth during the nights, security when he slept and freedom from the diseases that stalked the streets like the Devil personified.
A tear rolled down Takato's cheek, as he sat there.
What Mamoru had offered him was worse. When you have sold everything you can sell and there is no money left, when not even the State can save you, when no one can save you, there are only two things to sell. One- your body. Two- your dignity.
Yes, Takato could still remember the first night in the brothel and the very first customer of his entire life. He could still remember the image of his first punter and the fearful wait in the brothel. His very first customer, had looked to be about thirty or so. The man was tall, semi-built with stubble on his face and eyes as grey as steel. He had been rough, uncaring and wild. Takato could still remember it, the pain he felt as this man stole his very dignity and virginity away from him. He had been slammed about for three hours, until his insides had bled and had mixed with the man's sticky semen. Takato had felt as if he had been torn apart and wished he had died along with his parents.
All for 3600 Yen. So his life, his body, his virginity and his dignity did have a value after all and at 3600 Yen or approximately $30, they were a bargain.
Night after night, he would endure customer after customer. They were all middle-class men or upper-lower class men. Most of them were the sort that were married, the sort that went behind their wives to have sex with guys too beautiful for them, to defile youths that were as beautiful as those that they could never ever have.
Few would talk. Most of them, he had seen out in the streets when he had been homeless, the sort that gave him long lingering looks before leaving without giving him a single penny. They were the ones that could have helped him out of his rut, if only they had given. They saw him as an object, a toy to satisfy their unsatiated desires and used him accordingly, raping him, tying him up, forcing themselves on him without protection, sometimes without lube, other times beating him as they pounded his arse with rough, forceful thrusts. Some were even police officers and brought in cuffs with them, chaining him to the bed, as they forced their cocks into his mouth, as they forced themselves on to him, doing with him what they pleased without him able to push him away.
They would make him cry out, mostly in anguish, mostly in pain and leave him lying in sheets covered with his own blood and their semen mixed with that of other customers.
And now those fools in government had banned prostitution. They had made it illegal.
Takato laughed at the very thought of it. It had already been two weeks and the brothel still existed. When you ban something, it goes underground. When it is underground and out of site, things get worse. His very rights had been abused and his pay had been reduced to a meagre 2400 Yen per night. Every session become worse, more violent.
There suddenly came a knock from the door and it was opened up by a man in his thirties, with thinning hair and an inane grin on his face. It was Mamoru, the very person that had brought him to this Hell hole.
"You done good tonight, Takato," chuckled Mamoru, as he walked in. "You pulled in more punters than the rest of the others put together."
Yet Takato was not listening. He was thinking about the guy he had bumped into in the street earlier on in the week. The man was old and seemed quite familiar in some strange way. He could still remember the man's words, how he had given Takato and address.
"I've seen you out there," stated the old man. "All alone, abused, used like an object. Society doesn't care about you, but I do. Whenever you get tired of your current employer, slave master, you come round to my place and we'll talk. I can offer you an opportunity like no other, and it isn't anything like the ones those brothel keepers can offer you."
A sigh escaped Takato's parted lips, as he sat on the edge of the stained bed underneath the single, weak lightbulb. He was tired of life, of his life, of having to sell his body just to survive, of having lost his dignity and his virginity to those that cared not for him, to those that would have left him to die out in the streets. Yet his mind was abuzz with activity. It was the one thing he barely ever used. The very thought of what he had become made his soul cringe and wither like a plant without pure, life-giving water. He was nothing more than a whore, an object. He was not human. He and his kind out there on the streets were not human at all. They were sub-human, to be used, raped and discarded as seen fit, like the animals, like the environment, like the very planet they lived on.
A thought occurred to Takato. Why should he care? Why should Mamoru care about him?
"You don't look too well," said Takato quietly. "You all right?"
A smile spread across Mamoru's face.
"Well, I'm fine," he told Takato, as he approached the brown-haired youth. "I've had a long day, that's all." He brushed the back of his hand against Takato's smooth cheek. "A very long day," he added, as he leaned in and gave Takato a kiss on the cheek. His right hand landed on Takato's shoulder, as his left hand began to lower and trail down Takato's front.
So, this is what he wanted, was it? Takato should have realised that it was Saturday. This always happened on Saturday. He would be abused once more, this time for free, this time by Mamoru, his so-called protector.
"Mm, Mamoru, please, don't," gasped Takato, as a rough hand slipped past the waistband of his shorts and towards his crotch and he was fondled roughly. "Not tonight, please," he said, as he tried to push Mamoru away. "Please don't," he begged.
But Mamoru loved it when Takato begged. All his customers did. It was a turn on. It was what got them going.
It wasn't long before Mamoru had stripped Takato of all his clothes and had forced the youth on to the bed, forcing his rapidly thickening and hardening penis against his rear. Takato's chin slumped against the bed, his rear raised into the air, he remained silent. There was no more point in begging for Mamoru to stop. This man, like the customers before him, were determined to get their way. He forced himself into Takato without any lube, without any protection, creating a searing, burning pain that racked Takato's very insides with pure agony, thrusting with force that he sent Takato's face slamming into the bed, tears streaming down his smooth cheeks.
Mamoru continued to slam his hips against Takato's rear, and as Takato lay there, all he could hear was the squeaking of the near broken bed and of the slapping of skin against skin.
Though it had been four years of this, Takato still hadn't got used to being taken so roughly. Every night, as he lay there underneath the customers, he would long for his distant, forgotten childhood and the happy days he had then. He would long for his virginity back. He would long for his friends, for his family. Takato wished that he could somehow turn time back and do things differently, and somehow avoid this fate. Yet time is unrelentless, like the thrusting of the cock into his used and badly injured arse.
"Yeah, you like that, don't you, bitch?" growled Mamoru, as he continued to slam against Takato. "Yeah, that's right. Take it." He grabbed Takato roughly with his hands and swivelled the youth round on his cock, dumping Takato on to the bed on to his back, before continuing to bugger the youth savagely and enjoying the pained expression on Takato's face.
Takato could hear Mamoru's panting. It sounded laboured, forced. He knew that Mamoru was close and waited. He thought about his childhood, about Guilmon, about how he had tried to camouflage Guilmon with pain, about his friends, about his family, about Juri, Jiangling, Ryo, Ruki, Hirokazu and Kenta.
"Please, just get it over with!" thought Takato, his very thoughts screaming in his mind.
He heard a cry and felt a spurt of something. Wet and sticky, it coated his very insides.
Tears streamed down Takato's cheeks, as he lay there on the bed. He felt more than sore. His entire body was aching with anguish, pain of a pure nature. It felt as if his very soul had been cut at with a long, steel knife. Yet there was something else. There was a rage within him, building up, a rage that he had not felt for years, that had been dulled by so much abuse. As he felt Mamoru pull out of him, he realised that there was nothing else left for him in this world. He would sort everything out. He would escape.
* * * * *
On the breastpocket of the old man's blue dressing gown was a symbol. It was a white circle and within it was a black gear. It was the symbol of the Black Gear Army, the terrorist organisation that had been devestating the Earth with its attacks on nuclear power stations, chemical factories and on corporate buildings and American Military Installations.
"So, what did you do to Mamoru-san?" asked the old man curiously, as he turned to face Takato.
The youth looked away, trying his best to hide his blood stained hands.
The old man chuckled.
"That is all right, Takato," he told the youth. "I had a feeling that you'd do something like that." A smile spread across his face. "You look so beautiful, like an angel. I wonder. How can they have the courage to abuse and rape an angel?" He then turned away and walked into the kitchenette area, bringing out a glass and placing it on the bench in front of him and pouring out some juice for Takato. "I'm glad you decided to come and have a talk, Takato-kun. It is refreshing to see a new face."
"Tell me, what do you think of the present state of the world?" asked the old man curiously. "The way the Governments spend so much on the military, whilst letting the public schools go to the dogs, letting the people go without health care, letting the poor people starve, whilst giving tax cuts to the rich so that they can have more money. What do you think of it all?"
Takato rose up from his seat.
"I'm sorry," apologised Takato as politely as possible. "I... don't think that I..."
"Belong here?" finished the old man for the youth. "In this world, in this society, perhaps you don't belong, but in our organisation..." He trailed off deliberately, as he handed Takato the glass. "Ever since I saw you, I realised who you were. You've been to the Digital World, haven't you?"
"Well, yes," replied Takato awkwardly.
"Out there in the Digital World is the remains of D-Reaper, you know," stated the old man. "Have you ever wondered whether the D-Reaper was right about humanity?"
Takato bit his lip. He didn't want to reply to that question. Of all the questions that could be asked, he dreaded that one. He looked away from the old man as best as he could, not wanting to meet his gaze. There was something about this person, this old man that made him cringe in a different way to Mamoru and the customers of that infernal brothel.
"There are others out there like you," continued the old man. "They may be homeless. They may be prostitutes, being used as objects. They may even be slave labourers, working in sweat shops. All that is common about them and you, is the fact that you have all been used." He sighed, as he took a seat on the other side of the coffee table to Takato. "If the Governments of the Earth spent a little bit more on welfare, on attempting to combat poverty and the causes of poverty, then perhaps these people wouldn't exist in such a context. Do you think it fair that companies pay people little more than a dollar a week to produce products they sell for $16 or more dollars? Do you think it fair they make all the profit, that they make millions and millions of dollars everyday, only to not pay their contribution to society?"
Thoughts battled and raged within Takato's mind. He was beginning to agree with the old man's train of thought, but then again, he had always agreed with that train of thought. It was the solution the man proposed that Takato didn't quite like, yet it sounded more and more enticing the more he thought about it.
"There are countless other Mamorus out there, preying on the innocent," continued the old man, as he placed an object down on the coffee table.
Pupils widened. Takato couldn't believe it. That object on the coffee table was his D-Arc, the very same one he had sold so many years ago. He thought he would never see it again and now it was right in front of him!
"There is a way for me to send you to the Digital World," stated the old man sternly. "You can find D-Reaper's code for us. There, you can become D-Reaper yourself and judge the human race." A smile spread across the old man's face. "You will be able to destroy the injustice that plagues this world. Think of it. The world will burn at your feet and the disgusting human vermin will die along with it. All you need do is take your D-Arc." He sighed. "But enough of that. What do you say we watch some television while you think about it, hm?" He reached out for the remote, but a hand stopped him. He looked up.
Takato removed his hand and then picked up the D-Arc.
The Leader of the Black Gear Army smiled and Takato smiled back.
The End?
