DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Digimon or related chars. Damn. I do however own any original
creatures, characters, and concepts (except where SPECIFICALLY noted), including this dumb fic. And while there's not much I could actually do to you should you for some reason steal my crap, I WILL put a hex on you. So THERE.
Author's Note: Okay! Finally! This chapter will PROBABLY be the worst, because A> It's the first draft of the original first chapter I wrote waaaaay back before Ken was even good again in the english version and B>i can't write first chapters worth beans.
This story is faintly AU from the actual series--BelialVamdemon never happened. In fact, nothing after teh realease of Quinlongmon and the dissapearacnce of BlackWargreymon happened. Okay? Given that, this takes place one year after 02
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1
The Game Begins

At this point, the game didn't matter anymore.

But then maybe it never had, Ken reflected as the soccer ball slammed into the net, jerking it violently back. It wasn't as if he played much outside of the team . . .so why was he out here in the rain now? Hadn't Daisuke invited him over . . .?

With a sigh, he blew at the wet dark hair that hung in his face, and jogged down the muddy field to retrieve the ball. Anyway, it didn't matter what Daisuke had said or done--Ken needed this right now. He pulled the ball from where it had gotten caught in the webbing of the net, and cast a glance as he straightened to where Wormmon sat on the sideline bleachers, watching him with those always-sad blue eyes of his. Ken hated that--he knew it wasn't true, of course, but he always felt that those eyes were judging him . . .like his friend was still afraid of what he could at any time become again. God knew Ken was . . .

Squeezing his indigo-ice eyes shut at the thought, he threw the ball to the ground, kicking it violently. There was an explosive pop as his foot connected, and he almost lost his balance on the slick ground. From the sound of the ball hitting the opposite goal, like a hand on bare flesh--or, a small part of his mind whispered, like a whip smacking the same--he knew the ball had been flattened. Somehow that made him want to laugh--somehow it felt good to destroy something, to tear something apart so that even if it had been alive, it wouldn't be anymore.

His eyes snapped open again, the pupils contracted even in the dim and clouded noon. God . . .what was he thinking? What was wrong with him? Shaking his head, Ken forced himself to breathe deeply, to relax. That was why he had come out here, after all . . .to vent, to relax and get that horrifying, burning hostility out of his system. Better the ball than his friends . . . That thought a hollow comfort in his mind, he started off the field, ignoring the mangled dirty mess of black and white hanging through the tear its impact had made in the goal net.

And he stopped. Someone had seen that little display--a girl slightly younger than he, her small face with its wide, mournful grey eyes staring in through the chain-link fence. Shoulders slumping in a deep sigh, Ken closed his eyes again for a moment. Please, he begged silently, please don't let her have seen that . . . He didn't want to have to deal with anyone right now. Of course, it was too much to hope that she wouldn't recognize him . . . Everyone seemed to recognize him. More proof that he couldn't escape himself.

The girl pressed herself against the fence, fingers curling around the metal as she watched him quietly. A few strands of damp teal hair hung into her face, dark in the rain and making her eyes seem, somehow, much larger than they probably were. Firmly ignoring her, Ken picked Wormmon up--his small friend doing the 'stuffed-animal' act again, staying perfectly still, and letting himself flop a little, limply, as he was lifted. Ken grimaced, and shifted Wormmon in his arms, trying to set him into a position that might vaguely resemble comfortable for the trip home. He determined he wouldn't bring him anymore, to save his companion the trouble of trying to be inconspicuous a slightly more pressing reason than Ken's somewhat selfish want to not have him see those sickening, violent outbursts.

As he started off the girl's eyes followed him, and he stopped, noting the line of her gaze at last. A little troubled, he looked down at Wormmon--but he was perfectly still, the absolute image of some sad-eyed plush toy. So, why was she staring at him . . .? Maybe she thought he was cute--he knew Miyako got that a lot, with Poromon--but it was always better safe than sorry . . . "Can I help you?" He sincerely hoped the mild tone he always spoke with didn't sound as forced as it felt just now.

The girl jumped, catching her fingers in the links briefly before she pulled loose, eyes darting about desperately like she was hoping he were talking to someone else. When no one else showed themselves to be there, she swallowed, looking about to run, before pointing weakly to herself. "M-me . . .?" Her voice was tiny, frightened and whispery so that he could hardly hear her.

"There's . . . no one else here." He raised one brow slightly--'it softens your face', Miyako had commented once, to which someone or another had teasingly replied 'and makes you look like a girl'. Even if his delicate, mildly feminine features were a touchy subject for him, the memory brought the crooked line of a smile to his face, and he almost laughed. It was so easy to forget why he had been avoiding them . . .

The smile seemed to have done the trick, in any case--she returned it, tentatively. "Um . . .well actually-"

She was suddenly cut off as an older man--grey-haired, carrying a wide black umbrella--came up behind her and grabbed her wrist. She squeaked in surprise--maybe fear--as he pulled her under the umbrella. "Yuri! What have I told you about going out in the rain!"

The girl cringed, casting her eyes downward. Even from where he stood on the field, Ken could see her tremble. "I . . .I'm sorry, grampa . . .I just-"

"No excuses!" He gave her arm a sharp tug, pulling her off balance and almost making her fall. "We can't have you sick, girl!" Yuri sufficiently cowed--she was clinging to him fearfully, looking for all the world like she thought she would be hit if she let go--the man looked up at Ken, furrowing beetled white brows and squinting so that his eyes all but disappeared in his wrinkled face. "Say . . .aren't you that boy genius, the one who used to be on TV all the time? Ichijouji Ken, wasn't it?"

Face and voice carefully flat, Ken shifted Wormmon in his arms again, and turned his back to the old man. "Ichijouji? Never heard of him."

"Huh . . .look just like him. Anyone ever tell you that?"

Closing his eyes briefly, Ken took a deep breath and forced himself to walk off the field before he was too tempted to make a replacement soccer ball out of that weathered, scowling face. "Not really. Now if you don't mind, I have to get home. Studies."

~ ~ ~

"That man wasn't very polite, was he Ken-chan?"

Rolling his eyes, Ken raised his arms above his head, flopping into the chair before his computer in mid-stretch. "That man," he commented dryly, "deserved a ball in the back of the head."

Wormmon blinked gently, and hopped into Ken's lap, looking up at him. "The doctor? Or the girl's grandfather?"

Letting his head roll back a bit, Ken popped his neck before answering. "Both." The doctor hadn't been thrilled with Ken--not only had he been late for his appointment, but he had been soaking wet, earning one of those dark disapproving glares anyone with a Ph.D. seemed so expert at flinging around. The snide comments about how a genius ought to know better didn't help either . . .Ken had wanted to take the doctor's stethoscope and--

Shaking his head, he tossed up the small orange bottle he held in one hand and caught it again, peering critically at the label once more. Two pills to be taken twice daily or as needed. Right. Twice daily or whenever he had to reach out and smash something. No damn problem . . .

With a sound of irritation he tossed the bottle onto the desk, watching it bounce and then roll to the floor, the tiny beige pills rattling loudly within. He looked at the place they had fallen in disgust, then leaned forward with his head in his hands. He shouldn't need those. He should be in control, like he always was. Even when things fell apart, he always had that--he always had that cold comfort that he could control himself, if nothing else. Was he doomed to lose that, too? Like everything else . . .?

He reached out suddenly and flipped the computer on, the swift, sharp movement almost sending Wormmon to the floor. He had to clear his mind; stop thinking for once in his life . . .some brainless computer game ought to do the trick nicely. It seemed to work for Daisuke, anyway.

"Ken-chan?" Ken looked down at his friend, at the creased little brow and the worried, watery sky-blue eyes. "Ken-chan, are you going to be alright . . .?"

Not looking away from Wormmon, for a second Ken unfocused his gaze. Was he going to be alright? Once he wouldn't have wondered--a year ago, he might have thought that whatever went wrong, he could make it through with the people that called him 'friend'. Because, quite frankly, they would make him get through it. They were just that type of people . . .and that was why he didn't belong with them, maybe. Because he wasn't strong like that, and never would be. Because none of them ever succumbed to that howling, twisting dark feeling that coiled in the heart like some black malignant snake. No, he wasn't strong like they were, and he could only drag them down with his troubles . . .so he avoided them.

His eyes focused again as Wormmon nudged him, worried. "Ken-chan . . . please don't look so sad."

With a forced, flat smile Ken rubbed the top of Wormmon's head affectionately, flicking one of his long antennae. "I'm sorry . . .I just need to clear my mind. It's been a long day . . ." It's been a long day, and I have no right to burden you anymore, friend . . .

The words found no voice, though--his voice died out as he looked up at the screen, his mouth going dry. The screen was almost blank, flat black and featureless. He might have thought the monitor wasn't really even on, but for the tiny glow of four white words in the lower left corner, the flickering blink of the cursor beside them. He must have read them three times--four, five, ten--before he jolted to his feet, ignoring Wormmon's tiny startled cry when he hit the floor. Stumbling, Ken fell to his knees, and vomited into the garbage can beside the desk, clutching the plastic rim and breathing raggedly, navy hair hanging in a veil beside his face, bangs dropped limply before his hazy eyes. It didn't register when he started to cry, or when Wormmon crawled tentatively up beside him, looking up at him sadly without knowing what to do--he was still staring at them, those words burned into the back of his lids when he closed his eyes.

The words glowed innocently on the computer screen, soft-edged white against the black and completely untouched. The message seemed almost random, childlike in its simplicity: Come home, Kenny boy.

~ ~ ~

Daisuke was bouncing his soccer ball from knee to knee in the living room when the phone went off. He waited for a few rings, figuring either his mom or Jun would get it.

"Daisuke! Get the phone! And stop playing with that thing in the house!"

With a weary, exasperated groan, he let the ball fall and roll under the coffee table. "Aw . . .Do I have to?"

"Dai!"

"Man . . ." He rubbed the back of his neck, wrinkling his nose. "I gotta do everything around here . . ." Snatching the phone up, he leaned it against his shoulder, boredly fiddling with the cord. "Motamiya resid-oh!" He perked up at the familiar voice, straightening out of his slouch and picking the phone up in his hand. "What's up, Wormmon?" Hearing his friend's name, Chibimon popped his head up from the sofa cushion he had been dozing behind.

"Dai, who is it?" His mother poked her head out of the kitchen for a moment, looking at him with both brows raised in that whole 'I can't believe my son can't answer the phone right' look she got with him.

"Uh . . ." blinking, he held the receiver away from him, looking at it like he'd never seen it before. "Just a friend of mine, mom . . ."

"Don't be on too long."

"Uh-huh . . ." He put the receiver to his face again, huddling into the phone. "What do you mean, something's wrong with Ken?" A nasty, sinking feeling settled in his stomach. "Whoa . . .slow down. Is he hurt or sick or kidnapped by aliens or what?" Again, he blinked; dark brown eyes assuming their characteristic look of being completely and utterly lost. "Huh? Come over?" He turned his head, looking out the window to the dark, rainy evening. "I don't think mom'll let me . . ." Daisuke scratched his head, then wiped his fingers absently on his shorts. Note to self--use less hair gel.

Chibimon bounced on the cushion, hopping up onto the back of the sofa. "What's going on, Daisuke?" He blinked his huge, shiny reddish eyes, head tilted inquisitively. "Is Ken okay?"

Putting a finger to his lips to hush his pal, Dai grinned. "Hey, chill. You know I wouldn't abandon my buddy. We'll be over. Yuh-huh. Catch ya in a bit." He hung the phone up, putting his hands behind his head and rocking back on the heels of his sneakers with an exaggerated sigh as he looked over to the front door. There was no way his mom would let him out at this hour, in this weather, so . . .

"Daisuke . . ." the little blue digimon whined as he continued bouncing up and down, up and down on the sofa.

"Hold on a sec, I'm thinking . . ." Brow furrowing in concentration, Dai rocked forward, then back again. This was definitely a problem. "Uh . . ."

"What's going on? Is Ken okay? Is Wormmon okay?" More bouncing. "Tellmetellmetellmetellmeeeeeeeee~!"

He was going to get busted if he left. His mom would kill him, or at least ground him for about a year. He'd end up stuck at home with . . .with Jun, and he'd probably end up having to do her chores as punishment, too. But . . .

Putting a finger to his lips in a hushing motion, Dai picked Chibimon up, tucking him under his arm. The little digimon squeaked, but was otherwise silent, as Daisuke bolted to the door, and flung it open. "Emergency! I'll be back, Mom!" he yelled the words out as the door slammed shut behind him, and tore down the apartment hallway headed out before she probably even registered he was gone.

Grinning happily, Daisuke laughed right along with the giggling digimon in his arms. He was going to get busted, yes . . .but hey, this was his best friend, this was Ken . . .he was more than worth the trouble.

~ ~ ~

Black eyes closed blearily, and Koushiro sighed as he stood up from his computer desk, stretching with a creak of stiff tendons. Maybe Taichi was right, he thought with a slight flinch as a muscle cramped up in protest--he should get off his butt and move more often.

Opening his eyes again, Koushiro looked down at the clock on his computer. Eleven? He blinked. Already? "Wow . . ." Shaking his head, he leaned down, putting his hand on the mouse. "I need to get to sleep." He started to hit shutdown . . .but stopped, blinking again.

"What the . . .?" Almost unconsciously sitting back in his chair, Koushiro leaned forward until his nose almost touched the screen, squinting. "Huh . . ." he mumbled, "Where did you come from . . .?" Curious, he moved the cursor over the strange, new icon: strange not only because of it's shape--Koushiro couldn't help but have the Batman theme pop into his head; it looked like the bat signal, for goodness sake-- but also because . . .well, quite frankly, because it was new. He had looked away from the screen for all of ten seconds, and it was just . . .there, small and grey and totally unmarked in the lower left corner, almost painfully familiar.

Mumbling slightly, he started to click the icon--and stopped, as a small red light started flashing on the screen, bright and urgent. The strange icon was filed away for later as a small program window automatically opened, scrolling a warning he had hoped never to have to see again.

"Crap," he muttered, closing the window and calling up his e-mail program. "An emergency in the Digital World? What the heck could it be . . .?" Now fully awake, he started typing--whatever it was, he had to tell the others. It wasn't that he was worried -- they had already been through so much, and overcome such insane odds, that not much probably would have phased any of them anymore--but an emergency was an emergency, and it had to get taken care of . . .

"Damnit!" Koushiro slammed a hand down on the desk as the cursor locked into place, and the warning light froze bright red. That was it--this stupid computer kept freezing; he was just going to get a new one, instead of continually upgrading the old piece of junk. "Stupid, stupid machine . . ." He thwacked the casing with his palm, then shook his head with an irate sigh. "Oh. . .no point in getting mad at it. . ." Control, alt, delete. . .the computer reset, and he flicked the power switch; strange icon totally forgotten. "I'll just have to call the guys in the morning." Shaking his head again, Koushiro hit the lights, and went to bed.

The room was silent save for his breathing and mumblings for hours, long after he had fallen asleep. In the still darkness, a faint humming was heard, and a small light sprang on--the computer coming to slow electric life, the screen running black, then white. Across the glass scrolled numbers--ones and zeroes, rapidfire sequence speeding downward so quickly they were only a blur. Then . ..stopped. The numbers simply stopped, replaced by words--by word-- over and over and over again.

The screen suddenly blew out, a screaming explosion that showered shattered glass across the desk and floor. Koushiro snapped awake from his fitful dreams. "What the--" he stopped. Stared. Fumbled for the cellphone beside his bed, punched in a number from memory. "Taichi? Yes, I know what time it is. Yeah. . . sorry for waking you--Taichi!!" He swallowed, looked down at the glass. He couldn't explain why it scared him so much, no matter how bizzare it was. So illogical. . .but. . . "I think we have a problem."

The shards of glass on the floor were still lit as though nothing had happened, as though they were still part of a functioning screen. And each one of them read in stark black against the word-processor white a single word, cold and with a judgemental finality:

Mine.