Vulcanusmon

present day (dark timeline)

A master of all smithing techniques, Vulcanusmon, the avatar of the forge god, could craft anything you could ever think of. He couldn't help but be drawn to the mystique of the human world.

When Vulcanusmon finally got to visit, he connected with humans, exchanged knowledge and friendship with them, and truly enjoyed his time there.

However, that joy ended up being short-lived. Tragedy befell Vulcanusmon, as he found himself captured by humans with villainous intent. These humans used the knowledge and craftsmanship learned from Vulcanusmon himself to create various weapons to threaten and harm Digimon.

Eventually, the humans attempt to construct a massive humanoid weapon - a Giant Slayer - capable of wiping out all Digimon from existence. Not only was Vulcanusmon used as a test subject, but in a true display of horror, his body was assimilated into the weapon.

With a sincere hope of improving the world, Vulcanusmon offered his knowledge to humanity in good faith. Yet, in a cruel twist of fate, he became a threat to the world instead.

Could this tragedy have possibly been averted. . . ?

- Mirei Mikagura, Digimon Story: Time Stranger

Part II

33 years in the past

Monica Simmons hadn't wanted to go to the beach that summer.

Not that she hated the beach itself; in fact, she found the ocean and the things living in it pretty interesting. What she did hate was that on the morning of the trip, her parents made her leave at home almost everything she'd packed to take, aside from clothes and her 35mm camera.

“What am I supposed to do for two whole weeks?” she'd protested.

“You might try leaving your room and making some friends for once,” her mother had retorted. “Three children about your age are staying next door. And it will do you good to be outside, regardless.”

Monica kept arguing: “What about at night? I won't have anything to read—”

Her father interrupted, “You'll have plenty to read. We're bringing books—the kind a child of your IQ should be reading instead of those comic books.”

“They aren't comic books, they're manga—”

Monica's mother added, “And you can survive two weeks without your cartoons and toy robots too.”

“They're not—”

“That's enough, Monica,” growled her father, taking a couple steps forward to loom over her. Monica shut her mouth and lowered her head until he muttered, “Now come on. We're already late getting started.”

When both her parents turned away to leave her bedroom, Monica bent over her suitcase to zip it back up. There was a lot more room in it now that most of the stuff she'd packed had been taken out. After a quick glance to make sure both her parents' backs were turned, she reached up to snatch her favorite action figure off her nightstand, then shoved it into the suitcase before zipping it up.

Monica didn't yet dare to rebel against her parents in any way that really mattered, but she felt a little better knowing she hadn't given in completely. She spent the next two hours in the backseat of the family car staring out the window at the passing scenery and silently vowing that one day, things would be different.

Just wait until I'm grown up! she swore. I'll show you—I'll be a brilliant scientist just like Dr. Yuki in Agent Alpha, and I'll still watch anime and do all the other stuff you think is so silly! I can be smart and like other things at the same time, even if you'll never understand.

–

By afternoon on the third day of her vacation, Monica was bored. Playing in the ocean had lost its appeal, as had being anywhere near her parents, so she went wandering down the beach equipped with a sand pail, looking for seashells. She'd walked for a long time with her head down as she searched, but loud voices on the beach ahead of her made her look up. To her dismay, the voices belonged to the trio of neighbor kids—two boys and a little girl—who were clustered together around something in the sand. The oldest boy was carrying a long stick and using it to poke at whatever they'd found.

As Monica approached, the kid with the stick noticed her and yelled, “Hey, nerd! Come lookit what I found!” He didn't like Monica any more than she liked him, but apparently he couldn't resist the urge to show off.

“What?” she asked skeptically, coming a few steps closer.

“It's a really messed-up jellyfish!” the boy crowed.

The little girl, who was clutching a Barbie doll with sand embedded in its matted hair, seemed less excited about the discovery as she whined, “Eeewww, one of its eyes is gone! Gross!”

“They're called sea jellies, not jellyfish,” Monica grumbled, “and they don't even have eyes.”

“You sure are dumb for someone who thinks she's so smart! It does so have eyes,” the older boy retorted. “Or it did. See?”

He pointed down at the sand with his stick, and Monica trudged over to take a look, expecting she'd be able to prove the stupid kid wrong. Yet the squishy pile of goo she saw lying in the sand actually did look like it had an eye—a big round shiny one, sort of like a squid's but all black pupil. It also had three deep slashes gouged in the right side of its body, where a second eye might have been. The wounds didn't bleed, instead appearing to ooze whatever pale, translucent stuff its insides were made of, and it lacked any tentacles that she could see.

It didn't resemble any sea jelly Monica had ever seen at the aquarium or even in pictures, but before she could say so, the older boy poked it with the end of his stick. . . and the creature flinched.

“Hey, don't do that! It's still alive!” Monica snapped at the boy.

“It is not!”

“Yes it is, it moved—you're hurting it!”

The boy scoffed again, “It did not, it just jiggled! And besides, jellyfish don't have feelings.”

“It's not a—”

“Okay, sea jellies don't have feelings, then!”

The younger boy added, “And anyway, so what if they do? It's just a dumb animal.” He grabbed the stick away from his older brother and jabbed it into the injured creature, which flinched again. It also made a sound, a sort of high-pitched squeak.

The little girl also made a high-pitched sound, a far more annoying “Eeek!” She stumbled backwards in the sand like the pitiful squishy thing might jump up and bite her. In contrast, the boys grinned to hear the creature cry out in pain, and the younger one made to poke it again until Monica grabbed his arm.

“Stop hurting it!” she demanded.

“Hey, you can't tell him what to do!” the older boy shouted at her, even though bullying his little brother was one of his own favorite past times.

The younger boy jerked his arm out of Monica's grasp and declared, “Yeah, I can do whatever I want! What're you gonna do about it?”

When he tried to jab the injured creature with the stick again, what Monica did was drop her pail to grab his arm a second time and twist it until he yelped and loosened his grip on the stick. She snatched it away from him with her free hand, then stood over the thing they'd found with the stick pointed at the kid's chest.

“Leave it alone!” she yelled. “Or else I'll stick you and see how you like it!”

“Owwww!” wailed the boy in a delayed overreaction. “You hurt me!”

Monica informed him, “I'll hurt you a lot worse if you don't get lost!” She knew she was taking a risk; the older boy was bigger than her, and she'd never been in a fight before. If both boys decided to jump her, she didn't stand a chance.

But at least I can try to fight back. . . this poor little thing can't! she told herself. I can't just let them hurt it.

In her future career as a scientist, sexism would rarely work in Monica's favor. Now, however, it did: somebody, at some point, must have drilled into the boys that they should never hit girls, because they backed off.

As they trudged away, the younger one did pause to turn back and threaten, “I'm gonna tell on you for hurting my arm! You'll get in trouble!” Monica knew he might be correct, but she decided that doing the right thing was worth any future punishment.

She squatted down next to the injured creature and examined it, muttering, “What even are you? I don't know how to help you. . . .” When she decided that returning it to the ocean was the best course of action, she didn't even know how to do that: it looked like it would just slide through her fingers if she tried to pick it up.

“And if you are anything like a sea jelly, you might sting me even if you didn't mean to,” she observed aloud; she had a habit of talking to herself, so talking to the creature felt natural even though it couldn't possibly understand her. Finally, Monica chose to dump the shells she'd collected out of her sand pail and scoop the creature up in it instead. A good bit of sand came with it, having stuck to its surface.

Monica carried the pail down to water, waded in to her knees, and dumped its contents into the shallows. As the creature floated there in the ocean, she realized that it wasn't shaped like a sea jelly at all. In fact, it looked more like a tiny ghost like the ones in Pac-Man, no more than a foot high. Monica also realized that it had not only an eye but a little round mouth below it, which it opened as if surprised to find itself back in the water.

“There!” she declared. “You're going to be just fine—oh!” She broke off as a wave washed past them, tumbling the ghost-like creature end over end. It went plowing into the sand when the wave broke on the shore and lay in a forlorn heap until the next wave hit a few seconds later and sent it tumbling again.

Monica yelped, “Aah, come back!” and ran after it, scooping it back up in her pail just before another wave washed it out of her reach. She peered down into the pail at the trembling pile of goo, which peered back up at her with its single eye.

“Guess you're not going to be just fine on your own,” Monica observed. Almost as if it could understand—although of course it was only reacting to the sound of her voice—the creature made a squeaking noise like before, only this time it was more of an “oy” sound than a pained wail.

Dad would kill me if he thought I was trying to bring home a “pet”. . . but it'll die if I leave it out here, thought Monica. I've got to sneak it in and keep it hidden until it gets well enough to survive back in the ocean.

She sloshed some seawater around in the pail to rinse off the fresh layer of sand the creature had accumulated, before pouring most of the water out since it didn't seem to need to stay submerged. Then Monica picked up the shells she'd gathered and carefully arranged them in the pail on top of the creature until it was hidden from sight before she started walking back to the beach cabin.

–

Monica left the creature on a table in her bedroom that evening while she went out to dinner with her parents, and to her relief, when she got back almost two hours later, it was still right there. She'd told her parents good night and hurried off to her room, claiming she had a headache and wanted to go to bed early.

The creature seemed to have done the same; it was puddled on the table with its eye closed. For a second, Monica feared it was dead, but then she realized it was quivering slightly as it breathed.

Or as it does something, she thought as she watched it for a minute. Maybe it can just absorb oxygen from the air and water. But it's gonna have to eat too—what am I supposed to feed it? And those wounds might get infected. . . I'd better put something on them.

She sneaked to the bathroom for some peroxide and poured a little over the gashes in the creature's side, hoping she wasn't about to cause a chemical reaction and dissolve the thing or something. But the peroxide just fizzed a little, and it must not have hurt because the creature didn't even wake up. As she got into bed herself, Monica hoped it would wake up in the morning; despite the seeming improvement in its condition, she wasn't positive it would survive the night.

It did, though. Just after dawn the next morning, Monica was startled out of sleep by a querulous voice.

“Poyo?”

“Aah!” Her eyes flew open, and she flinched back when she saw an eye right in front of her face, staring back at her. Then she relaxed: the eye was a large, black one, and its owner was floating in the air over her pillow.

“Oh. . . you must be feeling better,” Monica murmured sleepily; then she blinked hard. “Wait. . . you can fly?”

“Poyo!”

“And talk?”

“Poyo?”

She amended, “Well, sort of talk. You just say 'poyo,' hunh? Like Kirby. . . .” Monica reached out her hand towards the creature and, when it didn't seem frightened, patted it.

It chirped, “Poyo!” again. . . and smiled.

It's not just an animal—animals don't smile, she thought as she smiled back involuntarily. I think it's only a baby, but it really is sentient. . . and that means it's not an “it” either. I have no idea how to tell if it's male or female, so I guess it'll have to be a “they.”

“Do you have a name?” Monica asked the creature.

“Poyo!”

“Right,” she sighed. “Okay, 'Poyo' it is. I guess I'd better find something you can eat. . . .”

She took Poyo outside with her that day, again concealed in a towel until she was able to find a spot away from any other people. They followed her into the ocean, floating in the air and the water with equal ease, but they seemed to tire quickly. Monica left Poyo shut in her room again that evening while she had dinner, during which her father questioned her about the books she was supposed to be reading, figured out that she hadn't been reading them, and spent the rest of the meal lecturing her.

When she returned to her room, she found Poyo asleep on her pillow, but they woke up at the sound of her closing the door behind her. They floated over to her with an enthusiastic “Poyo!” and their little mouth turned up in a smile.

“Okay, okay, I missed you too. Geez. . . .” Monica patted them then sat down on the bed. Poyo darted after her and hovered beside her, and she sighed, “Sorry, I can't play with you right now. I have to read.”

She glared at the novel lying on her nightstand, where she'd abandoned it after forcing herself to read a couple chapters—Jane Eyre. Monica picked the book up with another dramatic sigh, stretched out on the bed, and started to read. After slogging through a few pages, she realized that Poyo wasn't next to her anymore, and when she looked up in alarm, she found them hovering over her nightstand. They were floating around the action figure she'd sneaked into her suitcase, as if examining it from all angles. Monica grinned and sat up again, laying Jane Eyre aside.

Her current favorite in her collection, the figure depicted a large, stocky blue robot whose head looked sort of like King Tut's in photos of his sarcophagus. Poyo stared at it with their single eye wide, then gave it a querulous “Poyo?”

“Hehe, you like that action figure, hmm?” Monica laughed. “His name's Giant Robo! Look, I can pose him all kinds of ways. . . .” She picked up the figure and moved its arms up and down. Poyo watched in rapt attention until Monica rolled over on her stomach, propped up on her elbows with the figure in front of her. Poyo drifted over and settled down beside it, their eye fixed on Robo and Monica's hands as she fiddled with the figure's limbs.

No one else had ever shown that much interest in Giant Robo—or anything else Monica liked—so she kept talking as if Poyo could comprehend the story she told them. She knew they probably were just attracted by the figure's bright colors and the motion of her hands, but it was easy to pretend otherwise. . . that she was talking to a friend who cared what she had to say.

“Giant Robo's a huge mecha—that's what they call big robots like that in Japan—but he's controlled by a kid named Daisaku who's just a little older than me. Daisaku's dad, Dr. Kusama, built Robo right before he died, so Robo's the only family he's got left. He's Daisaku's best friend and his partner. . . his everything.”

She glanced down at Poyo, expecting them to have fallen asleep or something by now. However, they were wide awake and looking up at her face instead of the action figure. She smiled for a second, but then her eyes moved over Poyo's mangled flesh, and her smile faded as she again thought about unfair life was.

Monica laid Giant Robo down on the bed, next to Jane Eyre, and scooped Poyo up in her hands instead to cradle them in front of her.

“Hey. . . let me ask you something, Poyo. They're Dr. Kusama's last words to Daisaku.” She took a deep breath before repeating the questions she knew by heart after watching the scene over and over. She didn't admire Giant Robo's Dr. Kusama quite as much as she did Dr. Yuki from her favorite anime, Agent Alpha, who had inspired her to become a scientist herself one day. However, Dr. Kusama's dying questions still resonated with her.

“'Can happiness be obtained without sacrifice? Can a new era be achieved without tragedy?'”

“. . . Poyo?”

Monica tried to explain, “I mean, like. . . well, it's like this. Finding you made me happy—but I never would have found you if someone hadn't abandoned you first, or if you hadn't gotten hurt. Sometimes, I feel like the whole world's that way, and nothing good ever happens without someone having to suffer for it. So I wanna know the same thing Dr. Kusama did: can we ever just be happy, without something bad having to happen along the way?”

Poyo kept quiet and just looked at her, their single eye wide and serious. Monica looked back for a few seconds then smiled again, sadly this time.

“The answer's 'no,' isn't it, Poyo?” she murmured. “Daisaku did get to be happy, sometimes, but he and everyone he cared about had to suffer, too. And it's the same for you and me, and everyone else in the real world. Maybe we can be happy, but not without getting hurt along the way.”

–

As days passed, Poyo did get well. Their wounds began healing into fresh scars, and they didn't tire out so quickly. Monica managed to keep them hidden from her parents; she spent most days playing with Poyo on the beach, and most evenings talking to them when she wasn't reading. She talked about her life, told Poyo stories from Agent Alpha and her other favorite anime and manga, and even read aloud to them when Jane Eyre got so boring, she didn't think she could keep awake reading silently.

Still, the novel wasn't as boring as it could have been, because it wasn't entirely predictable. Like most heroines, Jane grew up and fell in love with a man; yet the man in question, Mr. Rochester, wasn't handsome and perfect like most heroes. In fact, in Monica's opinion, he was overly dramatic and kind of a jerk, but she wasn't much interested in romance anyway.

Nevertheless, she envied Jane for finding what Monica never had—someone who understood her. . . someone just like her. Monica murmured her words aloud:

“He is not to them what he is to me. . . he is not of their kind. I believe he is of mine; I am sure he is—I feel akin to him—I understand the language of his countenance and movements. . . . I must, then, repeat continually that we are forever sundered—and yet, while I breathe and think, I must love him.”

Monica dropped the book in her lap and muttered to Poyo, “She's lucky. Even if she never sees him again, she's lucky they ever met in the first place. I don't think there's another human being 'of my kind' in this whole stupid world.”

“Poyo?”

She looked down at the little creature and murmured, “I said another human being. I wasn't counting you 'cause you're not human. And. . . this isn't your world, isn't it? I don't know where you did come from, but it's gotta be somewhere else.”

Then, for the first time, Monica realized just what that meant: We're going to be “forever sundered” too, soon, because I'll have to go home. . . and Poyo can't come with me. I can't keep them a secret forever, and if any grown-ups find out about them, they'll probably do something awful—put Poyo in a cage and do experiments on them, or something like that. They've got to go back to wherever they came from, and I'll never see them again.

Her eyes and throat all started hurting at the same time, and Monica grimaced. She hated crying, and she vowed she wouldn't do it in front of Poyo—not now nor when the time came for her to say goodbye. It would only upset Poyo and make things worse.

–

On their last evening together, Monica was reading while Poyo “played” with Giant Robo on her nightstand. They'd remained fascinated with the action figure and had spent hours pushing against its limbs to move them, and just floating around it staring as if trying to memorize every detail.

I hope they do remember it, once they get back to their world, Monica thought as she again had to fight back the urge to cry. And I hope they remember me. If they really are just a baby, they may forget me when they grow up—but maybe they'll remember something. . . maybe they'll at least remember how I made them feel.

A loud clatter made Monica jump, and she looked up from the book to see that Poyo had accidentally knocked over Giant Robo. They gave a frustrated “Oy!” of alarm, then slumped down on the nightstand into a dejected-looking squishy pile when they saw her looking at them.

Monica laughed again and reassured them, “It's okay, you didn't break him! Mecha figures are really sturdy.” She sat up and stood Robo back up on his feet before reaching out to pat Poyo. Her hand bumped her 35mm camera, also sitting on the nightstand, and she picked it up with a thoughtful frown.

She hadn't taken any pictures of Poyo, since the film would be developed in a photo lab; that meant someone else would see her pictures—namely a grown-up who might decide to do “something awful” if they realized they were looking at a photo of an alien life form. Yet Monica hated thinking about saying goodbye to Poyo forever without even a picture to remember them by, and seeing them sitting next to Giant Robo gave her an idea.

If I take a picture of them with Robo, anyone who sees it will probably think Poyo's just another toy, she decided.

As she turned on the camera, Monica instructed Poyo, “Stay really still, okay? I'm gonna take your picture.” She took a single picture, the flash leaving Poyo blinking hard, then turned the camera off and set it back on the nightstand before scooping up Poyo.

“There! Now I'll be able to have a photograph of you,” she told them. When they gave her a puzzled look, she tried to explained, “Um, a photograph is a picture—well, you don't know what that is either, do you? It's like a flat copy of what you looked like when I took the photograph. It doesn't ever change, and it's something I can keep forever and look at whenever I want to see you, since—”

Monica broke off, realizing she was about to reveal the secret she'd meant to keep until the next morning, when she'd have to go home and leave Poyo behind.

“Poyo?” they asked when she suddenly stopped speaking.

“N-never mind,” Monica mumbled, her voice shaking despite her best efforts to keep it steady. “I—I j-just—”

When she stopped a second time, Poyo gave another, more concerned, “Poyo?!”. . . and Monica broke down into tears. She cupped Poyo in both hands and held them to her chest with her head bent over them as she cried.

“I-I'm—I'm so sorry!” she whimpered when she was able to catch her breath enough to speak. “Poyo, I. . . I have to go home tomorrow, and you—you can't come with me. I live a long way from here, and you wouldn't be safe there. You're all better now, so you need to go back to your home too, wherever that is. And I don't think we'll ever see each other again.”

Monica wasn't sure Poyo would be able to understand, but when she finally lifted her head with a sniffle and held them up, they looked back at her with such a mournful expression that she knew they understood enough.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered a second time, then drew them close to kiss them on their “forehead,” above their scars and single eye. “I love you, Poyo. Try to remember that, okay? I'll always love you, no matter what.”

“Poyo,” they mumbled in return.

–

Late that night, long after the girl had fallen asleep, Poyomon remained awake. He rested on the table, beside the immobile creature she called “Robo,” and watched her still face as she slept. He'd been happy with her, the first happiness he'd known since he had drifted alone through the ocean of the Digital World known as Iliad until a tide of despair brought him to the Dark Ocean that lies beyond existence. . . to it, across it, and onto the shore of another world.

Poyomon had never considered that this happiness would end, until tonight when the girl told him that very soon, they would have to part forever. Now, as he watched her sleep, Poyomon decided that nothing good in his life would ever last, and he might as well get used to it.

It was like the girl had said: “Maybe we can be happy, but not without getting hurt along the way”. . . and not without getting hurt again afterwards, when the happiness came to an end. Was it worth it? Poyomon wondered. Was the joy of loving someone worth the inevitable pain of having to leave them behind?

Yes, he decided. It was, and he'd do it all over again if he ever got the chance.

Nevertheless, Poyomon wanted to spare his first and only friend from as much of that pain as he could, so he chose to avoid making her say goodbye. He turned to cast one final, wistful glance at Robo, then drifted over to the bed. For a moment, he floated beside the sleeping girl's head, looking down into her face. Then he leaned forward to touch his small mouth to her forehead, as she had done to him. He didn't understand what the gesture was or what it meant; yet he did know that she had performed it with love, so he did the same.

It would take him several years and two evolutions to learn how to speak in real words, but what Poyomon felt as he flew away from the bed, out the open window, and into the sea beyond—what he felt as he swam through that sea into the murky depths of the Dark Ocean and onward, back to the Digital World where he belonged; what he continued to feel somewhere deep within his soul even after years had passed and he no longer consciously remembered her—it could all be conveyed by the words that had so resonated with the human girl even 150 years after they were written:

I must, then, repeat continually that we are forever sundered—and yet, while I breathe and think, I must love her.

Part III

13 years in the past

“Back again, are ye?”

Even though Vulcanusmon had known the old Dagomon for as long as he could remember, the brusque greeting was pretty much what he'd expected to hear, and he chuckled.

“'Again'? It's been a couple years, at least. How've you been?”

Dagomon shrugged his “shoulders” above the tentacles he wore banded together to mimic arms. “Tolerable. Mostly keepin' to meself to stay clear o' the Titans. They been gettin' restless of late.”

“You've always kept to yourself,” Vulcanusmon pointed out with a grin hidden by the respirator he wore. It was the truth; unlike most other Dagomon, this one had long ago rejected membership in the faction of warmongering Digimon known as the Titans.

“They call each other 'brother,'” Dagomon had once told Vulcanusmon, back when he was just a Syakomon. “But mark me words. . . they'll turn on ye in an instant if ye dare try to think for yerself. Best ye keep clear of 'em.”

Now, Dagomon grumbled, “Hard to keep to meself with ye turnin' up again and again.” They were standing on the foggy shore, and he looked away from Vulcanusmon to gaze out to sea—not the clear blue waters known as the Abyss, but the murky shallows of the Dark Ocean whose waves were said to break upon the shores of other worlds.

“Dunno why ye keep comin' back to this accursed place,” muttered Dagomon. “I get why ye built that contraption o' yers considering the shape yer in even after evolving, but still. . . ye ain't no Octomon no more, don't matter how many arms ye give yerself. Ye should let the past go, boy. Move on.”

Vulcanusmon could have argued that of course he'd moved on. He could have explained what he'd accomplished in the years since he'd crawled out of the ocean and settled in the Factorial Area, everything he'd learned about artistry and craftsmanship, how he looked forward to a future filled with even more amazing discoveries.

He could have told Dagomon how important he'd become since the day—so long ago that Vulcanusmon couldn't even remember it himself—when Dagomon had fished a battered, scarred, one-eyed Poyomon out of the shallows of the Dark Ocean.

I could tell him that, but it wouldn't make any difference, Vulcanusmon thought. I could be Lord Vulcanusmon to every other Digimon in Iliad, but in Dagomon's eyes, I'm still that banged-up Poyomon, and I always will be.

. . . And that's why I keep coming back, because he's right. On the inside, I'm still the same Digimon I've always been, and I don't ever want to forget it.

Vulcanusmon didn't bother telling Dagomon that, either. Instead, he shrugged four shoulders and said, “I'm gonna go have a look around.”

Dagomon made a harrumphing sound and retorted, “Ain't nothin' to see ye ain't seen a thousand times before, but knock yerself out.”

Vulcanusmon knew he was likely right about that too, but he wandered down the shore anyway with one set of arms folded across his chest and the hands of another set clasped behind his back, until he noticed something lying on the sand some meters ahead of him. The beach was littered with detritus—broken shells, small rocks, and digital trash that washed up from other parts of Iliad—but this thing caught his attention because of its color.

Everything else in the area was devoid of bright tones, appearing gray and washed out in what dim light managed to reach through the clouds. Yet the thing Vulcanusmon had spotted was blue. Very blue.

“What is that?” he muttered to himself as he went closer to investigate. Sand had half-buried the object, and Vulcanusmon bent down to dig it out with his front left hand while tugging on it with the right one. Even when he managed to yank it free, it was so caked with sand that he still couldn't tell what it was until he went to the water's edge and crouched down to rinse it off.

Then, finally, Vulcanusmon was able to get a good look at the thing he'd found. He was amazed. It was shaped a lot like some cyborg Digimon, and it was small, no bigger than one of Vulcanusmon's hands. Yet its features were unlike that of any Digimon he knew—and those features were incredibly detailed.

For a second, Vulcanusmon wondered if the thing really was some heretofore unknown species of Digimon which had become immobilized, but then he rejected that theory. As he held the object up and tentatively moved one of its arm-like parts back and forth, he felt certain that it wasn't alive and never had been. And. . . .

And I have seen it before, or something a lot like it, he realized with bewilderment. It's. . . familiar.

Vulcanusmon lifted the object closer to the clear dome protecting his head and squinted his single eye as he studied the intricate sculpture and painting of its tiny “face.” The thing he'd found gave him the same feeling the Dark Ocean itself did—a poignant sense of nostalgia. Yet instead of loneliness, Vulcanusmon now felt. . . what?

The opposite, he thought. This thing. . . it makes me feel good. For some reason, it reminds me of being happy.

With the object clutched in one hand, Vulcanusmon strode back up the beach much faster than he'd wandered down it, searching for Dagomon. Since Vulcanusmon could no longer swim, he feared the old Digimon might have returned to the sea without waiting around to say goodbye. However, he eventually found Dagomon repairing a torn fishing net in the ramshackle old lean-to he used for shelter when he had to stay on land.

“Yer still here?” grumbled Dagomon when Vulcanusmon approached.

Ignoring that, Vulcanusmon held up the blue thing he'd found and asked eagerly, “Do you know what this is? I found it a ways down the beach. Have you ever seen anything like it before?”

“Calm down, boy,” Dagomon griped. “All kinds o' junk washes up here, ye know that.” Nevertheless, he held out his left “arm” and took the object in his cluster of tentacles to examine it. Vulcanusmon fidgeted, flexing his own hands until Dagomon passed it back with a shrug.

“Don't know what it is exactly, but it looks like some kind o' statue. What's got you so riled up over it?”

Vulcanusmon enthused, “It's amazing! Such perfect detailing on something so small. . . it looks like it could come to life any second. If it's a statue, it's not of any Digimon I've ever seen before, but it looks really familiar to me at the same time.”

Dagomon frowned beneath his beard of tentacles and squinted his red eyes as he studied the thing for another moment; then he turned away and resumed knotting together the torn strands of the fishing net. The action might have seemed dismissive, but after two decades of acquaintance with Dagomon, Vulcanusmon knew him pretty well. He was thinking, and Vulcanusmon waited as patiently as he could until Dagomon spoke again.

“It don't look like no Digimon. Don't look like it's from here a'tall.”

When he said nothing more, Vulcanusmon prompted, “Not from here?”

“Not from Iliad.” Dagomon kept his eyes focused on the net as a dozen tentacles deftly plaited and knotted the frayed cords. “Could be from anywhere. This ocean, it touches other worlds—mayhaps all the other worlds. Could be from any of 'em.”

Vulcanusmon did not doubt the existence of worlds beyond Iliad. No one from elsewhere had ever crossed his path, but he knew Digimon who knew Digimon who'd claimed to have met entities from other Digital Worlds. . . and entities from elsewhere who called themselves “human.” Neither did he think it impossible that the Dark Ocean overlapped these worlds.

Yet something kept him from believing that the blue thing he'd found had come from somewhere else.

“Then why is it so familiar to me?” he protested. “It's like. . . I don't think I've seen this specific thing before, but I've seen something like it! And it makes me feel—”

Vulcanusmon broke off, biting down on his lip under his respirator's mask before he said something that Dagomon would surely find ridiculous.

“It makes ye feel what?”

“. . . It just makes me feel.” Vulcanusmon dropped his eye from Dagomon and the net to the blue object. “How can that be, if it's not even from Iliad?”

Dagomon tied a few more knots before he replied.

“'Cause ye been somewhere else too.” He said it like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. “I told ye a million times how I found ye caught in the tide when you was jest a Poyomon. And I told ye what rough shape you was in—half dead and looked like ye'd been chewed up and spat out by a Sharkmon or two.”

“I know, I know!” groaned Vulcanusmon, finding it more difficult to be patient. “But what—”

Dagomon talked over him like he hadn't spoken: “Ye'd been somewhere else, just like that thing ye found today. Don't doubt yer a Digimon jest like the rest o' us, but somehow, the Dark Ocean must've washed ye away from Iliad when ye was a wee mite. . . and then, somehow, it washed ye back again. Wherever t'was ye went, I'll wager that thing's from there too, and when ye was there, ye saw somethin' like it. Ye were jest so young, ye don't remember it here.”

He lifted a tentacle and tapped himself on the forehead then declared, “But ye do remember it here.” He curled the tentacle into something like a fist and thumped it against his sunken chest, over his heart.

Have I really been somewhere else? Vulcanusmon wondered as he stared down at his fingers wrapped around the blue statue. And if I have, what happened to me there? I wish I knew, because it must have been something good, for me to feel this way. . . for my heart to remember it, even though my head's forgotten.

Dagomon said to let the past go, but I can't—not that part of it. Just like I don't want to forget that I'm the same Digimon now as I used to be, I don't want to forget what this thing makes me feel. . . like I was happy, then. Like I belonged.

Like I was loved.

The object Vulcanusmon held blurred in the vision of his single eye until he blinked it, hard. He didn't think Dagomon noticed until the old Digimon muttered, “Take that thing home with ye, if it means that much to ye. Won't do me no good to try to sell it like I do t'other junk that washes up—ain't no one round these parts got any use fer it.”

“Thanks, Dagomon,” murmured Vulcanusmon, who knew well that Dagomon usually laid claim to anything found on the beach—and that he usually managed to find a buyer for it, whether it was useful or not. “I'll treasure it. And. . . if you find any other things like it, save them for me, please. I'll pay you for them.”

Dagomon sighed, “If ye say so. Ye always were an odd one.” He finally stopped his work on the net and looked up at Vulcanusmon. “Take care of yerself, boy. Mind what I said 'bout the Titans.”

“Yeah. I will. You take care too, Dagomon,” said Vulcanusmon. The old Digimon made a huffing noise and turned back to his net.

Vulcanusmon chuckled softly, shaking his head beneath its dome. Then he turned away and started walking inland, carrying his new-found treasure with him.

Part IV

present day

Dr. Monica Simmons had been living in Rebellion Village for a couple days before she noticed the Poyomon. Given how many species of Digimon there were, it was understandable that she hadn't encountered any Poyomon before although she'd been studying Digimon for years at that point. Still, she would later chide herself for being so unobservant.

Simmons was returning to the village through the underground tunnel which connected it with the city outside, following her self-appointed bodyguard Asuna Shiroki and Asuna's Digimon partner, BeelStarmon. Asuna insisted on going with Simmons for her protection any time she left the village, and where Asuna went, so did BeelStarmon.

What is it that created such a strong bond between them? Simmons wondered as she trailed through the tunnel after them. Before BeelStarmon evolved, she assisted me—as best she could, anyway—but then as soon as she saw Asuna for the first time. . . it was like BeelStarmon knew she belonged at her side, like they're soulmates.

As a scientist, Simmons should have scorned such a romanticized, unscientific notion as “soulmates.” Yet as a singular, eccentric scientist who'd chosen that career because of her admiration for an anime character—Dr. Yuki, a brilliant scientist and the protagonist's adoptive father in her favorite series, Agent Alpha—Simmons tried to keep an open mind about things others would find ridiculous. And all the evidence was there: Asuna and BeelStarmon did share a bond that went beyond any other relationship Simmons had observed.

And who says such a thing is unscientific? she mused. There's still so much we don't know about Digimon, and perhaps the phenomenon of “partner” Digimon and humans has a scientific basis. Perhaps bonds can exist between beings across space and time, bonds that remain intangible until they meet.

It reminded Simmons of something in a novel she'd had to read as a kid. Most of the book had been tedious romantic drama, but one line had stuck with her, the heroine's thoughts on the flawed, difficult man she nevertheless loved: He is not to them what he is to me. . . he is not of their kind. I believe he is of mine; I am sure he is—I feel akin to him—I understand the language of his countenance and movements.

Simmons thought, That's exactly what it's like for Asuna and BeelStarmon. They're akin to each other. . . of the same kind.

She tried not to envy them.

When the trio reached the village, Asuna and BeelStarmon started for the path that cut through the central area to the back, where Simmons was establishing a makeshift lab. Simmons, however, stopped short, staring up and to her right where something had caught her attention: two small Digimon floating above one of the rooftops. They looked like tiny sheet ghosts with smiling faces, and as she gazed up at them, a long-forgotten memory surfaced.

“Poyo. . . .”

“Hmm?” Asuna paused and looked back at Simmons, as did BeelStarmon.

Simmons shook her head slightly and muttered, “Nothing. It's just—BeelStarmon, what kind of Digimon are those?”

“You're right—they're Poyomon,” BeelStarmon replied.

“Poyomon,” Simmons repeated thoughtfully.

Asuna returned to her side and asked, “What is it, Dr. Simmons? You have the weirdest look on your face.”

“It's—” Simmons almost repeated “nothing,” but Asuna's expression of concern changed her mind. “I just. . . remembered something I hadn't thought about in ages. One summer when I was a kid, I found some kind of creature washed up on the beach. It was badly injured, so I took care of it until it had healed enough to go back in the ocean.”

She paused, then went on more quietly, “It looked a lot like those Poyomon. I never told anyone this because it would've sounded so ridiculous, but I was sure that creature was sentient. I took a photo of it, and I spent a couple years afterwards trying to identify it in every book on ocean life I could get my hands on. But I never found anything even remotely similar to it, and I guess I eventually convinced myself that I'd just let my imagination run away with me and made the whole thing up. That's why I'd put it out of my mind, until now.”

“You don't still have the photo, to compare to the Poyomon?” asked Asuna, and Simmons shook her head again with a sigh.

“I'm afraid not. I cherished that picture so much that I always used it as a bookmark in whatever manga I was reading at the time. Then one day—I must've been fourteen or fifteen—my parents threw out my entire collection while I was at school, bookmarks included. They said I was too old to be reading comic books, and I should focus on my university applications instead.”

Asuna murmured, “Wow. I. . . I'm sorry.”

“There's a reason why I haven't spoken to either of them since I left my home country,” returned Dr. Simmons wryly. “Despite how tempted I am sometimes to call them up and inform them that I'm still reading 'comic books' and 'watching cartoons' thirty years later. Anyhow, I was able to replace the manga eventually, but not the photo, so I suppose I'll never know for sure what that creature really was.”

She turned away from the Poyomon and started walking again towards her lab, ending the discussion because she didn't want to talk about Poyo anymore. It hurt too much.

That's the true reason I put you out of my mind, Simmons thought, not because I decided you weren't real. And now I finally know what you were—a Digimon. I don't need that photo to remember that you looked just like those Poyomon.

Whatever became of you, Poyo? I hope you made it back to the Digital World. . . and I hope you got to be happy.

–

When Simmons left her old job with Tokyo's public safety department—now known as D-SAT—she'd vowed to do everything in her power to stop their violent and foolish assault against the Digimon who had found their way to the human world and taken up residence there, after a hostile faction known as the Titans had attacked the city years before. Simmons's vow ultimately necessitated her move from her own comfortable apartment to the cramped underground Digimon hideout called Rebellion Village. She considered her resignation and relocation a small price to pay compared to the dangers the Digimon themselves faced at the hands of her former colleagues.

Yet she only realized how very small a price it was when she learned that those dangers were far worse than the public knew. Digimon were not only being contained in a single district of the city, and threatened with violence if they dared resist; in secret, some were being captured, held prisoner in the laboratories where Simmons herself had once worked, and experimented upon.

“Don't those fools at D-SAT understand what they're doing?” Simmons had ranted to Asuna more than once. “Digimon are sentient living creatures who think and feel, just like human beings! Perpetrating such cruelty. . . those idiots don't deserve to call themselves 'scientists.'”

She told herself that she really was doing everything her power to stop them. . . that by walking out on (or running away from) her old life and devoting her new one to assisting the Digimon in Rebellion Village, she was helping the best she could.

Still, Simmons remained unconvinced, and guilty that she wasn't doing more. Asuna and even BeelStarmon reassured her when she expressed those feelings, telling Simmons that putting herself in danger by fighting back wouldn't help anyone—that her mind was the best weapon the Digimon had against both the Titans and the human beings who hated all Digimon because of what a few had done.

Simmons knew Asuna was probably right and that in a fight, she'd be useless in any physical capacity. But knowing that couldn't keep her from excoriating herself as a coward whenever she heard rumors that more Digimon had gone missing.

Dr. Yuki never ran away and hid from danger, she thought one night as she lay on the cramped couch in her lab with sleep far away. Neither did Agent Alpha! Both of them would be disappointed in me.

As they often had in the days since she came to the village, Simmons's thoughts wandered back to the little Digimon she'd known long ago.

Even Poyo was braver than I am. They traveled all the way from another world. . . and here I am, not even setting foot outside the village most days. If they could see me now, they'd be disappointed in me too for not doing more to help other Digimon like them.

Her guilt when she thought of Poyo had gone a long way towards persuading Simmons that things had to change, and what she learned the next day convinced her: the real reason why D-SAT was capturing Digimon. Covert espionage by Asuna revealed that Simmons's former colleagues were constructing a weapon of mass destruction specifically intended to eradicate all Digimon. Simmons's own early research into incapacitating Digimon, before she realized that they were thinking and feeling creatures no different from human beings, had laid the groundwork for it; however, the scientists of D-SAT were taking things to a deadly extreme.

They mean to commit genocide, she realized, to wipe out every Digimon in the city—and it's even more horrible than that, because they're using other Digimon to do it, incorporating the powers and abilities of the ones they've captured into this killing machine.

Asuna explained that the project had been going on in secret for some time, and that the weapon was near completion.

“Somehow they managed to capture a Digimon unlike all the others,” she told Simmons, “one far more powerful. Through experimentation on him, D-SAT has been able to advance the weapon to the point where it's almost ready for deployment.”

Simmons frowned and asked, “Why's this Digimon so different from the rest?”

Asuna shook her head and admitted, “I'm not sure. If you could see the reports yourself, you'd probably be able to tell, but I barely had time to read them, much less make a copy. Most of them were Greek to me, although I think it has something to do with him being at a higher level of evolution as well as having a phenomenal intellect compared to most other Digimon.”

“So in other words, he's stronger and smarter than the others D-SAT has captured,” murmured Simmons. “And those fools are going to take all that potential for good and turn it into a weapon?”

“That's what it sounds like,” Asuna confirmed. “One report said the final step will be to extract something called a 'DigiCore' from the captured Digimon and install it into the weapon.”

Simmons felt prickles dance over her face, like all the blood had drained from it at once, as she breathed, “Oh no.”

“What is it?” Asuna asked in surprise. Simmons had to take a deep breath to steady her voice before responding.

“Do you know what a DigiCore is, Asuna? Has BeelStarmon ever told you?”

“No. . . ,” the younger woman replied slowly. “She's never mentioned it.”

Simmons unconsciously clenched her hands into fists at her sides as she explained in a tight voice, “It's the central component of a Digimon—the organ that controls all their functions. If a Digimon dies, usually their data will reform into an egg, and they will eventually be reborn. But not if their DigiCore is extracted.”

“Oh,” Asuna said hoarsely. “So what D-SAT's going to do will destroy the captured Digimon permanently.”

“Right. But it's even worse than that. The DigiCore isn't just an organ, like a human being's heart or brain. It's also what makes Digimon themselves, their essence. . . it's what we humans would call our soul.”

Simmons bent her head and lifted both hands to clasp it as she growled, “Those—I don't even have the words to describe those—those cretins! To rip out the very soul of a sapient being—a brilliant one by their own account—and turn him into a weapon to destroy his own kind—!”

She broke off with her jaw clenched because she was afraid she'd break down into tears of fury if she said any more. Asuna looked properly horrified over Simmons's explanation, and when Simmons had finally calmed herself enough to speak, the younger woman did not protest at what she had to say.

“This never would have happened if my initial research on Digimon hadn't started Public Safety down this path, and I can't just sit here and accept it. I don't care how dangerous it is—I have to get that Digimon out of there.”

“. . . All right. I'm with you, and I'm sure BeelStarmon will agree,” Asuna said quietly. “But how are we going to do this? To say security will be tight at D-SAT is an understatement. I doubt that she and I can tackle it on our own.”

Simmons smiled grimly. “Don't worry about that. I should be able to forge an ID to get us in, and I think I know just the person to help the two of you handle any 'security guards' we meet along the way.”

“Yeah?” Asuna raised an eyebrow. “And I know this person too, don't I?”

“You do indeed,” replied Simmons. “Our very own Agent Alpha.”

–

When Simmons sent a message to “Agent Alpha” asking them to come speak with her in Rebellion Village, she already knew they'd agree to help her. Little more than a kid, in their late teens at the oldest, they were a Digimon tamer who cosplayed as the protagonist of the same anime which had fueled Simmons's dream to become a scientist so many years ago. She had never learned their true identity, but it hardly mattered.

What mattered was that they cared as much about Digimon as Simmons herself did, and she was confident that she, Asuna, and BeelStarmon could pull off the rescue operation with the help of Agent Alpha and their own Digimon team.

By the time Agent Alpha arrived in the village, Simmons and the others were prepared for the mission and ready to depart. She managed to keep most of her emotions in check despite the force of them all: fury at what D-SAT was doing; both fear and relief that she was finally, truly going to do everything she could to stop them, even at the risk of her own safety; guilt that her own research was what had set this chain of events into motion years ago.

Nevertheless, Simmons couldn't keep a hint of bitterness from her voice as she described D-SAT's weapon to Agent Alpha: “I hear they've incorporated the power of a Digimon they captured into it. Once that weapon is deployed and they turn it on the Titans, the damage will be unprecedented—a war to end all wars. There was a section in the underground lab even I wasn't allowed into. Maybe that's where they're doing the experiments. I can show you the way. A nice little visit to my old office. . . .”

Simmons paused, thinking first of the captured Digimon and what he must be suffering—all the more so if he was as intelligent as the reports claimed. He was surely enduring physical pain, but if he was anything like Simmons herself, far more severe would be his mental anguish over the knowledge of what he was to become.

Then she thought once more of Poyo, how badly they'd been hurt both physically and emotionally, and the questions she'd asked them so long ago.

Can happiness be obtained without sacrifice? Can a new era be achieved without tragedy?

Simmons knew the answer, the same answer she'd already known as a child. No: it was too late. For the captured Digimon, as for Poyo, the sacrifices had already been made, and the tragedies had already unfolded. She couldn't go back in time and prevent his suffering now, any more than she could have prevented the suffering of the little Poyomon she had loved—and, as she had promised, would always love. No matter what.

And yet, even so, she told herself, I couldn't prevent Poyo's suffering. . . but I ended it when I saved their life. And I can try my best to do it again, to save this captured Digimon and end his suffering too. I won't let this sacrifice and this tragedy continue, because this. . . .

Simmons finished the thought out loud, heartened by the agreement she saw in Agent Alpha's eyes.

“This has gone on long enough.”

Part V

present day (rectified timeline)

Vulcanusmon, who had been turned into the control unit of the weapon, was saved by sympathetic humans, ashamed by the suffering they had brought upon Digimon.

Although Vulcanusmon was willing to forgive humanity, the wicked machinations of humans must be put to a stop.

To that end, Digimon and humans fought as one so that the tragedy set to descend upon the world in the near future might be averted.

- Mirei Mikagura, Digimon Story: Time Stranger

Centrifuge Master (wip)

✷ Fan pet for the Digimon Vulcanusmon from Digimon Story: Time Stranger.
✷ Pet overlay by Ozo.
✷ Profile and story by Balloon except for Parts I & V, quoted from DSTS.
✷ Images from DSTS screenshots and official art, edited by Balloon, except Poyo art by Balloon.