Battle Plan [c/keiko]

[attr="class","mouths1"]Keiko Kojima... The longer Yun continued to pass the time with her, the stronger her aura of mystery grew. Well-mannered, considerate, exceptionally observant, and she even had a sense of humor. Somehow, it made the wheelchair-bound girl even more alluring on a logical, reason-oriented front. Card games were one thing, but human beings were the most difficult puzzles of all to solve.

Her candid response to Yun's subtext-laden question left the duelist feeling visibly blindsided, his shoulders slumping forward somewhat. So, her condition was not rooted in terminal illness, but in an event that was both sudden and just as jarring... Images of the muscular man in the yellow jacket, once again, haunt Yun like a specter that simply refuses to leave. How does she do it? Where does her strength to move forward originate from? What kind of resolve was needed to endure the apparent loss of the function in her legs?

Yun takes an offhand glance towards the floor, and sees them. The scars on Keiko's legs. They were mostly faded, but still there, a permanent reminder of her own losses, now readily visible beneath the shop's white halogen lights. The gamer's heart sinks even lower.

But the girl in pink experiences no change in her temperament, the tone of her voice remaining even and collected. Her conclusion is so simple and honest it nearly hurts the duelist to admit it so readily. She lowers two more cards for him to study, Replenish and Meta Cocoon, to reinforce her truth as reality.

Lick his wounds and try again, huh? As he mulls over Miss Kojima's words of wisdom, amethyst eyes find their way to the very last card in Yun's hand. Feather Fall. Above it was Hyper Wing, his favorite augment card. It was as though his own deck was giving him a subliminal message to accept Keiko's compassion in this moment, to embrace it, for he certainly needed a grounding force right now. This little girl, confined to the cold metal space of her wheelchair, had seemingly freed herself of all its burdens. Now, it was his turn to break his own chains.

Yun's crooked golden highlights shift in front of the spiky mass of black and purple hair, partially concealing another contemplative smirk that now formed against his pale features. Whatever her actual intentions were, he simply cannot bring himself to refuse her gestures of kindness. This evening, he needed all the help he could get.

"Strawberry cheesecake," Yun says. "And a raspberry espresso."



The sound of rain being torn to shreds fills Zubamon's ears before it morphs into a distinctive CLANG, his metallic claws scraping angrily against the street. The dragon lifts his head, his sharpened horn buzzing as he did so, and spots the glowing Solarmon hover its way frantically back into an alley. Then, his body seems to burn with greater intensity until the heavy rainfall can get no closer before being turned into fine mist particles, almost as if a barrier of water molecules now surrounded him.

It was a telltale sign--at least, for the caped dragon--that his opponent was about to unleash an attack. Unfortunately for Zubamon, his opening was too aggressive, too direct, and a cog-shaped hand charged with thermal energy comes crunching into his face just hard enough to cause him to stagger a few steps, his head (and probably his brain, too) echoing with a resounding metallic clang.

Zubamon's vision spins, obscured by both rain and pain. He even buckles to a knee, uncertain as to how or why he was not faster than this floating collective of gears and springs. It yells something inane, and the dragon lets off a reverberating snarl.

Instantly, his form appears to bleed and melt into the rainstorm itself, the reflective properties of every last droplet of water to create the distinctive, rapid-fire flickering his golden armor was known to produce before his posture of temporary relief became a threatening crouch. Zubamon darts towards the alleyway, both claws poised for attack, and then--

He feints, slipping neatly to the left as the shimmering cape attached to his shoulders flutters behind him, like the red capoté of a Spanish matador mocking the bull after a reckless charge. Except if Zubamon were the matador doing the charging himself, hoping to get the drop on the Solarmon with a rising double claw attack.

[attr="class","mouths1"]Keiko's words are full of certainty, a kind of proof that she knows where Yun rests and how it feels on the inside, compelled to just throw in the towel after that one catastrophic loss. He had to remind himself of the facts: both Zubamon and himself were alive, and had escaped both capture by the hands of the authorities, and a fate far worse than imprisonment. In this moment, the handicapped girl was right--there was room to try again.

And, as long as they both continued to breathe and fight, there would always be.

Yun lets loose a deep, relaxed sigh, possibly for the very first time tonight, as though a great deal of weight was lifted from his shoulders. And, just in the nick of time, the waitress of the little cakes-and-cookies shop gingerly shuffled her way to the table that both he and Miss Kojima occupied, quietly setting down their requested orders: a parfait and cream soda for the young lady, and a slice of cheesecake topped with fresh strawberries and a cup of piping hot espresso scented and flavored in raspberry.

Looking up to speak, he sees Keiko's eyes glassed over, shimmering, and Yun's heart skips a beat or two. Had he said or done something inconsiderate? His hand loses its grip on the small gathering of cards between them, and one slips out and gently falls onto the floor, the booster Fresh Milk. Yun cannot summon the words he wants to say, the question he wants to ask. The question that has plagued him this entire night. What am I doing wrong?



A deafening scrape of metal against metal is music to Zubamon's ears, but the phosphorescent flash that followed his rising blow filled the dragon's vision with vast white, stunning him right where his body achieved the apex of his earlier rising double-slash just long enough to feel a second, cog-shaped hand pulverize his armored torso with surprising force.

Unable to see the incoming attack or defend against it, the cape-wearing Rookie's body is sent hurtling slightly upwards until his back collides with an electrical post, grunting sharply as he slides down the wooden pole and collapses to a knee once again, blinded and disoriented. The raucous cracks of thunder are deafening to Zubamon, and it is only a matter of time before the remainder of his senses fade into one another.

But he is not one to surrender so readily. Zubamon remains eerily still for the time, allowing the rainfall to soothe his aching nerves, wash him clean of his haze, and return his mind to an earlier state of clarity. He wasn't losing to this poor excuse for a heating coil.

He was simply testing the waters.

[attr="class","mouths1"]The metaphorical frog in Yun's throat dislodges itself upon hearing Keiko's quiet yet firm commands to do away with the sadness lurking behind his big, purple eyes, assuring that her own tears were merely a result of neglecting to take her own proverbial medicine. Her voice falters, enough to where she must take a gulp of her parfait to regain some inkling of her original atmosphere of personal composure and detachment.

Watching Miss Kojima attempt to maintain her facade of maturity, even as the still-functioning half of her body trembles under the growing pressures of her own burdens, made Yun feel as though he were staring directly into a mirror. They were two cuts from the same cloth, kindred spirits forced into a world seemingly designed to make them, and others like them, suffer endlessly. Whether physical or psychological, truly both Keiko and Yun had their demons to contend with.

Still, her earlier words ring like church bells in the duelist's recent memory. At some point, there comes a time when one must discard the feelings of uncertainty and take a leap of faith, even as the jaws of certain defeat looms over their shoulders. Failure, in the grand scheme of things, was less of a preconceived result and more a state of mind, one that could truly cripple the spirit, worse than any--

No. That was going too far.

When Keiko points out the lone card on Café Syrup's tile floor, Yun feels his body instinctively move to pick up and examine what had dropped, then widens his gaze somewhat upon seeing the illustration of a milk bottle being poured, yet another symbolic reminder to the duelist for him to pick himself up and stay in the moment.

He takes a bite of cheesecake, making sure to add a chunk of strawberry for extra flavor. "I suppose now is as good of a time as any to start trying again," Yun muses aloud with a half-chuckle, tucking away the bite of food behind a cheek so that he could verbalize his words coherently. To fortify this message, he retrieves his Cooling Agent restorative card and puts it on the table as a visual cue.



The dragon's hearing is muffled and hindered by a combination of the heavy beating of rain and the throbbing sensations deep inside his skull. His body feels sluggish and unresponsive, clearly nothing to be proud of. Master Yun would be ashamed if he were to see him in this condition. This whole situation was pathetic!

The numbness in Zubamon's arms grows hotter and more intense, replacing itself with his sweltering inner rage. Tiny sparks from his razored claws visibly flicker against asphalt as he grinds them slowly closed into tightly-balled fists, only to punch one of them into the ground hard enough to create a sizable impact mark, signaled by another flash of lightning and the explosive crack of thunder that followed it.

Then, the glittering gold warrior scrapes his claws on the hard, abrasive surface of the streets in a threatening flurry of metal, as though he were throwing a tantrum. But these were not the frustrated thrashes and flails of a Digimon ruled by emotion, but a means to sharpen his already-formidable talons, another strategy for him to exploit. A way to intimidate his foes.

One last, powerful splay of his claws creates a vacuum effect around Zubamon's body that causes the rain that fell around him to splash outward, like he had commanded the elements themselves to make way for his next attack.

Two blistering hot gears from the Solarmon come rushing forward, but the caped dragon curls his pointed nails as he brings his arms into a right angle, staying the full course of his daring rush. One cog-hand makes contact with the left claw which Zubamon quickly closes, and the second one comes practically sailing into the grasp of the dragon's other claw, clamping down around it with all his might.

Both of his enemy's appendages cause Zubamon intense pain, but he lingers through it, endures the torment it causes him, even as it threatens to liquefy the very armor that was meant to diminish the efficacy of such attacks, even as his claws start to smoulder as wisps of white smoke billow from within. He does this knowing full well that taking this risk would yield the greatest results in the end.

Zubamon endures the pain to maintain his full speed, then leaps forward, the Solarmon's exposed form lined up perfectly with the sharpened point of the dragon's shimmering nasal blade.

[attr="class","mouths1"]Silence falls between the two as they partake in their foodstuffs, Yun having become rather absorbed in the rich, delicate textures of his strawberry cheesecake, savoring the rich fruits and syrups drizzled over it as a shiny sweet garnish. His raspberry espresso provides an ever-so-subtle hint of tart berry flavor alongside the beverage's trademark bitterness.

Between his meal and Miss Kojima's occasional glances of curiosity towards it, it made the cardsharp wonder about the taste of her parfait and cream soda. She had to have picked something equally delicious as the item he ordered, if not more so. It just wouldn't make any sense for someone to deliberately choose to consume poor quality food. The peals of thunder become a little softer as the time passes, a reflection of the pair's inner storms collectively dissipating into the fog of obscurity where it belonged.

Loud, piercing tinkles and chimes rattle, instantly pulling Yun away from the attentions of his cake like a deer caught in headlights. That's right, he had come here to assist Keiko in recharging her cell phone. It seemed that the battery had either finished replenishing itself, or was almost there, as she had a call attempting to reach her. Frantically, the young lass takes to silencing the gizmo's annoying jingles and picks it up to answer back.

She speaks in fragments to the person on the other side of the line, and although Yun does his best to tune her out, her occasional off-hand references to him do nothing but cement his focus on her words, even going as far to command this unknown figure not to 'send out a search party'. He wasn't sure if that last one was literal or figurative on Keiko's part, but her flustered attempts to keep the pale-skinned duelist out of the conversation results in an abrupt end to the call, followed by a terse apology for her acclaimed hallmate's curiosity.

"I can't seem to think of anything in particular," Yun says after a short period of concentration. He carefully sorts through his cards and Keiko's so that he can return them back to the protective embrace of his deck box. "At least, nothing I hadn't planned for already." He shrugs halfheartedly, lips fashioned in a half-smirk as his eyebrows settled in a way that clearly illustrated his renewed sense of composure. "It shouldn't be long before the rain begins to subside."

An important thought then crosses the duelist's mind. What was Zubamon up to?



The gold-plated dragon can feel the glowing automaton of sunlight's strength fade momentarily, then return just as swiftly. His own crimson eyes, smouldering with the fires of inner conviction like hot coals, locked menacingly with his foe's, even as his nasal blade lodged itself above the Solarmon's left side, far enough to where Zubamon could feel the springs and wheels behind his newly-pierced metal plating tap and click uselessly against it, incapable of completing their programmed functions or routines. Brain damage.

His fingers continued to sear with radiating agony, but tighter they still clenched, unwilling to let his opponent escape. Zubamon's feet were cold and numb, yet still carried him forward and pushed the clockwork Digimon backwards and directly into the streets of Ōta, creating a dull scrape across the sidewalk as the veil of rain simply evaporates into a cloud of thick, white steam before it can even drench the struggling combatants.

Zubamon's grunts echo in a metallic tone, and he holds his breath. It was time to finish this, now or never. The golden dragon squeezes his claws as hard as he can, aiming not to crush the Solarmon's hands like cans made of aluminum, but to get the mechanical Digimon to relent, to add just the right amount of pressure needed to completely remove all resistance he was putting up.

Then, he would drag his face downward to carve into, or even possibly remove, the creature's eye. This would be a mark of recompense, a gruesome ceremonial reminder of his near-victory this day, a macabre symbol of his bravery and dedication to his duty as both a warrior and a protector. While Zubamon might have viewed such a wound as a badge of honor and pride, the mileage of others certainly varied in this situation.

[attr="class","mouths1"]The screech of metal fills Zubamon's ears, but pales to the screams of agony that he had fully anticipated, but never arrived, even as a shower of sparks fly from his nasal blade's point of entry like fireworks. There is no cracked lens, no seeping orifices for him to determine the full extent of his strike, nothing but a long, hard glimpse of the rain-drenched streets and the torturous heat of the Solarmon's nearly busted cog-hands. His stab was far too shallow, he had not struck hard enough. The scars from this fight would be permanent, but hardly detrimental on his opponent's end.

Before he can bring his own head up, torturous heat consumes every fiber of his being, his own two hands having become the very channels with which the Solarmon exploited with aplomb, and Zubamon's arms and wrists quickly begin to buckle, against his will. Even he can no longer retain his ironclad silence any longer, and bellows at the automaton with a jagged mixture of horrendous anger, and a single-minded drive to fulfill his own oath, his duty to the human that fate had ordained to be his master.

Serving Yun was all that mattered. There was no past Zubamon could recall, no memories or remnants of a life before him. All that he knew, all that ever made sense to the weaponized Rookie, was that he was meant to act as his sword, to enact his will upon the world however he saw fit. The image of his Tamer's back, silhouetted against the light of dawn, burned within the armored Digimon's mind more powerfully than any pain or suffering that this floating excuse for a pocket watch could ever dish out. Hollow as might have been for some, to be of use to Yun was his lot in life, his purpose, his very reason for existing.

Against all reason, against this seemingly unending gauntlet that could give the flames of Purgatory itself a run for their money, Zubamon's body enters a state of auto-pilot, empowered solely on adrenaline and, more simply, his bullheaded determination to show his adversary, to prove to him, that even a broken sword could still be useful.

He throws the Solarmon's hands away in one last gambit, and his head rises to meet his foe's.

As the storm's final bolt of lightning touches down with a grand and powerful bang, all the sensation in Zubamon's body leaves at once, and he goes limp, crashing to the pavement in a rattle of metal pounding asphalt. Even his cape seems to drain of all vitality and essence, now resembling little more than a glorified tablecloth soaked in rain water.

There is no feeling left inside him. Not the heat of anger or the throb of pain, just... Emptiness. A peace he swore could last forever, if he wanted it to. Was this what enlightenment felt like? Or, was he dead? He honestly couldn't tell, since the world was spinning so fast it almost felt like he just needed to throw up.

Instead, Zubamon merely lays there, uncaring about the nausea settling in the pit of his stomach, gazing listlessly as the rain slowly, but surely, begins to subside into a gentle mist, as though to cool off the sweltering heat of their battle. He lets the Solarmon have his moment, silently thankful that no one was killed tonight; senseless bloodshed wasn't Zubamon's modus operandi, anyway.

Whether Gearhead over there could see it or not, the gold dragon was smiling.

Fuck, did it hurt, though.

[attr="class","mouths1"]The cheesecake dwindles with every forkful, his cup of espresso trailing behind by a few more sips. Yun is careful to avoid reaching for another taste of the raspberry-scented beverage, still producing faint wisps of aromatic steam, as a raucous crash of Heaven's fury causes the windows to shiver. As the man with the world's most dangerous hairstyle lifts the porcelain cup to his lips, he breathes deeply through his nostrils and sips, lowering the vessel to smile back at Keiko in turn.

She feels certain that Tokyo's size alone served to diminish their odds of a second encounter with one another, a thought Yun almost felt inclined to agree with, were he capable of reading minds. But he was not the most firm believer in determinism; this one event, fleeting as it was in the grand cosmic scheme of all things, could be likened to a seed, planted by their meeting of chance and nourished through a willingness to establish a common link. If Keiko Kojima felt that the pressures of her own life were enough to smother the fickle will of fortune, then Yun Yoshimasa--by his very nature as a man with a gambler's spirit--was willing to bet all of his proverbial chips in fortune's favor that they would, one day, meet again under a more voluntary set of circumstances.

Just as the soft-spoken girl had done, Yun carefully moves to gather his cards and opens the hinged lid of his box, sliding the decorated pieces of stock neatly inside, and closing the shiny container with a faint yet audible click. The acoustics in this shop were surprisingly powerful, the duelist's surface thoughts briefly digress.

As he reflected over this stray postulation, what sounded like a high-pitched scream pulls Yun away from his cheesecake to gaze out the window, and finds his eyes falling upon Miss Kojima instead, apparently reaching into her bag for something. A distinctive ping, one he immediately recognizes as the chime of a D-Power, is what he hears before Keiko practically robs Yun of the chance to confirm his findings by retrieving her smartphone instead, chalking up the sudden noise as the howl of a stray animal, her gaze glued, rather unconvincingly, at her screen.

The girl in the wheelchair retrieves her belongings and reminds Yun of the facts at hand, it was time for them to part ways and return to the three-ring circus act of their daily lives. He cannot bring himself to ask about that familiar chiming, to simply what he wants to say--

Then again, he also didn't want to? Call it a stroke of intuition if you will, but the duelist in leather feels himself genuinely resisting his natural urge to bring attention to questions that needed no answer. Deep down, he knew what was going on, and, perhaps, so did she. Tonight, they could briefly set aside their destinies as Tamers part of an ongoing struggle with forces beyond their reckoning and be who they wished to be: just ordinary human beings caught up in yet another moment in a never-ending series of them.

But, the pleasantries must eventually come to an end, and the two must take up their respective mantles once more. Keiko Kojima backs her chair up from the table and carefully pushes her way to the door, kept held open by the waitress that had served them, and instructs him to look her up if he ever passed through Shibuya. "I'll be fine. You will too." Her words touch the duelist's heart like a warm summer breeze baked by the loving radiance of the sun, a force of invigoration that truly befitted the Digimon that served as her companion and friend.

Yun smiles. "Thank you, Miss Kojima. Thank you."



It took several more minutes for the storm's full density to subside, enabling the roving cardsharp to leave Café Syrup, stretching his arms, legs, and back out in response to how cramped the interior was. The smell of rain was staunch like his espresso, even acting like a hit of extra energy, despite the light trashy odor.

He needed it, apparently, because Yun would spend practically all of it in a frantic state of worry upon discovering Zubamon laying face-up on the pavement as though his body had been pulverized with a molten sledgehammer, golden armor now full of sizable scratches and dents. And, were those burns?

The dragon's only explanation to his equally pointy human came in the form of a blunt lie: a Digimon had suddenly bio-emerged while he was on surveillance duty, and upon moving to dispatch it, he was given a sound thrashing the moment it Digivolved into a more powerful form. Of course, Zubamon concludes his fable by insisting his victory was assured the moment he closed in for the attack.

It was enough to subdue Yun's anxieties, but it did pose an important question: what would have happened had such a Digimon manifested like that? If anything, it gave the soaking wet dragon something to chew over while he quietly reflects on the true chain of events that had transpired, his spontaneous match-up with Keiko's Solarmon, reminded of the little 'souvenir' he gave him before he fell unconscious from the sweltering pain in his hands and fingers.

It was a personal victory, just for Zubamon to enjoy.