[tri OOM] Mercies

It’s evening when Koushiro and Miyako finish sorting through the data. They take it to Yamato immediately, practically shoving the results in his face and letting him read it for himself. It … it paints a picture, he has to admit.

Not the picture he expected. Not a good picture either.

“Should we get Takeru-kun and Mimi-san?” Miyako asks. “They might want to know.”

Yamato grimaces. Telling Mimi before they tell Takeru is probably a good idea, she’s accustomed to softening the blow of bad news. But right now, with the way he’s been acting, Yamato has doubts about telling Takeru at all.

“No,” he says eventually. “No, we talk to Warudamon ourselves. She can …”

Explain herself? That doesn’t seem right.

“I don’t know. I want to get her side before we say anything to the others,” he says. “Let’s go.”


---


Warudamon is at her laboratory, as cosy and homely as ever. She’s not working, though, just sat in her armchair with a cup of tea in her hand, and three more steaming cups on the table. She’s been expecting them, clearly, but whether it’s a trick or just an unerringly accurate prediction of what they’d do, he doesn’t know.

“I suppose you’ve figured it out, then,” she says. She doesn’t sound upset about it at all. If anything, she sounds satisfied.

“Yeah. We did. Not what I was expecting, to be honest,” Yamato says, scraping a hand over the back of his neck. “I figured you were a con artist.”

“Aren’t I?”

Koushiro hovers near the doorway. Miyako waits outside in the corridor. Yamato takes a few steps into the laboratory, shifting from foot to foot anxiously, before he drops into the armchair opposite her.

Warudamon’s knitted face opens in a wry smile. “What gave me away?”

“Full scan of one of patients. Koushiro and Miyako found the damaged data. Huge file corruption on their evolution programs and consciousness data,” he says.

“That will heal, in time.”

“I know,” Yamato says. “But you’re getting worse, right? Because you’re not curing the Infection, you’re absorbing it. Ripping the Infected data out of them and taking it into yourself.”

Warudamon’s smile dims a little. She takes a sip of her tea, holding the cup delicately between two claws. “I tried every other way of curing it, or treating it. Nothing worked. Even the most promising treatments only delayed it long enough for it to adapt,” she says. “But I have the power to consume data from other Digimon and incorporate it into my own. So, while it might be crude, I can devour their Infected data, saving the patient but infecting myself. And I have saved a great many Digimon in that way.”

Yamato shuts his eyes for a moment. He knows where this conversation is going. “That was stupid of you.”

Noble, maybe. Self-sacrificing, definitely. But also stupid. Yamato’s had enough people throw that word at him for his eagerness to sacrifice himself, and it seems apt in this case.

“It’s the duty of a healer. That is the task you gave me, isn’t it?” He feels a claw nudge against one of his cheekbones, as if tracing out the shape of it. “Long before you wore this face.”

He opens his eyes, and has to stop himself from telling her I’m not my Crest, I’m just a carrier, I don’t know you. She can’t have long left. Maybe it’s better to let her enjoy the lie.

“It’s fate, I suppose,” she says cheerfully, pulling her hand back. “I feel my mind slipping away from me more and more. All my efforts to keep it suppressed are failing. Very soon, the Infection will overtake me, and I -- …”

“Before it happens, right?” Yamato asks, keeping his voice gentle. “You want to die as yourself.”

Warudamon smiles broadly again. “I don’t have any regrets. I set out to save as many people as I could, and I have,” she says. “But it was never a permanent solution. Sooner or later, I would have to die, or risk Infecting people all over again. But if I have to die, it is a rather kind turn of fate that all of you should be here for it.”

Yamato feels sick. He’s tired of mercy kills, or sitting by and watching the Infection claim more people.

“The years really haven’t changed you at all, have they?” Warudamon asks softly. “You’re the same as you’ve always been.”

Yamato swallows his breath. “How long do you need to prepare?”

“Yamato-san …” Koushiro starts. Yamato holds up a hand, gesturing for him to be quiet for now.

“Just a day or two. Long enough for you to find and free your missing friend,” Warudamon says, nodding a head towards one of the walls -- or, Yamato supposes, in the direction of the forest and the tower where Daisuke’s being held, even if neither of them can see it right now. “I would like to be able to … render aid, if he should need it.”

“A day or two, then,” Yamato says. “You’ve got my word.”

He can’t stay here, the laboratory is too warm, too suffocating, and he needs air. He stands a little too abruptly, heading to the door, pausing by Koushiro for just a moment.

“... It’d be useful if you and Miyako could work with Warudamon, run some tests. See what we can find out before the end,” he says, keeping his tone flat and dead. He’s killed allies before. He can do it again. It’s not difficult, he doesn’t have to let it get to him. “But I’ll understand if you don’t want to. Don’t force it.”

“I’ll see what I can find out,” Koushiro replies stiffly. “Takeru-kun and Mimi-san should -- …”

“I’ll tell Mimi. And I’ll figure out what to say to Tak,” Yamato replies. “Keep me updated, okay?”


---


He wanders town first, trudging through the snow, running over in his head what to say to Takeru.

‘You were right, kid, it wasn’t some kind of con scheme, but it’s not the solution you’re looking for either,’ seems too cold. ‘I’m sorry, Warudamon is Infected and dying, and we don’t have any way of reproducing her cure,’ is too direct. ‘Takeru, we figured out how Warudamon’s cure works, and she isn’t some kind of con-man, but it’s not something we can do and she might not be around for much longer …’ is too meandering.

Takeru’s going to hate him. He’d built up so much hope in Warudamon’s cure, and Yamato’s going to kill her, just like he did to Yukidarumon, just like Takeru thought he’d do to Patamon before the Reboot took that decision out of their hands entirely. He was going to grind Takeru’s hope into dust before this was all done.

“Aniki!”

Yamato blinks out of his reverie. Takeru sprints over, flashing Yamato a smile far sunnier than any Yamato’s seen from him since the Reboot.

He takes in Takeru’s appearance. The kid’s hair is starting to get long, Yamato’s going to have to make sure to cut it, and the baggy t-shirt he’s wearing is far too big for him, and Yamato’s pretty sure it’s one of his.

“You’re not dressed for the cold,” he remarks, arching an eyebrow. No snow on the kid’s clothes, either. He cracks a quick smile, nodding towards the edge of town. “Walk with me? We’ve got something we need to talk about.”

Takeru gives him another sunny smile (Yamato had almost forgotten he even could smile like that), falling in step behind him. “Nothing bad, I hope?”

Yamato chuckles, keeping his hands at his side as they amble towards the edge of town. “Maybe I should be asking what’s got you so cheerful. You’ve barely talked to me in a week, kiddo. And where’s that scowl gone?”

He settles his hand against Takeru’s hat, smushing it down into a crumpled mass of cloth on his head. The first time he did that, Takeru had nearly ripped his arm off, because nobody touches the hat.

Takeru bats his hand away with a laugh. “What, would you prefer it if I kept scowling and picking fights? I’m starting to think you’re getting argument withdrawal or something.”

“Maybe,” Yamato laughs, as they head past the town boundary, where the rail lines start to split off in different connections.

Takeru smiles at him again, raising an eyebrow. He still hasn’t fixed his hat. “So, what did you want to talk to me abou -- …”

Yamato swings his fist at the boy’s face.

Takeru’s hand snaps up and grabs his wrist, holding his arm steady with entirely inhuman strength. Yamato peels back his lips into a snarl, flashing teeth.

“Ho~,” Takeru murmurs. He cants his head back, eyes twinkling. “Nothing gets by you, does it, old friend?”

He -- not Takeru, Yamato reminds himself, even if it looks like him, but rather the Mystery Man -- flickers like static, before he shifts form and shape, blond hair turning red as he shifts from Takeru to Sora. The grip on Yamato’s wrist doesn’t falter.

“You really thought you could pretend to be my brother?” Yamato growls.

“Now, now,” the Mystery Man says, in Sora’s gentle voice. “I was just trying to brighten your day. You’ve made an unpleasant discovery, after all. And a vow I’m sure you’d rather not keep.”

He lets go of Yamato’s wrist, shoving his arm to the side. Yamato half expects him to throw a punch of his own, but instead he moves back, putting distance between them.

“Although,” he says softly, looking Yamato up and down. “Your track record with vows leaves something to be desired.”

Even coming from someone who Yamato is pretty sure is mad as a hatter, that stings more than he’d like. He takes a step forward, and the Mystery Man slides back a nervous step, keeping up the distance between them.

“Who are you, really?” Yamato asks. “You keep claiming we’re friends, acting like we’ve all done something to personally piss you off, but you won’t even show us your face. Whatever stupid grudge -- …”

“It’s not a grudge,” the Mystery Man snaps, voice rising. “We’re -- I’m doing what you wanted. I’m doing what you asked, solving the problem you gave me, why can’t you just see that?”

Yamato cocks his head, narrowing his eyes at him as realisation bubbles up in him. “You’re like Warudamon, aren’t you? Or Elecmon, or Centalmon? You were given a task. Some kind of purpose.”

The Mystery Man’s lips twist into a smirk. It looks wrong on Sora’s face. When he talks, though, he doesn’t sound happy or smug. It’s soft, and sad, and Yamato’s sure he’s pleading with him. “There’s something wrong with me, isn’t there?”

Yamato feels that in his chest, like a shot of pain that won’t go away. He’s seen so many of his friends lose themselves lately, and every time he’s failed to help them. He’s been worse than useless.

“We’ll help you,” he says, holding out a hand. “Come with me. I promise we’ll figure this out.”

He takes a step forward. This time, the Mystery Man doesn’t move. Another step. A third.

“I’d like that, Yamato. I don’t want to keep feeling like this. I want to feel like myself again,” the Mystery Man says quietly. He reaches out a hand, fingers hovering over Yamato’s own. Yamato has to stop himself from reaching up and grabbing that hand. It has to be his decision. The Mystery Man’s fingers twitch. “I just want to hurt you more.”

He snaps his fingers.

A pillar of green light bursts from the heavens, landing behind him with a crash. From it materialises roots, a gnarled trunk, dark leaves and red berries. Yamato’s breath catches in his throat.

It surprises him just how clearly he can remember their last meeting. How Jureimon had found him by that lakeside at his lowest point, comforted him, and then encouraged him to do terrible things. How grateful Yamato had been to have someone who understood him, who seemed willing to listen to him. Exactly how few minutes it had taken for the Digimon to convince him away from his friends.

Jureimon crawls out of the light with the scuttling motions of an insect, glassy eyes turning on Yamato. There isn’t a hint of recognition in that gaze, nothing like intelligence -- he’s as empty as the rest of the Mystery Man’s zombie Digimon.

Jureimon opens his mouth wide and exhales. Yamato doesn’t have time to run or dart past him before a wave of pink gas billows over him. He gags, clutching his throat, dropping to his knees as he starts to lose feeling in his limbs.

“Don’t worry,” the Mystery Man murmurs, dropping to a crouch. “I’m not going to kill you. I do still need a new hostage or two, after all. Your brother on the other hand …”

Yamato snarls, trying to push forward to grab him, but his legs go stiff and motionless, dropping him onto his face.

“Put him with the other one,” the Mystery Man murmurs to Jureimon. “And keep him subdued.”

Then the gas fills his lungs, and he blacks out.