Yamato Ishida (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
angry_friendship_wolf) wrote2021-07-10 12:12 am
angry_friendship_wolf) wrote2021-07-10 12:12 am
[tri OOM] Gennai's Alliance
Doumon sits down, pulls a jug of the finest Orochimon sake from her cabinet, and pours herself a stiff drink.
The Ironworks Trading Company’s largest ship, lost at sea, along with the small army of Digimon it had been gathering. The ship and Digimon that had been necessary components of the company’s plan to subdue Meicoomon.
This had been their chance. When Doumon had first proposed the idea to her fellow board members, they had been horrified: This Digimon, this Meicoomon, was according to their intelligence Apocalymon reborn -- and not just reborn, but here, on this side of the Wall of Fire, physically manifested within the material world. The idea of controlling that power, of using it to establish worldwide supremacy, seemed absurd to them, the crazed ramblings of a madmon.
Doumon had persuaded those she could, told them that now, before Meicoomon had come into her full power, they had a chance that nobody else in history had ever had. Those she couldn’t convince, she had attended to in a permanent fashion. So it was that the plan was set in motion: Bait to catch Meicoomon, and an army the likes of which the Digital World had never seen before to contain her when they did.
Except now her army is gone. The Chosen of Water and the Chosen of Earth had descended upon her carefully made plans and wrecked them, as surely as any natural disaster.
The remaining board members had been furious. They’d spoken of abandoning the plan entirely, of ejecting her from her position, of seeing her banished from the Server Continent, or worse. She’d tried to persuade them. It hadn’t worked. She’d had to take other, more lasting measures to secure her position.
Now they’re gone, and she’s here, drinking too-strong sake and staring at the painting of herself on the wall.
“So it’s all come crumbling down around you.”
She’s jolted back to the present. Her gaze flicks to one side, to where a blond human boy leans against the wall of her boardroom.
“Gennai,” she murmurs. She knocks back her drink, shaking her head. “It’s come crumbling down around us, you mean. We have failed. You were the one who made the modifications to MarinChimairamon.”
The blond boy sighs, and as he pushes off the wall he changes, his form humming like static until he’s a red-haired girl instead.
“Pity,” Gennai says. “I rather believed that with my help, you could capture Meicoomon.”
“And then you would’ve stabbed me in the back and taken her for yourself,” Doumon replies bitterly. She pours herself another helping of sake. “I’m not a fool. I was planning on stabbing you in the back as well, as soon as I found the right dagger for it.”
“I won’t deny it. I still need her for my plans.”
“And what would those be, exactly?”
“Everlasting peace,” Gennai says, spreading his hands. “An end to war and suffering and strife. Nothing but endless, gentle pleasure.”
Doumon wrinkles her nose. “Sounds vile.”
She’s about to say something else, tell him to leave already if he’s going to, but the console on the boardroom table begins blaring, holographic letters popping up above it. Incoming Call.
Maybe she shouldn’t answer. Maybe it’s more bad news. She does anyway, hitting the button, and a shrunken, hollowed out face appears in front of her. She catches Gennai narrow his eyes slightly.
It’s a Vademon, a Perfect-level Alien Digimon, she’s seen them before. Except it’s not any Vademon. It looks like its data was corrupted somehow, but there’s a strange deliberateness to it. Like, she realises with a start, it tried to mummify itself.
“We are providing greetings to the great Doumon,” the Vademon says. “We are expressing admiration at the scope and power of her company. We are expressing commiserations at the loss of her ship and slaves.”
“Appreciated, I’m sure,” Doumon says dryly. She had expected Gennai to vanish by now, but he’s staying, watching silently.
“We are explaining that we are a community of academics. We are explaining that we are many but also one. We are explaining that we were one of the original Digimon, granted divine purpose. We are explaining that we were commanded to seek understanding. We are declaring that we were commanded to understand perfection,” the Vademon says. “We are offering an alliance.”
Doumon arches an eyebrow. “Our goals wouldn’t seem to be aligned. I’m not interested in knowledge for its own sake.”
“We are declaring that this is irrelevant. We are explaining that we are creating perfection, a Digimon pure of essence, form, and purpose. We are explaining that we require the Libra for this.”
“You mean Meicoomon,” Gennai murmurs. “Another competitor seeking to get their hands on her for their own gain.”
The Vademon’s nostrils flare. “We are declaring that you are incorrect, Old Man of the Beginning. We are declaring that we are not competitors. We are explaining that once we have acquired Meicoomon’s data, we will have no further use for her, and we may relinquish her to others, ergo we need not be in conflict.”
Doumon knocks back her drink again. “And if you change your mind, once power is in your grasp?”
“We are declaring that it is not power we seek. We are declaring that we will not survive the birth of our perfect creation. We are joyously anticipating being consumed,” the Vademon says. “We are offering an alliance. We are proposing that together, there is a greater probability that we will capture the Libra. We are suggesting that once we do, and once we have taken what we need from her, you will be free to use her as you wish.”
“And why are you making this offer now, when I’ve lost everything?”
“Gratitude.”
“Excuse me?”
“We are offering this alliance out of gratitude. We are declaring that you have provided material.”
Doumon frowns. “We’ve never met before. I haven’t provided you with anything.”
The Vademon doesn’t say anything, but the image pans outward, as if a camera is pulling away from him. Tanks come into view, five empty, three filled, and a wobbling, grating noise fills Doumon’s ears. It takes her a second to realise that it’s screaming.
Flickering like static, crackling with sparks, are writhing, struggling shapes in the tanks. A Revivemon in one, a Mephistomon in the next, and in the last filled tank, her own MarinChimairamon, shrieking and contorting. There are other Vademon, all shrunken and desiccated, and preserved as still-living mummies, attending to them, carefully changing tubes and monitoring screens.
“What …” She feels sick. “What is this?”
“We are explaining that they were deemed to be suitable materials for our creation. We are explaining that we harvested their data at the moment of death. We are demonstrating that your employee designation MarinChimairamon was deemed suitable and harvested,” the lead Vademon says reasonably.
“You’re …”
“We are keeping them. We are suspending them in the moment of death.”
“They’re in pain.”
“They are dying. They are always dying, and they will never be dead. We are preparing them. We are modifying them.”
Gennai folds his arms, his form shifting to an auburn-haired boy. “Modifying them how?”
“We are Infecting them. We are filling them with Infection. We are making them more like the Libra. We are bringing them closer to perfection,” the Vademon says. “We thank you for the provision of acceptable material. We are offering you an alliance.”
Doumon swallows heavily. “I … accept your offer.”
“I accept your offer,” Gennai echoes.
The Vademon doesn’t smile, but Doumon doesn’t think it can even move its face. “We are declaring that we are pleased.”
The Ironworks Trading Company’s largest ship, lost at sea, along with the small army of Digimon it had been gathering. The ship and Digimon that had been necessary components of the company’s plan to subdue Meicoomon.
This had been their chance. When Doumon had first proposed the idea to her fellow board members, they had been horrified: This Digimon, this Meicoomon, was according to their intelligence Apocalymon reborn -- and not just reborn, but here, on this side of the Wall of Fire, physically manifested within the material world. The idea of controlling that power, of using it to establish worldwide supremacy, seemed absurd to them, the crazed ramblings of a madmon.
Doumon had persuaded those she could, told them that now, before Meicoomon had come into her full power, they had a chance that nobody else in history had ever had. Those she couldn’t convince, she had attended to in a permanent fashion. So it was that the plan was set in motion: Bait to catch Meicoomon, and an army the likes of which the Digital World had never seen before to contain her when they did.
Except now her army is gone. The Chosen of Water and the Chosen of Earth had descended upon her carefully made plans and wrecked them, as surely as any natural disaster.
The remaining board members had been furious. They’d spoken of abandoning the plan entirely, of ejecting her from her position, of seeing her banished from the Server Continent, or worse. She’d tried to persuade them. It hadn’t worked. She’d had to take other, more lasting measures to secure her position.
Now they’re gone, and she’s here, drinking too-strong sake and staring at the painting of herself on the wall.
“So it’s all come crumbling down around you.”
She’s jolted back to the present. Her gaze flicks to one side, to where a blond human boy leans against the wall of her boardroom.
“Gennai,” she murmurs. She knocks back her drink, shaking her head. “It’s come crumbling down around us, you mean. We have failed. You were the one who made the modifications to MarinChimairamon.”
The blond boy sighs, and as he pushes off the wall he changes, his form humming like static until he’s a red-haired girl instead.
“Pity,” Gennai says. “I rather believed that with my help, you could capture Meicoomon.”
“And then you would’ve stabbed me in the back and taken her for yourself,” Doumon replies bitterly. She pours herself another helping of sake. “I’m not a fool. I was planning on stabbing you in the back as well, as soon as I found the right dagger for it.”
“I won’t deny it. I still need her for my plans.”
“And what would those be, exactly?”
“Everlasting peace,” Gennai says, spreading his hands. “An end to war and suffering and strife. Nothing but endless, gentle pleasure.”
Doumon wrinkles her nose. “Sounds vile.”
She’s about to say something else, tell him to leave already if he’s going to, but the console on the boardroom table begins blaring, holographic letters popping up above it. Incoming Call.
Maybe she shouldn’t answer. Maybe it’s more bad news. She does anyway, hitting the button, and a shrunken, hollowed out face appears in front of her. She catches Gennai narrow his eyes slightly.
It’s a Vademon, a Perfect-level Alien Digimon, she’s seen them before. Except it’s not any Vademon. It looks like its data was corrupted somehow, but there’s a strange deliberateness to it. Like, she realises with a start, it tried to mummify itself.
“We are providing greetings to the great Doumon,” the Vademon says. “We are expressing admiration at the scope and power of her company. We are expressing commiserations at the loss of her ship and slaves.”
“Appreciated, I’m sure,” Doumon says dryly. She had expected Gennai to vanish by now, but he’s staying, watching silently.
“We are explaining that we are a community of academics. We are explaining that we are many but also one. We are explaining that we were one of the original Digimon, granted divine purpose. We are explaining that we were commanded to seek understanding. We are declaring that we were commanded to understand perfection,” the Vademon says. “We are offering an alliance.”
Doumon arches an eyebrow. “Our goals wouldn’t seem to be aligned. I’m not interested in knowledge for its own sake.”
“We are declaring that this is irrelevant. We are explaining that we are creating perfection, a Digimon pure of essence, form, and purpose. We are explaining that we require the Libra for this.”
“You mean Meicoomon,” Gennai murmurs. “Another competitor seeking to get their hands on her for their own gain.”
The Vademon’s nostrils flare. “We are declaring that you are incorrect, Old Man of the Beginning. We are declaring that we are not competitors. We are explaining that once we have acquired Meicoomon’s data, we will have no further use for her, and we may relinquish her to others, ergo we need not be in conflict.”
Doumon knocks back her drink again. “And if you change your mind, once power is in your grasp?”
“We are declaring that it is not power we seek. We are declaring that we will not survive the birth of our perfect creation. We are joyously anticipating being consumed,” the Vademon says. “We are offering an alliance. We are proposing that together, there is a greater probability that we will capture the Libra. We are suggesting that once we do, and once we have taken what we need from her, you will be free to use her as you wish.”
“And why are you making this offer now, when I’ve lost everything?”
“Gratitude.”
“Excuse me?”
“We are offering this alliance out of gratitude. We are declaring that you have provided material.”
Doumon frowns. “We’ve never met before. I haven’t provided you with anything.”
The Vademon doesn’t say anything, but the image pans outward, as if a camera is pulling away from him. Tanks come into view, five empty, three filled, and a wobbling, grating noise fills Doumon’s ears. It takes her a second to realise that it’s screaming.
Flickering like static, crackling with sparks, are writhing, struggling shapes in the tanks. A Revivemon in one, a Mephistomon in the next, and in the last filled tank, her own MarinChimairamon, shrieking and contorting. There are other Vademon, all shrunken and desiccated, and preserved as still-living mummies, attending to them, carefully changing tubes and monitoring screens.
“What …” She feels sick. “What is this?”
“We are explaining that they were deemed to be suitable materials for our creation. We are explaining that we harvested their data at the moment of death. We are demonstrating that your employee designation MarinChimairamon was deemed suitable and harvested,” the lead Vademon says reasonably.
“You’re …”
“We are keeping them. We are suspending them in the moment of death.”
“They’re in pain.”
“They are dying. They are always dying, and they will never be dead. We are preparing them. We are modifying them.”
Gennai folds his arms, his form shifting to an auburn-haired boy. “Modifying them how?”
“We are Infecting them. We are filling them with Infection. We are making them more like the Libra. We are bringing them closer to perfection,” the Vademon says. “We thank you for the provision of acceptable material. We are offering you an alliance.”
Doumon swallows heavily. “I … accept your offer.”
“I accept your offer,” Gennai echoes.
The Vademon doesn’t smile, but Doumon doesn’t think it can even move its face. “We are declaring that we are pleased.”