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The Digital World’s desert was a place that Ken had been through many times. A barren, burning wasteland, the wind blew stinging sand across his body. One arm folded before his eyes, Ken pushed through the storm. He always ended up back here. He’d seen himself here -- no, the image of the Kaiser -- tied to a post and tortured for his sins until he dissolved into data fragments. He had seen his brother , three years dead, on these dunes. That had all been BelialVamdemon’s doing, just an illusion playing to his weaknesses, but it had not felt any less real. Here was where his heart broke into pieces so small they could have rivaled the sand beneath his feet -- where Wormmon had died in his arms, and the last visages of the Kaiser evaporated from his body. Here, among a sea of sand, was where he’d been struck, when the dark spore had entered his body; an event he remembered only from a dream. He had tried not to let it bother him, that he couldn’t recall how it had happened, or why he’d been there at that place, in that time. The answers to those questions eluded him still, but as long as the seed did not sprout, he convinced himself it didn’t matter.
Vague memories of a boy with brown hair, older than him, but younger than he was now, peppered his inner eye. A monstrous black and silver creature swirled in his mind, all metal and claws and sharp teeth. Looming and imposing, a growl that rattled his bones and shook his core. Buried somewhere in the caverns of his mind, memories blurred as though he peered at them through frosted glass. A voice, deep and broken, spitting, insulting him. Ken was beneath him -- a thorn, despised, as all of the chosen children were, but Ken most of all. Somewhere in this mire, was how it all started. He tried to focus, to remember, but pain cleaved through his skull for his efforts.
“Nngh--” he groaned through clenched teeth, fists full of his dark hair.
He fell to his knees in the dunes, hands trembling, eyes shut against the grains of sand assaulting his face. He was in the back of a truck. Dark, cold, a hand squeezing his shoulder like a vice, restraining him, a scanner pressed into the base of his skull.
This won’t hurt. It’s really just digital data.
It shouldn’t have hurt, but the back of his neck burned as though a hot iron brand were being pressed into his flesh. He bit back the urge to scream, tears stinging his eyes. He felt them splash against his knees, so much more substantial than tears ought to have been. The pain would not cease. Sound vanished, and the silence was so profound he thought for a moment he’d gone deaf. That is, until the voices filled his head. Hollow, distorted, so much like Chimeramon, that dark and twisted abomination of his own creation. It spoke to him in broken words, like corrupted soundbites on old files.
I cannot die.
Your holy power --
My dark power, too, is Eternal! --
-- Absorbed --
-- Spirit --
“What do you want from me?!” Ken sobbed, tasting sand and salt.
I want that item, which rests inside your body.
Head pulsing, Ken strained to open his eyes. The world had gone colorless, all gray and static. White noise hummed in the air, and through his skin, while something throbbed relentlessly behind his eyes. He lowered his hands, intent on pushing himself off the ground.
And that’s when he saw them. Spindly, violently red blooms, like spider lilies, clinging to his arms. He scratched at them, knocked them away, only to watch as more sprouted in their place. He clawed at his hair, his neck, fingers finding flowers everywhere they roamed. Panic rose like bile in his throat as he thrashed, a useless effort. A fight he could not win. The vines inched from his skin, crawling and itching, winding round his wrists, his ankles, his throat, squeezing, restraining him, suffocating him.
Daemon’s triumphant laughter filled Ken’s ears as the ocean rushed to meet him, and Darkness took him.
Air rushed back into his lung as his eyes snapped open. Within the darkness, his senses came into focus. He stared at the underside of his loft bed from where he laid on the floor, noticed the thin line of moonlight slipping between the curtains of the sliding glass door. Soft snoring -- Daisuke -- beside him on the futon, and his own labored breathing were the only sounds that filled the otherwise silent room. Heart lodged in his throat, Ken swallowed, sat up, and slid from under the blankets in one smooth motion. He staggered to his feet, pushing himself for the door. The room was still and peaceful, but the terror lingered at the back of his mind, chasing him into the dark hallway. He felt his way along the wall until he reached the bathroom, fingers fumbling for the switch. Light flooded the small room and assaulted his senses. Ken recoiled, pulling a hand over his eyes. Blindly, he groped for the sink and turned the knob. Through squinted lids, he stared down into the white porcelain basin. Cool water pooled in his hands, and he splashed it over his face. A wavering sigh escaped him as he slid his fingers down his face. His eyes adjusted to the light.
It was only a dream. Just a nightmare, and nothing more.
He turned off the faucet and finally dared to look up at his reflection. His stomach dropped. It was gone two blinks later, but for half an instant, they were there -- the red flowers, on his shoulder, in his hair, as if they were growing out of his skin and through his clothes. Desperately, he scrubbed his eyes, and then looked into the mirror again. His eyes were bloodshot, and his hair disheveled, but there were no flowers to be seen. Ken felt his stomach turn.
None of the Chosen knew what the flowers of the Dark Spore looked like. They’d been unable to see it themselves. But something within Ken knew what he was looking at all the same. He’d been confident for years now, that his spore was dead, or at the very least, dormant. He was in control, not the darkness.
What if he’d been wrong?
Trembling fingers reached for the back of his neck. He pressed into the tender flesh and muscle there, as if feeling for the object that had caused him so much distress. It was like a cancer, and he’d been in Remission, but never truly Cured. It was something he’d had to live with, knowing they couldn’t take it out of him. More frightened than he’d been in years, he tried. Nails dug into his skin, stinging, biting. Over and over, desperation slowly building as his mouth twisted into a grimace. His other hand moved to join the effort, as he alternately scratched at his neck, pulled his hair aside, digging at his nape until he felt the slick of blood beneath his fingers. He choked on a sob and bent over the bathroom counter, resting on his elbows.
Get out, get out, get out.