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Government Confines:
Bright Light - Part I
Marcus Gray rode home with his parents from school. Currently, they were scolding him on the importance of respect for his teachers. He held his head in mock shame. This was nothing new to him. Marcus had portrayed the sorry young man that would never do it again far too often for his parents to know whether he faked it or not. Marcus always faked it.
“You need to respect them,” his mother repeated for yet again. “They’re just trying to help you.” Marcus thought of her as a farce in human form. Need to respect them? She just hated the fact that her son showed the beginnings of delinquency. “Besides? Do you know what your father I went through to get you into that school? And you just want to throw it all away?”
Help me? Please, I get blamed for everything. And that guy had it coming to him. Aloud he mumbled, “Yes ma’am, I know they want to help. No ma’am, I don’t want to throw it away.”
Marcus was nearly sixteen now, and was continuously was being sent home or given detention. Five schools had decided already that they did not want him, that Marcus was just too much trouble. He hated the schools, almost as much as he hated coming home.
He would always be criticized for his choice of clothing, being told that he looked like he belonged in a homeless shelter. Both his parents told him that on a regular basis, that his jeans were a tad bit to holy, and that if they faded any more they would out of style. Previous scuffles with other students had taken a toll on his attire, and his shirt, though black, and still showed many bloodstains and bear patches of skin.
He looked up again, dead blue eyes staring straight into his mother’s. “Maybe you should go live on your own for a while? That’ll teach you to respect the value of what we do for you.”
“Give him a break,” Marcus’s father told her. He was a bit more laid back than her, and always tried to keep an open mind. “He’s had a rough day.” The car pulled up to his home and stopped as the old man turned to face Marcus. “I’m still going to have to ground you, though. You just can’t go around breaking jaws every time someone insults you.” Marcus rolled his eyes as soon as he could get away with it.
He continued his performance for the rest of the evening, nodding here and there making it seams as though he was paying attention. The lecture that night was on the meaning of respect. Thoughts rarely stayed where they were supposed to, and Marcus felt his mind wandering off again at the mention of anything school related.
I would respect them, if the weren’t all assholes. It’s not like I’m trying to get in trouble; they just don’t want to leave me alone when I tell them to. “Yes sir.” He was a master actor and his stepfather never knew the difference. “I understand,” he continued to mimic humility.
“They’ve given you a huge break and you just brush them aside,” his father kept his composure well. “What in the world made you want to take a chair to that kid’s head? What did he say or do or try to do? You know you can’t just hurt people for no reason.”
Marcus looked up; they were nearly finished. He could recognize the end of a lecture from miles away. If there were only one reason not to get into any trouble, it would be solely to avoid these little chats with his father. The bored the stuffing out of him. Finally, I can get to my room and take a nap. “I’ll do better next time,” he promised. I wish I didn’t have to put up with this every day though. I don’t think anybody really knows me except… well, no one.
He walked in slowly, still putting on the show that his mother was eager to see, and padded up to his bed. There he tore into bed and went to sleep. Sometimes, the world was could be too much even to someone like Marcus.
“Why, I didn’t do anything,” Alice called back to her mother. “The little brat’s lying!” Oh boy, she thought again. She knew the drill. She and her younger brother had been fighting again and their mother was now involved. Apparently, she had been accused of beating her brother to a pulp.
“Then how come he’s crying,” Alice’s mother’s shrill voice yelled back.
She had done nothing of the sort. Yeah, after invading her room and scattering its contents throughout the house, she was going to be angry. But Alice would never dream of beating her brother even in the most severe cases. She had only roughed him up a bit, gave him something to remember that he should not do this sort of thing again.
I hate this, the though resounded in her mind. I wish I could just leave and never come back! She only had two things she wanted to take with her if she ever got away: pen and paper, which she kept on her person at all times.
Her mother continued to scream at her and Alice let herself slump onto the bed and into a comfortable position. Her stormy eyes scanned the ceiling for any escape. Drawings littered the roof, mostly of fantasy creatures and otherworldly scenes. Absentmindedly she brushed away a lock of blond hair. For seventeen, she was exceptionally talented.
She would have to try to explain herself again to her mother. The woman was drunk half the time. Never could she just settle down and sober up, and possibly use the government’s money to supply food and clothing for her kids. That was why Alice never would beat her brother, because she had to take care of him.
At present, this was one of the few times that she thought her mother had not been drinking, when she yelled at Alice for something of this nature. “I’m coming mom!” She stormed off down the hall and found her brother huddling close to his teddy bear, not his mother. She’s drunk again How many times do we have to go through this? “What’s the problem mom?”
“Your brother—” there was a very noticeable slur in her pronunciation of “brother”—“just told me that you hit him again!” Alice could smell the alcohol and detested it.
“Bro, did you really tell her that?” The little boy shook his head violently, indicating to Alice that their mother was the perpetrator. “So it was mom again? That figures.” He knew the difference between getting hit and getting punished. A spanking was what Alice had given him for going through her things. A beating was what he had gotten from his mother after trying to give her some sign of affection.
“Come on, Brent. Let’s go get us some dinner, bro.” He followed Alice out to her car, the only means of escape either of them had. The door closed behind them, leaving a drunken fool behind cursing them. Brent was too young to have to deal with that sort of thing, Alice thought. “Hamburgers?” Brent nodded.
Michael Harris looked back. He was young, and unable to defend himself properly. “What do you want?” His knees trembled at what was to come. He knew what he wanted. It was the same nearly every day. Sometimes Michael’s torture would vary a bit, from punches to kicks to a black eye on good days. “Please leave me alone?”
“Nope, you dope.” The bully laughed at his own joke and Michael found himself despising the “bully” humor. “All I want is the usual,” the bigger one said. “Any change you have, and then if it satisfies me we’ll skip the beating.”
Michael emptied his pockets, desperately hoping for a few quarters to appease his tormenter. He found none and looked back at the other pleadingly. The bully sighed and shook his under developed head. “Sorry, Michael. You know the rules.” Five minutes later Michel was on the ground and trying fruitlessly to get up.
He lied there for a while, thinking. How he wished he could defend himself, or that Sammy Johnston would just disappear. Michael was only a child, but he knew well that what he had just gone through was not right. And why was he always the target? Sammy knew that Michael had nothing on a regular basis, and yet he chose him to beat up each day.
Michael pondered away, laying on the sidewalk and not really wanting to aggravate his wounds further. Tears sometimes spilled from his eyes in torrents, and then dropped back to a mere trickle. It was sometime later before his mother found him. “Mama,” the boy questioned. “Mama, it hurts.” He sniffled and started crying into his mother’s arms. She picked him up and carried him off.
“I’m here,” he said. Why he was there, he didn’t know. He had just been given a pink slip and sent off to the detention office. He leaned back in his chair. His brown eyes stared at the ceiling, waiting for the four o’ clock bell to ring. He wore a crap brown vest that had probably seen better days, and a dark T-shirt under that. I don’t understand, all I did was close out one of those damned pop-ups. The entire thing was nothing more than a misunderstanding that resulted in Jerry getting detention for a few days.
He returned the front two legs of his chair to the floor and began his homework. Generally, he was a good student. This was his first time in detention so he had to ask where the detention room was. That got him another day because of his “smart mouth.” He had rolled his eyes and repeated the question, which only served to further his detention going days.
Life, he assumed was an unfair business and he wanted no part in the reality he lived in. It was the kind of thing that sucked the marrow out of a man’s bones. Of course, he certainly had things to live for. His family was good, his home was nice, his life was in appreciable shape. His high school career had set him up properly for college and then he would be attending some ritzy university in the spring of the following year.
Afterwards, it would be back to work with his father, a lawyer. The family firm would be his soon, which bothered him not at all. His father had a very strict policy towards honesty in his firm: Just do it. Jerry did it as well. Young Cascade was one of the few decent firms left in the world.
He finished his homework in a matter of minutes, and spent the rest of his time staring at the floor, the ceiling, or any other place that might be of interest. Finally, the bell rang and released him from the prison known as detention. He promptly grabbed his pack and dashed out the door. By the time he was home, it was dark. He walked in and down the hall to his own room.
He moved the mouse around a bit, ending the monitor’s stand-by mode. Writing appeared on the screen, scrolling marquee style and in big, bold red letters against the black. “WE NEED YOUR HELP!” He didn’t care and tried to shut down the computer again, failing, and cursing a bit.
This must have been some sort of prank or virus. The one who did it was going to get a severe beating from Marcus later on. Only once did the thought that the message might have been real appeal in his mind. He dismissed it just as quickly as it had come with thoughts of why anyone would need or want Marcus’s help.
He was not the helping sort of guy. “Come on, you damn thing! Turn off!” He smacked the top of the computer with his fist and the screen flashed once, filling the room with a harsh white light. When it subsided, Marcus was nowhere to be found.
When Marcus found that he could see again, the room was dark, except a few strands of light from the moon. He sat up, having been in a laying position, and lifted a blanket. “This isn’t my room.” By now, his eyes were fully adjusted to the limited light. “So, where am I?” Suddenly, a light flashed on.
A door closed. “Well, that was fruitless.” A tall muscular creature walked in the room. For all intents and purposes, Marcus thought he was a dragon. Blue scales, a single blade-like horn protruding from his head, and a thick tail only added to the allusion. “I hate my job,” it mumbled in a disgruntled tone.
It turned its red eyes around to see Marcus sitting, wide-awake, wide-eyed, and equally disgruntled. So he’s awake? Probably hungry as hell too. Food. He stalked away, and returned a small while later with a tray of something. “I was hoping you’d be awake when I got back. What’s your name,” he asked irritably.
“Wha?” Marcus still did nothing. The creature talked, it walked it obviously lived in a rather nice apartment. He seemed almost human, except for the clear and all surpassing fact that it just was not. “Eh?” Someone was definitely going to get a good whipping when he found out who it was.
“I said, what is your name?” Did the human even speak English? “Name? N. A. M. E. Eeeeennnnglishhhh?” He enunciated the last word in a particularly annoying fashion to Marcus, who took only slight notice.
“What are you?”
“Finally,” it sat down next to Marcus. “I didn’t know if humans could talk or not.” Marcus backed away. “Don’t worry, you’re safe for now. I found you lying on the road a few kilometers outside the city gates.”
“Found me?” Marcus asked, his voice only now returning. “Where am I? And who brought me here?” The fire within him burned furiously now and he struggled to calm himself. He needed information right now more than he needed revenge.
“Welcome to District One of the Digital World. My name is Patrick.”
“Patrick?” Marcus took a piece of food from the tray. “Ok,” he sighed annoyed by the demeanor of this creature. “Where is the Digital World?” He inspected the food, and sniffed it. It smelt familiar, like dried meat. “And what are you.” He ate the dried piece of meat.
“Yes Patrick, but you can call me Pat.” Pat set the tray between them. “The Digital World is—somewhere. I don’t know. As for your last question, I am a digital monster or Digimon for short. Specifically an ExVeemon.”
“A Digimon,” Marcus whispered to himself. Of all the stupid things he had heard of, this took the cake and ate it too. He looked over the Digimon, and finding no zipper or seam, decided that whoever was playing this prank was worthy of some esteem. Having pulled off a few practical jokes himself, Marcus was especially impressed with this one. The guy would not get a beating, he decided. He played along. “Do you know what happened to me?”
“Not exactly,” he monster said. “I do know the legends though. You’ll probably want to hear about that.” Marcus nodded, smiling at how well rehearsed this was. “Well,” Pat stated, “to put it simply, you and a few other humans are going to free us. The long version is too long except to say that you’re under a death sentence if you’re caught by the government.”
“Government, eh? Keep going.”
“A hundred something years ago, the old reign was overthrown. He was good, but someone thought differently.” Pat settled himself, dropping his tail between his legs. “Before MasterWarGreymon (old guy) was executed, he sent off a message to your world. The new guy found out about it and put a price on the heads of any humans who we just happened to find.”
Marcus absorbed the information like a sponge. “So are you going to turn me in?” He nearly laughed at the whole thing. Such a lame plot to a joke! But it was executed so well, though. “You might as well! I’ve got nothing better to do!”
Did he think this was some sort of joke? Probably, he did and only thought he was playing along. “No, this is no joke. You could very well get yourself killed with that sort of attitude,” Pat said. “And the only reason I’m not dead is that I work for them.”
“What do you do?” He continued to lay back, relaxed and at ease. This was so cool to him! That someone went to all this work for something so pointless! He was inspired, almost to the point of versification.
“Absolutely nothing for the government,” Pat answered proudly. “I transfer funds from the government to the resistance, behind their backs.” The human still thought it was a joke? Pat was being completely serious, completely sober, had removed all trace of humor from his voice and this human still thought he was being played?
“But back to the legend. You are supposed become one with your partner.” This would sound strange, and maybe then the human would understand. The abrupt change on his face came as a welcome sign to Pat.
“Um, ok…” This was pushing it. With a gutter-oriented mind, Marcus was thinking something completely different from Pat. “That’s nasty, man. Whoever put you up to this has a twisted sense of humor.
“Put me up to it? You think I’m joking!” A nice, fist-shaped hole in the brick wall on the other side of the room appeared, following a quick movement from the monster’s arm. “This isn’t a practical joke. You’re here, and I’m your partner. This is something you have to get used to, and the one with me thing doesn’t exactly appeal to me either.” He could read it well on the human, that he was not going to do this willingly.
“Well, you don’t exactly exist in the Real World anymore, so you don’t have a choice.” Total sincerity in his voice, Marcus thought. This was no laughing matter any more.
“I don’t exist?”
Pat sighed. “You don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you?” Marcus shrugged. “You,” he pointed at Marcus, “me, partners. We become one. You don’t exist in the Real World.”
“Oh,” Marcus said dryly. “I get it now. You explained it so well. Try teaching for a living, buddy.” So he lost is identity in his own world? And this was what—the Digital World? Hence the computer message.
“You really don’t have much choice in the matter.”
“I guess I don’t.” Marcus took another piece of food. He sensed that this was going to be a long, long, long, LONG ordeal. No joke, not too much to worry. Yeah, he would miss some things at home, but he would deal with that later. All this stuff required some clarification before he would be fully awake to process the information. “So did that legend say how we become one? Or are you going to try and teach me that too?”
“No,” Pat shook his head. “Wish it did though—” and he wished that he had gotten someone less annoying as a partner. Why did the gods treat him this way? “Save a lot of trouble,” Pat said instead. He turned his attention back to a previous subject. “And besides, you’ve avoided my initial question for this entire conversation.” He gave the human a hard glare. “What,” he said sharply, “is your name?”
“Marcus,” the boy said. “Marcus Gray.”
“Grey,” Pat asked as he extended his three-fingered claw. “As in Greymon?”
“No,” Marcus denied the shake and rolled his eyes heavily. “Gray as in the color gray.” Idiot.
“Great.”
My thoughts exactly.
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