Disclaimer: It brings me no pleasure to say that I do not own Digimon. I only own the universe in which this takes place. With that aside, review.

Digital War:

Campaign I

Everything was white… Don't ask me why, because I don't know. I didn't know where I was either for that matter. It was quiet, too. Too quiet to be natural. Certainly too quiet to be the Digital World.

I stood, alone in a desolate, white void. I pinched myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming.


It hurt. Maybe I dreamt that it hurt… I pinched myself again just to make sure that I was sure.

"You shouldn't pinch yourself like that." I turned around quickly, startled at the new voice. "It's bad for the nerves," he spoke. I stared. He looked like a Kotemon, somewhat. He had fencing armor, but no tail, no wooden sword and his eyes didn't glow. His mask completely covered his face so that nothing showed except a mat of brown hair poking out the back. One thing I could tell for sure was that he was young.

"Excuse me," I said. "Do you happen to know where I am? Something tells me that I should be doing something very important right now, but I can't figure out how to get out of here."

He laughed, and I assume he smiled as well. "You're in… Well, it's hard to describe without you knowing who I am."

"Who are you then," I asked.

Again, he let out a soft chuckle. "Some people call me God, others call me Lord, you've called me Creator on quite a few occasions." I didn't believe it. "Well, you should."

"Alright," I said, skeptically. "If you are the Creator, then how many fingers am I holding up?"

"What fingers? Last I checked, you had claws."

"Yeah, in my Rookie fo…" Without me knowing, He devolved me. I was an Agumon again, one with claws, not fingers. "Da…"

"Not here, please."


"So," He took a step toward me.

I took a step back. One thing was clear to me: If the Enemy could wipe out entire cities with just one attack, and the Creator was infinitely more powerful, I didn't want to get close. Of course, the one thing that didn't occur to me at that point was that the Creator was also (for lack of a better term) not evil.

"That's right, not evil. Devious, but not evil."

I still didn't want to get close, so I backed up even further.

"Don't worry," He said, sensing my thoughts and anxieties. "You didn't do anything wrong. Actually, I was thinking about a way to destroy the Enemy for good."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"Quiet a bit."


He sighed. I cringed, thinking He had gotten slightly annoyed. "Again, you did nothing wrong. Though you probably won't remember any of this, I'm going to tell you that you will be working in tangent with a partner."

What kind of partner? I thought.

"Just the kind you need. You won't even know he's your partner until you see him with your own eyes. Just remember, he's a hero to a lot of people." Drake? "Nope. Not him, though your on the right track." Pyromon! "Real close that time. Like I said, he'll be a hero to a lot of people, but an enemy to many more."

"Why so much mystery?"

"I'm God, I can be cryptic if I want. Anyway, that last bit counts out Pyromon. I do have plans for him though."

"So if it's not Pyromon or Drake, then who is it?"

"You'll know him when you see him." He stopped abruptly. "One other thing, before I send you back," he said slowly.

Now I did something wrong. "Yes, Sir."

"As you know, I don't condone suicide of any kind. Self or assisted. I want to hear, strait from you, why you did what you did."

The jig was up. He was speaking of Art and I knew it. He wouldn't kill me now, would he? He said He had plans for me. Shadow? Couldn't be. What am I going to say to this one?

"How about the truth," He suggested severely. "I want to know why you overdosed him."

"He was in pain, Sir." The Creator nodded. "I don't like seeing people in pain. That's why I went to the Med. Corps. There wasn't anything we could do for him." I was choking up, due to the painful memories. "I didn't want to do it. He deserved better then what he got. I thought maybe he could have better in the next life or as a Shadow."

The Creator walked over and embraced my smallish, yellow form. It startled me for a moment and before I knew it, I was shuddering, weeping and bawling out apologies. I went on for a while (I don't know how long exactly). When I was done, the Creator was on one knee, looking me square in the eye.

I found that a little unnerving. He said, "Next time, ask Me for some help." He embraced me again, tighter.

I woke up the next morning with a terrible headache. I figured it was either the stone soup or the atmospheric conditions in the domes —Maybe too much carbondioxide build up?

CO2 is notorious for killing off Digimon in a rather painful way. Since Digimon breath nitrogen, our physiology is somewhat altered. Most Digimon don't have any tolerance for even a measly half a percent. The normal atmosphere of the Digital World is about seventy percent nitrogen, twenty-nine percent oxygen, point ninety-nine percent other gasses, and only one one-hundredth of a percentage point is CO2. Still enough for plant life, but not enough to kill anyone.

Other than a terrible headache, the night had passed smoothly. Our blue, water-elemental hosts were very hospitable and friendly toward us. I was quite tempted to ask about their elemental status, and that morning I did exactly that.

"So," I said casually, "why water?"

The Greymon looked at me with a puzzled look, then smiled in understanding. "Natural evolution due to environment. Also 'splains why we're all blue." He took a piece of bread from the dinning table. "How 'bout you, earth elemental. Where you from?"

"Kishar," I said.

"Ouch. Heard 'at place got hit hard."

"Yep. I haven't heard from my FmU. since I left." I sat down, taking something for myself to eat. "What do you do around here?"

"You mean work? I fix things. Odd jobs, ya know. Just stuff to keep me busy. Everyone else does the hard stuff."

"What do you fix?"

"All sorts a stuff. Call me if 'eh need fixin' or plumbin' or electrical stuffs done." He grabbed another slice of bread and ate it. "All the war goin' on, I'm workin' all th' time."

Well, at least I wasn't the only one who was busy. The only problem I really had with these water-elementals is that they speak in broken English with a really deep accent. They're almost completely impossible to understand.

"Y'could say it 'stead of thinkin' it," he told me.

Damn Mind Users.

"Like doin' that t'people," he smirked.

"So did you always live here?"

"Ref'gee from Valhalla. Th' evolution makes sense. SnowAgumon as a Rookie. Came 'ere with our elder, but he's been killed in a raid."

"And you survived?"

"Wasn't 'ere." He stopped and studied me. I knew he was trying to find out what class I was, but I wouldn't have it.

Classes: There are four classes that a Digimon can choose from. I'll start with the most common of the four, Mind Users. About half the population of the Digital World is made up of Mind Users. They use mental "powers" (for lack of a better term) to read minds, communicate telepathically and project hallucinations. In other words, they can make you think something other than what is actually going on.

The most bizarre thing about Mind Users, however, is that they can change what their bodies look like (i.e. if one wants a third arm, they can change the data that makes up their body to give them a third arm).

The second most common are the Data Users. Data Users are the people who can manipulate elements. That is about all they do, but the possibilities are endless and that makes for incredible fighters. The myth of the Shadow Guardians says that they're all Data Users, using their abilities to combat natural disasters. (That's fiction, for the record).

My own class is the class of Digivolvers. We learn as many digivolutions as we possibly can and pick the one that best suits the situation. Power like a Greymon, speed like a Garurumon or defense like any humanoid form. Each has its advantages and Digivolvers decide which is best to use. The most alternate digivolutions that anyone has ever had was a hundred and fifty, set by DrakeAngemon before he died.

Attackers are the least common. They focus solely training their natural digivolutions. With an Attacker, you might see an Ultimate level with the strength of a Silver level Digimon, or possibly higher.

Anyway, I'm a Digivolver. I didn't want him to know, just so I could train for basic Mind Using as well. I figured it would be a good test for myself.

"You're failin'," he said minutes later. "Sorry."

"Either I'm really bad," I replied, exhaling loudly, "or you're really good."

My blue counterpart smirked. "Prob'ly the latter. I been doin' this f'r years. Use t' make a livin' as a undercover agent."

"You were probably very well trained then."

"'xactly. All I 'ad t' do was go in an' not be stupid. Then gettin' info was easy." He seemed proud of his accomplishments. And rightfully so. Not many people go in undercover and come back out again.

"Who trained you," I asked, giving in to curiosity. He was clearly delighted that I asked that question. "Was it the a Sovereign or one of the Ancients?"

"DrakeAngemon," he said, pleased at the look that had undoubtedly come across my face. "Served under 'is lead f'r thirty years." He had been trained by the most powerful Digimon to ever live. That's impressive.

"How did you manage to get that close to him?"

"Adm'rals aid." Second Lieutenant: a.k.a., clipboard cavalry. And yet he survives undercover operations. Definitely something odd going on. "Wouldn't b'lieve what goes on in Neflhiem durin' th'night ares."

"There's actually daylight there?"

"Maybe an hour 'r two at most."

Just an hour of daylight? I'm surprised that the place is even habitable. "How did you get into Neflhiem in the first place?


"Operations. That's right. How do you play the part of a mindless drone?"

"That's easy. Just don't talk and do what you're told."

"That seems easy enough."

He shook his head. "Not when y'see what'e does."

I'd already seen what the Enemy could do with my own two eyes. His attack on Kishar was the worst thing that could have happened to the Digital World. I was hiding in a basement, waiting for the raid to end.

"I already know what he can do." Kishar. "So," I said, abruptly changing the subject, "what else is there to do around here besides the Air Racing Tournament? Anything less dangerous?"

"Actually," he spoke, this time in English I could understand. "Enough 'bout my'ccent. Do ya'two have alternates?"

Alternates: Digivolutions aside from ones primaries. Usually Digivolvers like myself have them, but others can easily train for them. An Alternate can be any form of your choosing, provided you know the proper training procedures and have the time to train. Alternates are primarily used for practical purposes, like moving out of your normal environment.

"Water-breathers?" I sort of had an idea where this was going. "Why? What did you have in mind?"

"Casino in th'levy off th'north side. It's inside th'gates, but it'sfilled with water too." I nodded in slow understanding. "Give 'em a chance t'get 'nside th'gates, an' still breath water."

"I do," I replied. "But I'm not sure if Sam does or not. I think she's a Data User." If she was, we were going to have to find something else to do with our time. "Anything else?"


"No." I turned to see Sam smiling behind me. "He hasn't earned it yet," she said, putting her claw on my shoulder. "He's cute, but he hasn't earned it yet."

"Do you have any alternate digivolutions?"

"Nah." She sighed, smiling at the near empty basket of bread. "When does the tournament start, Grey?"

"The tickets say noon, but we'll want to get there early I suspect." Our comrade agreed heartily. He suggested we get there about three hours early, get something to eat and take it to our seats.

I thought that seemed like an extremely good idea. (Better to take a resident's advice instead of chancing it yourself). Me and Sam left shortly after that, not wanting to be late.

The blue Greymon, who still hadn't told us his name, escorted us to the main stadium where the race would begin. We tried to pay him, but he said he was on his way to a fixit job just a few blocks away. We at least got him to accept a hotdog on us.

Sam laughed, watching the Mind User fumble with the hotdog in his claws. I smiled, knowing he was just doing it for her amusement. He could just as easily changed from claws to hands and back again.

The venders were friendly to us, undoubtedly trying to attract our business. It struck me as a rather comforting thought to know that business was still booming, even during the war. Of course, we were the business and therefore the target of hundreds of booths and salesmen taking us for ignorant tourists.

All this took an hour and half. Then it was another hour to push through all the crowds and find our seats. Bart didn't cheat us in the least with them, however. They were well worth the money I spent: right up close to the monitor.

"Welcome!" The monitor lit up in a fantastic display of colors and lights. A rather gaudy looking water-elemental appeared on the screen, smiling the entire time. "Welcome," he was saying, "To the fifteenth annual Ean Air Racing Tournament! Today's race will cover five laps of ninety-five kilometer's apiece, circling the upper hemisphere of the main dome."

I looked over to Sam. "If my wings were bigger and I wasn't so clumsy, I would race."

"I could race if I wanted to," she replied, fully engaged in the pageantry going on below us. "If I'd known we were going to be here, I would have signed up." She hadn't even noticed the comment about my wings.

"You do know that these people can be killed by the slightest mistake," I said, not nearly enthralled as she. Sam, again, didn't bother with replying. She merely watched as the racers took their places. "I'll never know why the do this."

"You have to admit it is fun to watch."

I glanced down casually, noticing an orange Digimon down among the racers. "He seems confident," I commented. She agreed, catching sight of the character's outlandish costume. "That's fun to watch."

"Racers," the announcer bellowed, "to your marks!" The athletes submitted, crouching down for a running start. Again, the monitor went to life, beaming pictures and sounds of the competitors at the starting line. "Get ready! Set! Go!"

They ran for about a hundred yards, then leapt into the air and spread their wings. Pumping with all their might, they sped off, following the illuminated street lamps that marked the first lap. Within seconds, they were around the first bend and out of sight.

"And they're off!" I shouted. Sam hadn't heard. She had her eyes glued to the viewer, watching as Orange Guy pumped even harder to take the lead. "Do you think he'll win?"

She nodded obliviously.

Numbers started flashing at the bottom of the screen. I assumed that they were the speeds of the participants. Orange Guy was weaving in and out of traffic, moving ahead as nimbly as I'd ever seen anyone.

"Ladies and gentalmon." The commentator addressed the audience in a cheery tone. "There are three legs to each lap." The screen turned split-screen style, one half showing the racers and the other showed next leg. "At the start of each lap, the racers will have the chance to get going as fast as they possibly can (they'll lose speed in later areas)."

The second half of the viewer changed. It now showed a series of dips and dives, accented by large stone walls protruding from buildings and the street below. "The races will be entering the obstacle course next, the most dangerous part of each lap.

Scenes from past races illuminated the screen. Racers crashed and fell to the floor where medical workers waited for them. "Most of the athletes drop out here," the announcer laughed at his own pun. "They're easily treated however, and we've only had seven fatalities in the entire fifteen years we've held the tournament."

I knew that was only the official number (those who had died on the scene). The real numbers were almost certainly greater. Amateur racing tournaments saw fatalities at almost every race. It bothered me.

Sam, on the other hand, was cheering when one of the scenes showed an Airdramon diving too low and crashing into the pavement. "Why are you cheering for something like that," I shouted over the din.

She immediately pointed to the half showing the actual race. Orange guy was diving and avoiding each wall that he came across without loosing hardly any speed. The others were falling behind, almost to where the camera couldn't see them.

Somehow, he must have caught sight of the camera. Just as he passed in a blur of fiery reds, he winked. Sam gasped and held her breath. From the look in her eyes, I'd say she was praying that it had been meant for her.

I sighed as loud as I could. She still didn't hear me over the roaring crowd. It was worth a try, I decided. She'd already been too exposed to him for me to penetrate. I should've tried sooner.

An hour later they were starting the third lap, this time cutting through the heart of the upper dome's commercial district. Orange Guy had maintained his position the entire time, cutting off anyone who caught up and tried to pass. His average speed had exceeded 305 kilometers per hour. And an hour later, Sam was completely enamored with him. She was cheering wildly, shouting as he passed her by.

He passed by, this time showing off and leaving a stream of orange smoke behind him. I was about to protest, but was promptly quieted by the announcer saying that after the start of the third lap, everything but attacking and physical contact goes.

They were gone again an instant later, around a left turn with a speed of 340 hundred kilometers an hour. The spectators applauded even obnoxiously when the monitor lit up saying he set a speed record for Ea.

I watched Sam watch the monitor, dreaming of ways to get her of the Orange Guy. Nothing seemed plausible.

A/N: I think that that is a good place to put it down for the evening. My butt is starting to hurt and dinner is ready. Review, enjoy, and review some more.