The Wages of Fans is Fiction

By: Crazyeight

Disclaimer: I don't own Digimon. Period.

It wasn't supposed to be this way…

A sullen eyed boy looked at his computer screen, his eyes dry and red from staying up far too late, his mind swirling in confusion from having drank too many sugary liquids of the kind called soda. His room was covered wall to wall with pictures that he had drawn, various people and creatures, with one word dominating them all: Digimon.

Yes, he was a fan of Digimon. He loved it with a passion; the characters were so well written, perhaps more human than some people that he had known in his life, and his friends all shared this obsession. Not a day passed where they didn't talk about it at least once, and they discussed all the things that they had enjoyed about it, and all the things that they disliked about it. Sometimes those discussions could turn ugly. They all had their own personal preferences of course about how things should have gone when each season ended, but it never stopped them from being friends in the past.

Until now that is. A disagreement had gone just a little to far for him and he drew a line in the sand, and dared his friend to cross it.

She did.

He stared at his computer screen, his mind boiling with rage. He clicked on the Microsoft word program and activated it. Out of his friends, his peers, he was considered the most knowledgeable when it came to the details of the show. It didn't seem fair that one person's opinion should trump that, or that the reality that the show had already set in stone should matter. With each season's end he was disappointed anew, and he refused to give up what he held to be sacred. In his world, things were as he desired them to be. And he had plenty of evidence to prove it too! Why couldn't the creators see that? What was more, why couldn't his 'friend' see that?

"It's over," she had told him. "That's the way things are, just deal with it. You can't change what the episodes showed us."

It couldn't be. He wouldn't allow it. He'd find a way, by doing what he did best. By writing a story.

Yes. He'd show them. He'd show them all…

The boy set his fingers down on the keyboard and began typing.


At that very moment, in another world, a boy named Izzy looked out his window and saw dark clouds forming in the sky, swirling like angry tentacles, lightning sparking within their embrace.

This can't be good, he thought.