Erm, Okay most of this takes place nine years after the end of the second season. I'm ignoring most of
episode 50 except the bits I like. This places their ages at:

Iori: Eighteen
Takeru, Hikari, and Daisuke: Twenty
Miyako and Ken: Twenty-one
Taichi, Yamato, and Sora: Twenty-three
Jyou: Twenty-four

I have no plans to use Mimi at the moment, but if I do, she's twenty-two.

Chapter Warnings: None...unless the thought of Koushiro in his undies bothers you
The Ghost..Chapter 3

Yamato set his guitar in its stand and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. After a moment he signaled to his band to stop rehearsing...he was tired and his throat was beginning to bother him.

In a relatively short amount of time instruments were put away, sound equipment was shut off, and high fives were exchanged as the band members filed out.

It had been a good rehearsal. Yamato rubbed the back of his neck and slumped into one of the chairs against the far wall. Twenty-three and already he was feeling too old for a rock star's life....maybe it was just this headache.

//Or maybe// he thought, more accurately //it's just this new song//

Whatever the case, his headache wasn't improved any by the ringing phone.


"Whoa...Takeru, slow down...why is Hikari upset?"



Soccer is a more demanding life than most people give it credit for being.

Yagami Taichi could have told you that, he'd taken his team all the way to Australia for the championship and brought home the trophy.

It had taken leadership, skill, and determination, and Taichi had all three traits in spades.

But, whatever else it may be, soccer is a *rewarding* life. Athletic shoe adds...commercials for sports drinks...guest appearances at all kinds of places....autographs...Taichi was busy all the time, but he loved it.

And he wouldn't have traded it for *anything*.

Smiling and waving to the camera, he jogged into the locker room and reached for a towel.

His locker started ringing just as he sat down to untie his shoes. Tired, he wondered, for a brief confused moment, why his locker would make that sort of noise...

Then he remembered that his new cell phone was in it.

he swore under his breath as he grabbed at the lock and spun the dial for his combination.

"Hold on, hold on, I'm coming..."

He grappled with the phone, forgetting for a second which button to push to answer it.


"Takeru?...What's wrong? Is Hikari all right?!"


"......You're kidding, right?"
The digidestined, as a whole, had been surprised when Sora entered medical school.

They'd always known that one of their number would be a doctor someday, but they'd taken it for granted that it would be Jyou.

In the end they'd realized that they shouldn't have even blinked at the news.

Sora was gifted with a sense of dedication and a no-nonsense approach to life that would have served her well in any career.

But in the demanding field of medicine she'd simply bloomed.

The girl thrived in a crisis. She was the calm center of any storm. And, though she was only an intern now, patients were already asking for her by name. She had a way of looking them in the eye that made them want to trust her, and she always told them the truth. If it was a hard truth, she made it easier just by being there-an anchor when they needed one.

Today was a pretty routine day, and Sora was in the middle of her rounds-taking extra notice of the man in ICU who'd been refusing his pills, and the American tourist with food poisoning in 36C who didn't speak a word of Japanese and was, therefore, terrified out of her mind.

The call to the front desk for a phone call was an inconvenience, but a minor one. Sora picked up her pace-the quicker she found out what this was about the quicker she could get back to her patients.

Pausing in the doorway, she took note of the fact that Mariko had desk duty today...the girl wore far too much make-up, and Sora-who never wore any-was always taken aback by her garish red lips.
Nodding to Mariko and smiling slightly to let her know it was nothing important, Sora answered the phone in her usual way.

"Dr. Takenouchi here."

A few minutes later Mariko was startled by the sharp clatter of Sora's clipboard hitting the floor.
But, when she looked up from her crosswords her questions died, unspoken, on her lips.

Mariko had never seen Dr. Takenouchi turn as white as her coat before.


A stranger, looking at Izumi Koushiro at the moment, might have thought him catatonic.

They wouldn't have been far from the truth. Bent over his keyboard, the only things moving were his eyes and his fingers on the keys.
The last week had been difficult for Koushiro...Faced with two unpleasant, that he might actually have been hacked, and the other, that one of the people he considered his closest friends had been using one of his systems to fence stolen goods...he'd been driving himself up the walls trying to solve the matter.

Finally, in a bout of frustrated inactivity, he'd turned to one of his oldest vices for comfort.

Koushiro knew the internet like the inside of his eyelids...hypertext, javascript, graphic was all second nature to him...he could hack anything you asked him to, and it wasn't boasting to admit it.

But, deep down, Koushiro was a programmer at heart. Computers spoke a language he understood better than his own native tongue...and there was something soothing in the way two bits of code fit together just so.
There was something even more soothing in writing those codes while ensconced in his own home, wearing his own oversized blue T-shirt and his favorite boxer shorts-which were a vivid, eye-searing orange.

Koushiro liked orange.

Over the years, many people had tried to tell him that, as a redhead, he really shouldn't wear orange. They had all been met with the faintly baffled gaze of someone to whom you are speaking a foreign language, and could you maybe, please, try to be more coherent? Just a little?

They had all, eventually, given up. Orange was Koushiro's favorite color, and ,darnit, he was going to wear it!

Koushiro was so deeply involved in the complicated avenues of his newest program that he didn't hear the phone the first time it rang...or the the time he finally *did* hear it, the person on the other end must have been getting rather irritated. Someone less grounded in a reality of solid facts and immobile numbers than Koushiro might have commented that the phone itself was starting to sound impatient.

Not moving his eyes from the screen, the former bearer of the crest of knowledge hooked the phone with two fingers and wedged it between his shoulder and his ear, fingers returning to the keys.


After a moment the clicking of the keys slowed, then stopped altogether. In the reflection on the screen Koushiro's eyes widened.

A moment after that the phone was on the floor and Koushiro was out the door, program temporarily forgotten.

A little bit later he was back...but that was only because he'd forgotten to put on pants.



Green maybe?

Blue, or red, or pink?

Miyako was in love with bright colors, in love with love, in love with all the opportunities that life had to offer....and, as her string of lovers-and bosses-could attest to, she could never settle for just one.

Flamboyance was a way of life, and she was making it *work*.

At the moment, Miyako--waitress/stylist/flower arranger/salesgirl/secretary/actress/currently between jobs but don't worry I'm fine--needed an outfit to catch a new beau in.

She finally settled on a deep purple dress that swirled and flared when she walked, adding accents of rich blues and vibrant reds. Her lavender hair flowing loose, Miyako looked like a jewel toned gypsy.

She swirled in front of her floor length mirror, satisfied that this would do it.

Miyako desperately needed a new man in her life, the last one had broken things off a few days ago.

The phone interrupted her search for the perfect earrings, and Miyako-ever the optimist-lunged for it with a delighted shriek.

Miyako *loved* phone calls.

"Hi! Who is it, and what's up?"

"Oh! Hi Dai!"



Ken shifted uncomfortably and fretted. Takeru was blaming *him* for Hikari's distress, he just *knew* it.

Takeru had dropped everything to rush to his fiancé's side as soon as they'd called...Not that--as a journalist--he'd had anything to drop. Well...Ken didn't *think* he'd had anything to drop...but then, Ken was never entirely certain what journalists *did* most of the time anyway.

Currently, this particular journalist was sitting on Ken's couch, with one arm wrapped around his fiancé, casting the occasional meaningful glare in Ken's direction.

If Ken had been less wrapped up in guilt and self-recrimination he might have noticed that the glares were also directed at Daisuke (who didn't really care) but it probably wouldn't have made any difference.

After Hikari had made her rather startling declaration, Ken had attempted to question her about her had only made matters worse. She'd broken down in tears, and wouldn't be comforted.

It had been slightly irritating to him that Daisuke accepted Hikari's announcement as gospel truth immediately. Neither Daisuke nor Ken had known Jyou all that well, or that long...but still, Jyou? The ghost?

Hikari, having known Jyou much longer and much better than they, was taking this hard. She had been so little her first time in the digital world, and at times Jyou had seemed like an extra big brother--to both her and Takeru--while they were there.
And afterwards...she couldn't even remember how many times she'd called him for help on a school related question. Jyou was bound to know strange tidbits like the capital of Uruguay or the scientific name for beetles that, while utterly useless most of the time, could be absolutely crucial when faced with a test you'd forgotten you were going to have.

Hikari was certain of the truth of her conclusion, and it was painful.

Daisuke and Takeru had taken it upon themselves to call the others and appraise them of the situation.

So when, shortly after the last call was made, Koushiro arrived--wild eyed and inconsolable, Ken knew the others would be there soon.

Rubbing his temples, he slumped into his chair....what was he going to tell everyone?