Najicablitz
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Digimon Ch 52
🕑 Added 2025-09-24 15:12:47 +0000 UTCI adjust the Digi-Link on my head, the cool metal settling against my skin. I received it from the Supply Boxes. The helmet hugs my head, feeling weirdly futuristic, despite its simplistic design. It looks like a virtual reality headset without the screen.
"Alright, Gatomon, can you hear me?" I ask.
"Loud and clear, Ethan," her voice echoes in my mind, a little tinny but unmistakable. "This sewer smells as bad as it looks. I'm guessing this is why you didn't volunteer."
"Hey, I offered!" I protest, "Besides, this is where the Digi-Link comes in handy. It allows you to talk to me, and I can see everything you see."
The Digi-Link is a game-changer, letting me get up close and personal with my partner's perspective without having to get down and dirty, literally. Think of it as a digital umbilical cord, connecting my mind to theirs. It can even sync with my Digi-Goggles, giving me a full VR experience.
Right now, Gatomon's sewer view is displayed in my Digi-Goggles, showing me every slimy pipe and scurrying rat. I fight the urge to gag. "Okay, Gatomon, head straight. I'm checking the map on the Digivice, and the signal's getting stronger to the north."
"Copy that," she replies, her voice unwavering despite the surroundings. I see her lithe form navigating the grimy tunnels, her movements graceful. She's a pro.
"Ugh, what is that smell?" I hear her mutter.
"Just ignore it," I say, "Focus on the mission. You're doing great."
"Easy for you to say," she retorts, "You're not the one wading through sludge."
I chuckle. "Just keep moving. I'll guide you. There should be a junction up ahead. Take the left tunnel. The signal is getting stronger."
The Digi-Link is stable, and I keep an eye on Gatomon's journey through the sewers. I see the tunnels twist and turn, the walls slick with grime. Every now and then, a rat scampers across her path, or a drip of questionable liquid plops down from above. She dodges them all with the reflexes of a seasoned warrior, and it is pretty impressive.
"Okay, Ethan," she says, "I'm at the junction. Taking the left turn."
"Good," I reply. "Keep your eyes peeled. We're getting close."
Suddenly, the tunnel opens into a wider cavern, the air thick with a strange, melodic hum. Gatomon stops dead in her tracks, her eyes wide.
"What is it?" I ask, a knot forming in my stomach.
Before her, a lanky, green frog-like Digimon stands knee-deep in a pool of murky water. Yellow webbing stretches between its toes. A spiral horn coils around its neck, and its tongue is long, with three trumpet-like holes. Its eyes are massive and vacant.
"That's…isn't that Gekomon?"
[Gekomon]
[Level: Champion]
[Type: Amphibian]
[Attribute: Virus]
[Special Move: Symphony Crusher]
[An Amphibian Digimon that mesmerizes those around it with a cry altogether too pleasant for its strange appearance. Gekomon jams chords with the three holes on its tongue and horn wrapped around its neck, which it uses to control its opponent’s feelings. Rumor has it that a Gekomon is born when a hit song is created in composition software, making it a kind of status symbol among musicians the world over. Its special move Symphony Crusher destroys the enemy’s insides with ultra-high frequency vibrations.]
Okay, a Champion. But if I remember correctly, Gekomon isn't really that tough. I mean, yeah, Champion sounds intimidating, but it's more like a title than a measure of pure strength. Even Agumon and Gabumon, back when they were rookies, could take one down with a bit of effort. Gatomon, being a Champion herself, should handle this no problem. In fact, this feels like a walk in the park. This should be easy.
"Alright, Gatomon," I say, "go get 'em!"
I can practically feel her rolling her eyes through the Digi-Link.
"Fine," she says with a sigh, "But if I get trench foot, I'm blaming you."
With a burst of speed, she leaps forward, claws extended.
"Hey!" Gekomon cries, startled by her attack.
I watch, helpless, as Gatomon sails through the air… and Gekomon ducks. She lands in the pool of sewage, sending a tidal of brown sludge skyward. It rains down on her, coating her pristine white fur.
"Ugh!" she spits, shaking her head in disgust.
I wince, feeling a pang of sympathy. "Sorry, Gatomon!"
Now, Gekomon is running away, deeper into the sewers.
"Oh, no, you don't!" I hear her growl, her voice dripping with fury.
"After him, Gatomon!" I urge, "Don't let him get away!"
She explodes forward, a white missile streaking through the tunnels, hot on the trail of the slimy amphibian.
"I'm gonna make that frog pay for this!" she vows.
And I don't doubt it for a second. The hunt is on, and Gatomon is definitely not in a playful mood. If Gekomon thinks he's getting away, he has another thing coming. Time to teach this frog a lesson he won't soon forget!
-Bruce Banner-
My lungs burn, each breath a ragged gasp. Ross's dogs are relentless, and now this? Three thugs, faces hard and hungry, breathing down my neck. I curse my luck. One wrong turn, one spilled drink, and now I'm running a gauntlet. I need to get somewhere safe, somewhere I can lock myself down and breathe.
The Pingo Doce factory. It's the only option. Familiarity can be a soothing balm, and it's full of places to hide.
The rusted metal door groans as I shove it open, slipping inside. The factory is quiet this late at night, only a few machines humming and the distant chatter of the night crew. I weave through stacks of crates, the acrid smell of soda syrup filling my nostrils. Each step is a gamble, a potential trigger.
My wrist throbs. The heart rate monitor flashes an angry red: 110. Too high. Way too high.
Breathe, Banner. Just breathe.
I duck behind a colossal bottling machine, its gears grinding with a rhythmic pulse. I close my eyes, focusing on the sound, trying to sync my heartbeat to its steady rhythm.
It's working, slowly. 105…100…95.
"Hey! You! Gringo!"
My eyes snap open. Three figures emerge from the shadows, their silhouettes menacing.
No. Not here. Not now.
They advance, their Portuguese rough and accusatory. I try to remember the phrasebook I bought weeks ago.
"Desculpe," I say, my voice trembling, "Eu não quero problemas." Sorry, I don't want trouble.
The words are clumsy, stilted, but I hope they understand. I try to project an image of harmlessness, of desperation. It doesn't work.
"Você derramou bebida no meu amigo!" the lead thug spits, gesturing to a stain on his companion's shirt. You spilled a drink on my friend!
A drink? This is about a spilled drink?
My heart rate spikes again. 120. I can feel the heat rising in my chest, the familiar tension building in my muscles.
"Foi um acidente," I plead, raising my hands in a gesture of surrender. It was an accident.
The lead thug sneers. "Acidente? Você vai pagar!" Accident? You will pay!
He lunges, his fist connecting with my jaw. Pain explodes behind my eyes, and I stumble back, hitting the cold metal of the machine.
"Por favor," I stammer, tasting blood, "Eu não tenho dinheiro." Please, I have no money.
Another blow, this time to the stomach. I double over, gasping for air. The other two join in, their fists and feet a blur of violence.
I try to shield my head, to curl into a fetal position, but it's no use. Each hit is a spark, igniting the inferno within.
"Pare!" I shout, my voice raw with desperation, "Por favor, parem!" Stop! Please stop!
They don't stop.
My vision blurs, the factory lights swirling above me. I can feel the rage building, a tidal that threatens to consume me. My bones ache, my muscles tense, my skin tingles.
The heart rate monitor screams: 180.
This is it. The point of no return. I've lost control.
"Eu não queria isso," I mutter, the words barely audible. I didn't want this.
A final kick to the ribs. Something snaps. And then…nothing.
The world shifts. Colors deepen, sounds amplify. My body is no longer mine, it is becoming something else.
My clothes strain, tearing at the seams. Bones crack and reshape themselves. Muscles swell, ripping through flesh.
The thugs stop their assault, their faces shifting from anger to confusion to pure terror.
They are no longer looking at Bruce Banner.
They are looking at the Hulk.
