Digimon Fan Fiction ❯ The Mistakes We Make ❯ Epilogue IV - Heads or Tails? ( Chapter 12 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

EPILOGUE - PART IV

To say that Ken was in a bad mood would be like saying that the ocean was a bit damp, or that the bedrock beneath Tokyo was a tiny bit unstable. He couldn't remember ever being more furious, more willing to make someone pay for what they'd done to him. He'd nearly killed Wormmon, and had only let the Digimon limp away because he'd realized at the last second that a dead Wormmon would mean that he'd have to start cleaning his own room, seeing as how he didn't trust any ringed Digimon enough to give it access to his quarters. After that little spark of common sense hit him, he'd gone down to the dungeons and whipped a chained Gizamon until it deleted instead. Gizamon were rather common, after all, and not very good at most useful tasks.

With the violence of his rage expended, Ken had returned to the control room and thrown himself moodily into his chair to sulk. He tried to take his mind off things by taking a bit more territory, but the game of digital conquest felt tedious today. Usually, he could plunge into the strategy of it and lose himself for hours in ordering Digimon to move about and attack, form up and advance, and on occasion he would order them to battle each other just for kicks. The digital world was like a giant Go board, though ... a really, really giant one, and the sheer number of tiny little adjustments that he felt necessary to make to the deployment of his forces weren't interesting enough to take his mind off his fury.

Frowning, he eventually gave up and glared toward the open door to his bedroom, resting his chin on his fist. Normally, he would be able to see Daisuke kneeling in the doorway about half the time; the other half of the time, he would have to conjure up the beauty of his slave in his mind while the real thing napped or bathed or just lounged on the bed. Thinking about Daisuke a little bit was practically guaranteed to give him an erection, an occurrence that he usually didn't mind at all, since he could almost always stop working for an hour or so and play with his pretty captive.

Just the idea of Daisuke was intoxicating. He allowed Daisuke no hobbies or activities, depriving his slave of everything that might take his focus off his master; the only sort of distraction that he provided was the monitor screen that he had constructed against the bedroom wall. Sometimes he would display soothing little scenes on it, such as the digital wind blowing across a digital meadow, or patterns of clouds passing behind a range of blue mountains, or sometimes, because it amused him, gangs of ringed Digimon slaving under the whips to build spires and arenas and castles and whatever else Ken decided to make them construct. He made everything be just so, to ensure that his slave's mind never strayed far from where it ought to be.

Ken leaned back in his chair, pushing a foot against the console in front of him to keep himself reclining like that, and looked up into the darkness that shrouded the ceiling. It had been so pleasant to have Daisuke here. In spite of his propensity to call Daisuke "pet," he had never really thought of his slave as a pet. Pets were too much work, too demanding. They needed to be played with, whether the owner wanted to or not, fed and watered regularly, and cute, adorable puppies and kittens grew up into their far less-cute adult forms all too quickly. Daisuke was more like a doll, a human toy that was always there, ready to amuse his owner, yet could be discarded and neglected whenever Ken was bored with him. His original personality had been all but obliterated during the months that Ken had kept him, but that was okay with Ken. Animals usually had personalities; objects, even animate ones, didn't need them.

There had been a slight disappointment, however, in the realization that Daisuke could only be broken once. That first week of intensive training had been lovely, easily one of the best weeks of Ken's life. The act of slowly crushing the spirit of another human being, taking complete control of another person's life and turning him into something less than human - especially when that person was as beautiful as Daisuke - had been the most arousing experience that Ken could imagine. Not that the result was anything to sniff at; having a lovely, compliant sex slave caged in his bedroom, always ready for him no matter what he wished to do or when he wished to do it, was certainly a thing to be desired. Daisuke was the perfect little plaything in every respect, but nothing since had really compared with the sheer rush of power that had come from bending the boy to his will.

The digital world called to him from the monitors, demanding attention. Ignoring it, Ken retrieved his keyboard and flipped the main screen over to one of the archive records that he'd made two months earlier. That day, he'd been thinking of Daisuke as a doll quite a bit, and had laid him on the bed and started to pose him. Ken watched his recorded self arrange Daisuke's body into various positions for over fifteen minutes until he found one that he liked. He'd then told Daisuke to hold that pose, and Daisuke had, even when his master, overwhelmed by desire, had begun to kiss him and pet him, and had finally fucked him. Ken enjoyed watching tapes of himself screwing Daisuke, because he noticed so much in retrospect that he had been too caught up in the moment to see before. Daisuke's little sounds of pain or pleasure, the intense concentration that furrowed his brow and pursed his lips, the slight motions made by Daisuke's hips ... all things that Ken would never spot were it not for the recordings.

Ken wanted very much to be able to go into his bedroom right now and find a submissive little slave to play with. When he closed his eyes for a moment, he could almost feel the softness of Daisuke's skin, and he could almost hear his slave's voice begging desperately to be spared pain or to be gifted with pleasure. He wanted to be able to retreat into that gentle world where he could exercise absolute control over what his slave felt, thought, did, or said. Instead, as if of its own accord, his hand slid down his body to his groin and began to massage his erection through the fabric of his pants. It should be Daisuke doing that, and it just wasn't quite the same when he did it to himself, but thinking about his slave's hands and body was almost as good, and his back arched a bit out of the chair.

With his free hand, he switched tapes to one recorded only a few weeks ago. He'd bound his slave's wrists together behind his neck, tying them tightly to the back of his collar so that they were out of the way and Ken could have unobstructed access to the entirety of Daisuke's body. Seeing him like that, almost as if he had voluntarily raised his arms and was offering himself to his master, had been incredible, and Ken's first order of business had been to push him down onto the edge of the bed and violently fuck him. Watching himself thrust in and out of Daisuke while cruelly tormenting the boy's nipples with his fingernails made Ken's hand unzip the front of his pants a little and sneak inside. He bit his lip to stifle a moan as he gently squeezed his cock and rubbed it a bit.

Daisuke had never really lost his virgin tightness. Ken was always very careful about what he forced up his slave's ass, not wanting to stretch out the tissues too much, and he could always make Daisuke's muscles clamp down further with a measured application of physical pain. The interior of Daisuke's body was always so hot and so strong, but a bit of simultaneous torture could make the experience truly spiritual. Just knowing that his slave was suffering in order for him to obtain such pleasure was a kick that Ken could never possibly tire of having, and it improved the carnal sensations immeasurably. Watching the tape of Daisuke squirming helplessly on the bed, unable to escape the pinching and twisting of his nipples while his master fucked him, made Ken groan softly and speed up the caressing motions across his cock. He liked having his slave restrained so that he was completely vulnerable. He liked demonstrating that vulnerability to his slave in ways that couldn't possibly be ignored.

He knew that Daisuke liked it. He hadn't liked being Ken's slave at first, but Ken had taught him to enjoy it, and he'd acquired an agreeable habit of begging Ken to screw him. On occasion, he'd even been known to ask to be hurt, and Ken had occasionally wondered if he was spoiling his slave by indulging him in this. He couldn't help it, though; he liked hearing Daisuke beg so much that he was willing to encourage this behavior in whatever manner necessary. And Daisuke had been so easy to teach, so willing to learn whatever his master wished him to know. Ken knew that he'd judged Daisuke accurately, and that the boy had a natural tendency toward submission that required only a bit of encouragement to bring out.

A low moan escaped his lips as he closed his eyes, remembering how delightful it had been to train Daisuke, his hand stroking languidly now over his cock to drag out the orgasm. He wanted Daisuke back. He wanted to be able to retreat to his bedroom and see the mixed fear and anticipation in Daisuke's eyes, to see him almost fall over himself trying to please Ken in order to avoid as much torture as possible. He wanted to lay comfortably in bed for a few hours, doing nothing but amusing himself by playing with his defenseless slave's body and mind. Perhaps he could inject a few drops of snake venom beneath Daisuke's skin, so that he could make the other boy scream with barely a touch, and while causing his captive to experience mind-blowing pain, he could carefully instruct him about the nature of the world. Ken saw the truth in people, the dirty, unpleasant truth that civilization attempted to hide, and inserting his own observations into Daisuke's mind was easily as fulfilling as any sort of physical control. Forcing these droplets of truth to fix themselves in Daisuke's head usually required a bit of concurrent torture, else the slave tended to forget them.

It was well worth the effort, though.

Ken gasped, his back arching sensually, as he came. For a few timeless seconds as muscles spasmed and neurotransmitters flooded his brain, hatred disappeared, fury ebbed, his almost ever-present desire to hurt other living things vanished. Somewhere deep within himself, a little child still innocent of the horrors of life shrugged off the black-and-crimson skin crafted of terrible deeds and smiled into the sun.

Contrary to what others might believe, Ken was capable of becoming aware of how fucked up he was. Awareness only came in moments like this, however, which was unfortunate for everyone around him.

Relaxing back down into his chair, losing touch once with that feeling of peace and happiness, Ken once again wrapped himself in the solid, reassuring mantle of cruelty and animosity. Caring brought pain. Kindness invited nothing but exploitation. Love was permissible, but only love for things, not people.

Cooling stickiness coated Ken's fingers, and he scowled. Well, that was just great, he'd forgotten where he was and what he was doing, and he'd ejaculated across the front of his jumpsuit. He wiped his fingers off on his pants, tucked himself away, and got up.

"Master?" came a soft squeak from somewhere under the console. Ken glared in that general direction, although Wormmon was invisible in the shadows, and heard a terrified scrabbling. He wasn't in a mood to make conversation with useless Digimon, especially ones whose hands were full at the moment with healing injuries. Nothing more was immediately forthcoming from Wormmon.

Once in the bedroom, Ken took off his cloak and gloves and shoes, and then stripped out of his soiled jumpsuit. He left it laying on the floor in a pile while he searched through the drawers beneath the bed for a clean one, confident that Wormmon would be around eventually to pick it up and wash it. He found himself glancing around automatically for Daisuke, and frowned when he remembered that those damned Digidestined had stolen his slave. Pausing in his search and standing, nearly naked, by the side of the bed, Ken trembled for a few moments before slamming a fist into the wall behind the table. The wall was solid, cold, heavy steel, and it didn't give; the metacarpal bone behind his middle finger wasn't, and did.

Nauseating pain flared up through his hand and wrist and forearm in white-hot spikes, and Ken fell to his knees coughing. He panted in the cool, still air near the floor until his stomach settled a little, but when he attempted to clench his fist in renewing anger, the pain that lanced back up his arm was absolutely exquisite, and his stomach violently rejected his dinner.

"Master! Are you all right!?" Sharp, clicking taps echoed across the room as Wormmon hurried in; the taps and clicks were somewhat irregular, though, as Ken had taken one of the Digimon's legs almost completely off, and it hadn't completely healed yet. Wiping off his mouth onto the back of his uninjured hand, Ken glowered at the stupid creature until he shrank back into the doorway again. What an idiotic question, of course he wasn't all right. His slave was gone.

It required a good five minutes before Ken felt up to the task of going on with his life. The first order of business, of course, was a bath, since he'd masturbated all over himself and then gone and vomited. Next he would have to wrap up his hand ... damned inconvenient, that was going to be. Any programming would have to be put off indefinitely now, until he was able to type properly again - if he was ever able to type properly again. Then he'd have to get dressed ... well, hell with it, it was late enough, he might as well go straight to bed after he bathed. Straight to a lonely, cold bed, without a warm toy to snuggle and hold while he went to sleep.

Infuriated again, Ken stood up walked toward the bathroom, but paused in the doorway to fix Wormmon with a glare. He pointed with his uninjured hand toward the mess on the floor.

"Master?" whispered Wormmon, but Ken felt no need to dignify that with a response. He stalked into the bathroom, and hoped for Wormmon's sake that the bedroom was cleaned by the time he emerged.

As late winter dawn broke across Odaiba, the Motomiya parents were forced to make a decision. Actually, more to the point, it was Mr. Motomiya who had to make it, his wife being far too distraught to think clearly.

Just after midnight, Daisuke was sedated. The doctors hadn't wanted to do it, for reasons that were briefly explained to Mr. Motomiya but which he couldn't recall afterwards, but the unrelenting pain that he was in failed to respond in any noticeable way to the medications they had tried. Mrs. Motomiya had finally screamed at them to do something, and so they had, putting Daisuke under. He'd been quiet ever since, sleeping heavily under the influence of the drugs they'd given him, and the various tests that the doctors wanted to do had finally been started.

The Motomiyas waited patiently while the hospital staff worked, with Mrs. Motomiya flatly refusing to leave her son's side under any circumstances. This caused a slight problem when it came time to take X-rays, and introduced delays with starting the CT scan, as these things could not be done until she was persuaded to move behind the protective screens. Even prior to the X-ray issue, she protested it when Dr. Watanuki began to collect specimens as evidence, and when photographs were taken to catalogue Daisuke's injuries. She had failed to protect him from whoever had done this to him, and her attempts to protect him now were somewhat misplaced, and hindered things.

A radiologist was called immediately to read the X-rays and CT scan, as Daisuke couldn't be kept unconscious forever, and something had to be done for him. And so, as the sky brightened with the winter morning, clear and beautiful, Mr. Motomiya found himself seated next to his wife at the bedside of his sleeping son, with Dr. Watanuki and the radiologist, a Dr. Namerikawa, explaining what had been found thus far.

"My son has cancer?" asked Mr. Motomiya incredulously. Of all the things he'd expected to hear, this was near the bottom of the list. Under other circumstances, this gently-delivered diagnosis would have been devastating. However, considering the mounting evidence of the protracted rape and torture that had been inflicted on Daisuke, this was ... so ordinary!

Namerikawa sighed a little, looking sympathetic yet detached, in a way that only people who deal with personal tragedy every day of their lives can manage. "Possibly. I said possibly." He was a very small gentleman with sun lines at the corners of his bright, bird-like eyes.

"We're not a hundred percent sure," said Watanuki. "We'll do some more tests after the surgery to be positive, but ..." She glanced at Namerikawa and continued, "But we need to relieve the acute symptoms as quickly as possible."

"I didn't know you treated cancer like that," said Mr. Motomiya, still not wanting to believe this. "I thought you did, I don't know, drugs and radiation and things."

Watanuki nodded a little. "We'll probably have to do chemotherapy later also. The surgery is necessary because we can't leave him in pain like this for the length of time necessary to treat it conventionally."

"This lesion is pressing directly against his spinal column, among other things," said Namerikawa. "The amount of opiate that would have to be administered to control this level of pain would probably kill him."

"And we can't keep him sedated for months on end," added Watanuki.

Mr. Motomiya glanced at his wife and son. She was holding Daisuke's limp hand against her cheek and crying softly, and didn't appear to have heard any of what the doctors had been saying; small brownish-black marks under each of Daisuke's fingernails betrayed where something had been shoved under them at some point in the recent past. Dr. Watanuki had earlier said that all the indications were that Daisuke had been methodically and extensively tortured for the sexual gratification of whoever had kidnapped him. The police were presumably working on this, but Mr. Motomiya had heard nothing on whether or not they had any legitimate ideas yet.

He hoped they did. He was too anguished right now to be angry, and he had to be strong, if for no other reason than because his wife needed the support, but he knew that at a later date he would want retribution.

But ... cancer?

"So what do you want to do?" he said, sighing.

"There's a neurosurgeon named Chigasaki Natsuno who is qualified to perform a procedure of this nature," said Watanuki. "He says that as soon as you give the go-ahead, he can be ready to operate on Daisuke in under six hours. There's a slight, very small risk that Daisuke could die from the anesthesia, and I'll introduce you to the anesthesiologist later if you decide you want to go through with this. There's also a much more significant possibility that Daisuke could sustain permanent damage to his spinal cord."

"What does that mean?" Mr. Motomiya asked this simply because he knew that it was expected. He felt defeated. What else could he do but give the permission these doctors sought? Permission to cut into his little boy ... he glanced at Daisuke, whose eyes were closed. His son looked so peaceful, as if he were merely napping between adventures, instead of drugged to the gills and only freshly recovered from what must have been a horrifying experience.

"With any neurosurgery, there's always a possibility of permanent neurological damage. Daisuke could be paralyzed, possibly for the rest of his life, and there's always the risk of complications that could result in death. Dr. Chigasaki can go over the risks with you in greater detail before you sign the consent form."

Mr. Motomiya nodded wearily, and Watanuki and Namerikawa got up and left, presumably to hunt up this neurosurgeon who could spell out in mind-numbing detail all of the things that could go wrong. He supposed that this was necessary procedure on the part of the doctors, but Mr. Motomiya didn't really want to do it. He already knew there was no choice.

Scooting his chair over next to his wife's, he ran his hand through his son's spiky hair.

"He'll be all right, won't he?" his wife asked softly.

"Yes," he said. "He'll be fine."