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Sep 15, 2019 1:58 AM
Sergmon leaves the nest
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(Previously)

It's another bright day in Primary Village, and the babies have grown up a lot in the day since they hatched. Today is special: they're gonna get to meet some outside adults, and a few lucky babies might get adopted.

 

A line of giants stands outside the village, of varying sizes and appearances but none less than six feet tall. Facing them is a bipedal cat of perhaps four feet, punctuating her lecture with swipes of her gloves.

"You all know the rules, so I'm only repeating this once more: this place is protected by sacred truce, and your right to be here is conditional on your respect of that truce. If you start shit I will beat you up, and that will be the least of your problems. Are we clear?"

    "As yUKidARumON's bLOod," intones a white sheet ghost in a pointy witch hat.

"… Okay then," she says. "Be back here in three hours."

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"Look, look!," says Hotshot's fuzzy friend, bouncing against his leg to direct his attention. "They're BIG big."

And indeed they are: the half-dozen creatures now entering the meadow are bigger than any they've seen yet; the smallest is a big white egg with green legs poking out, half again as tall as Hotshot.

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"Big!!!" he agrees, staring in fascination.

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Besides the egg creature there's a shiny pink rabbit with long, sweeping ear blades; a white-sheet ghost in a pointy witch hat; an irregular mechanical biped with long, flexible arms held up off the ground; a winged angel draped in ribbons; and a yellow and black construction machine on treads. They spread out through the meadow, moving slowly and watching where they put their respective locomotion.

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Nyaromon sets off hopping toward the angel, one of the nearer giants.

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Of necessity Mochimon follows. Nyaromon's been getting faster.

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Hotshot follows too, keeping an eye on Mochimon. If one friend outpaces the other too badly, he may need to employ the SCOOP action.

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And so they arrive at the angel.

"Hail, junior warriors," it greets them.

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"What's a warrior?"

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"A warrior is one who trains to fight," he says, kneeling down onto one knee and folding his hands atop the other, head level with Hotshot's. "I have come here seeking warriors to train with me and my teammates."

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"Train for what?," asks Nyaromon.

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"The Nightmare Soldiers can show up anywhere, and their plots can be sneaky and dangerous. We must be ready for anything to counter whatever they do."

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"What do they do?"

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The angel pauses a moment to select an appropriate story.

"Sometimes they attack Digimon who are too weak to defend themselves, and we go defend the victims and chase off the attackers," he says. "Other times they have sneakier plots, like setting up a restaurant where the food is all fake and after you leave you're hungry again, and we have to come up with ways to find and stop them."

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Hotshot has SOME SORT OF AN EMOTION about that first example. He is not sure what it is, but he can definitely tell that he has one.

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"Fake food is bad. Food is very important," says Mochimon.

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"Yes. That's why our work is so important, to be ready to stop the Nightmare Soldiers when they do bad things like mess with food."

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Hmm. Hmmmmmmmm. Hmm.

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Nyaromon is still stuck on an earlier point. "How do you get to be ready for everything?"

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"We eat carefully selected food from all over the Digital World, we do carefully selected trainings to grow our bodies into perfected shapes, and we practice responding to simulated attacks. We also make sure to have jobs that can challenge ’mon of any level, so they can grow effectively without getting destroyed."

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Hotshot is THINKING.

He is THINKING DIFFICULT THOUGHTS.

Pidmon keeps saying things. Words are still very mysterious. They transmit information between Digimon, but how do they work? Can you say things you haven't thought, or only things you have? And what if you think things that aren't true, and tell them to someone, and then that person thinks them too? That seems dangerous.

He has only the barest beginnings of an inkling of a clue how he might communicate these important insights, but they do seem very important. So he looks at Pidmon, and summons up all the articulation at his disposal, and asks, "Are you wrong?"

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For a moment, Pidmon is speechless.

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"I pray that I understand Lord Seraphimon correctly, for he is never wrong."

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...

This is not at all a satisfying answer, but he can't figure out how to follow up effectively.

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While the friends are puzzling over how to respond to this, the mobile construction equipment rolls up on its treads, standing half again as tall as the angel's full height. 

"Featherhead, you old rascal! Are you filling these young impressionable minds with your wild tales of battle glories, when they could be learning to solve practical problems like 'how do we build housing for 100 new digi-babies' or 'who wants a forklift ride'?"

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"What's a forklift ride?" he asks, perking up intriguedly.

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