MPC 92B (For Bits): The Work Might Never Be Done
Nov 7, 2021 4:34:42 GMT
Post by supesman on Nov 7, 2021 4:34:42 GMT
Zack looked up at that large glass tube that was inset to one side of the crackling fireplace. He reached up, running his fingers through his hair. It was always more like looking into the eyes of an old friend than it was looking into the visor that he had most often been staring out from behind. He looked into it, his reflection no longer fitting the shape of the heroic costume that had once been such a pride and joy for him.
He had gotten shorter, his shoulder more slumped and less solid. What might once have been a light, wheat blonde mane of locks was now mottled with grey, keen blue eyes had now faded behind tasteful spectacles. Hand that were once so solid and sure now shook ever so softly as he looked down to consider them. That uniform had been the fire of a younger man, a man who wanted to make a difference in both worlds because he couldn't imagine doing anything else. Life, as it so often did, found a way to turn what he thought were his plans upside down. The shelter had become bigger and bigger as he had grown older and more frail. Fights that he would have recovered from in an hour left him aching and cursing his creaking bones for days. The sun rose and set and he was always just a little bit older when he next saw it.
"That's why heroes are symbols, old man. So that they'll outlive you." he said, speaking to no one in particular as if he was speaking to his reflection in the polished glass or trying to soothe the restless soul of his heroic persona now put on display. He didn't regret any of it, far from it, the bookcase full of photographs and souvenirs made that more than clear but there was one word that was always on his mind now. Legacy.
This shelter was his legacy, he turned to look out at the lined tables of digimon and humans as they clinked glasses and silverware with each bite they took from breakfast. How many had passed through here with nowhere else in the world to go? A thousand? Maybe more? His mind wasn't as razor sharp and airtight as it once was and he had never been the sharpest tool in the shed to begin with. He knew what he needed to know every time he looked out on faces wearing smiles were uncertainty and fear had once planted their roots. The buzzing of wings toward the front door shook him out of his half nostalgic stupor and he stood up straight, walking toward the door as a towering figure pushed it open with her shoulder.
"Mmm, I smell pancakes!" Marigold said, walking in the door and pulling the custom insectoid helmet off of her head. It was a cauldron compared to human sized version he once wore but she tucked it under her arm with the same pride that he always had. A half a dozen other digimon streamed in past her, popping their own helmets free and moving in to mingle as the mess hall gained a new energy with the return of the champions. "Morning, dad." She said, wrapping him up in a hug.
"How did patrol go?" He said, looking up at her, the now famous symbol of three bees in flight painted onto her chest before she peeled it away and tossed the mark with her helmet into a cubby by the door. Another outgrowing of his legacy, some of the children he had taken in now stood where he could no longer stand, holding up his banner in his name. The Digi-Rider was no longer just one man committed to making a difference, it was five digimon and two humans who had taken his colors as their own. he turned and began to walk with her as they talked.
"Meh, really casual. Petunia and Sweetpea said that they ran into a BanchoLeomon causing some problems. Apparently he got dumped and wanted to make it everyone else's problem. Didn't take them long to shut his trap. Me, Violet and Rose just went to that village that was asking after us, turns out they just wanted some help making a library for the kids. Real puff piece, they handed out cookies and lemonade...one of the good days." She said, soothing his worry by using terms that he would know exactly what she meant. One of the days where there were no snap decisions, no thundering heart pounding in your ears as you made the one choice that would save a life or doom it. No impossible scenarios where there were fourteen people falling when you could only carry thirteen.
"That's good...that's...good..." He said, pausing for only a half step at a twinge in his hip. He silently let out a curse. If his lifetime of daredevil stunts had to catch up with him could father time at least do him the favor of letting him feel the aftershocks somewhere where his daughter wasn't standing RIGHT there to worry about him?
"Dad? Do you need to sit down?" She said, holding out her hand behind his back as if she was worried about him toppling over stone dead at any second. he held up a hand, straightening his back and pushing through the stitch of pain before he had time to actually think about it.
"I'm fine, Marigold. Your old man's not ready for a hole in the ground yet." He said, gallows humor to hide the very really and very human uncertainty that was creeping more and more into his mind. He almost started to dwell and stew on it before he looked up again. He took the scene in, digimon and people of all kinds who were able to catch their breath because of the choices he had made. Even some children of his own who took him as some kind of inspiration. There was that word again...
Legacy.
He had gotten shorter, his shoulder more slumped and less solid. What might once have been a light, wheat blonde mane of locks was now mottled with grey, keen blue eyes had now faded behind tasteful spectacles. Hand that were once so solid and sure now shook ever so softly as he looked down to consider them. That uniform had been the fire of a younger man, a man who wanted to make a difference in both worlds because he couldn't imagine doing anything else. Life, as it so often did, found a way to turn what he thought were his plans upside down. The shelter had become bigger and bigger as he had grown older and more frail. Fights that he would have recovered from in an hour left him aching and cursing his creaking bones for days. The sun rose and set and he was always just a little bit older when he next saw it.
"That's why heroes are symbols, old man. So that they'll outlive you." he said, speaking to no one in particular as if he was speaking to his reflection in the polished glass or trying to soothe the restless soul of his heroic persona now put on display. He didn't regret any of it, far from it, the bookcase full of photographs and souvenirs made that more than clear but there was one word that was always on his mind now. Legacy.
This shelter was his legacy, he turned to look out at the lined tables of digimon and humans as they clinked glasses and silverware with each bite they took from breakfast. How many had passed through here with nowhere else in the world to go? A thousand? Maybe more? His mind wasn't as razor sharp and airtight as it once was and he had never been the sharpest tool in the shed to begin with. He knew what he needed to know every time he looked out on faces wearing smiles were uncertainty and fear had once planted their roots. The buzzing of wings toward the front door shook him out of his half nostalgic stupor and he stood up straight, walking toward the door as a towering figure pushed it open with her shoulder.
"Mmm, I smell pancakes!" Marigold said, walking in the door and pulling the custom insectoid helmet off of her head. It was a cauldron compared to human sized version he once wore but she tucked it under her arm with the same pride that he always had. A half a dozen other digimon streamed in past her, popping their own helmets free and moving in to mingle as the mess hall gained a new energy with the return of the champions. "Morning, dad." She said, wrapping him up in a hug.
"How did patrol go?" He said, looking up at her, the now famous symbol of three bees in flight painted onto her chest before she peeled it away and tossed the mark with her helmet into a cubby by the door. Another outgrowing of his legacy, some of the children he had taken in now stood where he could no longer stand, holding up his banner in his name. The Digi-Rider was no longer just one man committed to making a difference, it was five digimon and two humans who had taken his colors as their own. he turned and began to walk with her as they talked.
"Meh, really casual. Petunia and Sweetpea said that they ran into a BanchoLeomon causing some problems. Apparently he got dumped and wanted to make it everyone else's problem. Didn't take them long to shut his trap. Me, Violet and Rose just went to that village that was asking after us, turns out they just wanted some help making a library for the kids. Real puff piece, they handed out cookies and lemonade...one of the good days." She said, soothing his worry by using terms that he would know exactly what she meant. One of the days where there were no snap decisions, no thundering heart pounding in your ears as you made the one choice that would save a life or doom it. No impossible scenarios where there were fourteen people falling when you could only carry thirteen.
"That's good...that's...good..." He said, pausing for only a half step at a twinge in his hip. He silently let out a curse. If his lifetime of daredevil stunts had to catch up with him could father time at least do him the favor of letting him feel the aftershocks somewhere where his daughter wasn't standing RIGHT there to worry about him?
"Dad? Do you need to sit down?" She said, holding out her hand behind his back as if she was worried about him toppling over stone dead at any second. he held up a hand, straightening his back and pushing through the stitch of pain before he had time to actually think about it.
"I'm fine, Marigold. Your old man's not ready for a hole in the ground yet." He said, gallows humor to hide the very really and very human uncertainty that was creeping more and more into his mind. He almost started to dwell and stew on it before he looked up again. He took the scene in, digimon and people of all kinds who were able to catch their breath because of the choices he had made. Even some children of his own who took him as some kind of inspiration. There was that word again...
Legacy.
