Pebbles Paint the Path

Midori: When She Turned
When She Turned Eleven

When Midori turned eleven, she learnt the true bittersweet nature of failure.

It was coming. It had been a long time coming, truthfully, but she still couldn't quite believe it when it came. She'd been marching into the training room with all the others (and all wasn't very many, these days) when a white-clad arm had blocked her way.

That was that, really. She stopped. Stared. The training room doors closed with a bang that screamed its finality. Then, finally, she moved.

The man came with her. Read out a quick statement: pure and practiced. She was to collect her things, be reassigned. But this wasn't the reassignment of success. He was too stone faced, for that. And Betamon wasn't here, for that.

She collected her things silently. There weren't many of them: her green sleep clothes and training tunics, her digivice, and her eleven green stones.

And then even they were lost: packed delicately into a box and replaced with grey.

Grey for failure, presumably. And, of course, no new digivice.

She followed the white man down halls she'd never been, halls she'd never known. Then, finally, there was a tiny little cell, cloaked in grey.

She stepped into the room. The man didn't follow; there was only her.

Only her, dressed in grey, in this grey room.

And she learnt the true meaning of loneliness, here where there was nothing else: no direction, no company, no hope.

This was where failed Midoris went, she thought.

And, after that, she didn't know.

Time passed. She didn't know how much time passed. She moved about restlessly but there was little point to it. She could barely move in the confined space, and lethargy was quick to settle. There were no meals here. No water. No restroom breaks. She wondered how long her bladder would hold. She wondered how long her stomach would hold. She wondered how long her throat would hold.

She wondered how long her sanity would hold.

And she slumped against a wall, half awake, half asleep as the despairing lethargy quickly took hold.

No-one talked about what happened to the failures. They'd thought it was because it was too terrifying to voice, but maybe, now, she thinks it's because no-one really knew. No-one lived to tell the tale.

This felt like a slow and painful way to die, dwelling on failure.

She closed her eyes.

Time silently slipped by.

Then, she was awoken by the sounds of banging, by the wall trembling against her. Disorientated, she blinked. But the walls were still grey. She was still in this little prison of failure.

Then the wall fell away. Light streamed in: painful, blinding light.

Then, arms around her. Burning warm arms around her, and a voice that sounded vaguely familiar but it had been too long without company and even longer too without that voice.

But she had pink eyes and hair and a Floramon clinging to one leg.

And, to her other leg, a very familiar Betamon.