Disclaimer: I own none of the cannon DBZ characters, although I do lay
claim to the personalities of my originals. I am using the DBZ cast without
permission from their original creator for nonprofit purposes. (Wow, an
actual disclaimer…I'm proud of myself ^^)
Author's Notes
Yeah, I know, most of you will see this section, cringe, and hit the back button – but I promise that the rest of the chapter is actual story, and these notes aren't very long. If you hate author's notes, then you can simply scroll down, and I won't think any less of you for it. However, some might like a bit of background info on this story before they dive into it, so…here goes.
Dark Star has been my pet project for the past four years. In this story, I explore a question: what if Piccolo's brothers from the original Dragonball had been true Namekseijinn instead of the twisted creatures which they actually were? Naturally, there are many different ways that such a story could go – and not everyone might agree with the outcome that I chose. That's all right with me; no, really, it is. I don't mind a little dissention – I'd even say that you could burn me in effigy if you knew what I looked like. All that I really ask is for you to be civil. Also, if you have any questions (or if you just want to talk) feel free to email me.
Last but not least, I'd like to thank each and every person who encouraged me to write this story. You know who you are, and you deserve a great deal of credit…I'm afraid to list you, because I might forget someone, but thank you all just the same. But I do need to give especial thanks to Bucky, J^2, Juunigou, and Velasa for helping me with the proofing.
And now, with no further ado, the fic.
* * *
It was over. All of it – two years of fighting, three years of training, and the single most taxing battle of his life. Over. Finally.
Goku stood shakily, his tail stretching awkwardly behind him for balance. His nose crinkled in a small grimace – he could still taste the senzou that he had just eaten. Much as he'd needed it, the bean had tasted like something Bulma might have cooked.
The warrior ran a hand absently through his dust-coated raven hair, shaking some of the dirt out of it. Only then did he take stock of his surroundings with wide, surprised eyes. Wow. We sure made a mess. Broken tiles lay scattered about him like the petals of a dying rose, near-empty bleachers enfolded his field of view, interrupted by the occasional hole. The place reminded him of Swiss cheese, but burnt. Goku took a deep breath. The scent of half a dozen different things, all of them scorched, led him to resolve not to breathe in through his nose anymore.
Someone was calling his name. He couldn't tell right away where the sound was coming from since the pitifully empty arena was bouncing the voice around with all the gusto of a top-ranked volleyball team. With some effort, he found the source of the calls. Chichi was leaning over the railing and waving at him as if from the bow of a departing ship. Her sidelocks completed the image, dancing about her face like an ebony breeze. Any other man probably would have gone tearing across the arena to embrace his newly discovered fiancé, but Son was not any other man. He simply grinned and waved back.
He was still waving, in fact, when he saw the trench. This trench was little more than a tear in the marble floor, a superficial ditch that extended into the dirt encircling the fighting arena. It was not very deep, nor was it impressive in any other way…unless one considered the fact that someone had plowed such a gash in the earth with his shoulder. The only other reason that the gouge in the pearl-white tile of the Budokai floor stood apart from the rest of the destruction was because the center of it was highlighted by a streak of true indigo, and the end was marked by a crumpled heap of swirled green and purple. Son wondered if it was still alive – he hoped not. He didn't want to have to kill it.
No, he thought sternly. Don't cheat. There's no thing in that crater – it's not an it, it's a he.
"Goku, he isn't dead." The voice came from directly beside him. Goku went vertical. He landed, panting as if he had just run wind sprints, and rounded on Kami-sama with good-natured indignation sparkling in his eyes.
"Geesh, Kami, are you trying to give me a heart attack?" he asked, putting one hand behind his head and the other over his heart for emphasis.
Earth's ancient protector smiled indulgently, but Goku could tell that the expression was forced by the way Kami's fists were clenched at his sides. "No, I'm trying to get you to tie up your loose ends."
The man could feel his natural cheerfulness slipping away as he realized what Kami was speaking of. "Won't you die if I kill him?" he asked, his mannerism more that of a forlorn little boy than the savior of a planet.
Kami lowered his eyes briefly. "Yes, but right now Piccolo is a greater danger to this world than I am of use to it," he stated calmly. "You've nothing to worry about, Son Goku – the Kamis' Heaven is said to be a rather nice place this time of year."
Goku closed his eyes for a moment – an obvious indication that he was in deep thought. I don't know about this…but he is my teacher…he must know what he's talking about… Finally, he sighed and nodded once. Straightening, squaring his shoulders, he started toward his enemy, pointedly ignoring the sick feeling in his stomach. He hadn't been thinking the first time that he had killed one of these demons; he had been so different then, so angry. This time, the blindfold of his anger wouldn't descend to help him.
He had never killed in cold blood before. To be honest, he wasn't so sure that he could.
* * *
Miles above the arena, a lone figure floated effortlessly, not at all disturbed by the buffeting wind which tore at the lose folds of his clothing like a nagging child. His arms were crossed loosely across his broad chest, and his eyes were half lidded in apparent unconcern. He, the oldest of Daimao's five sons, watched the scene with untempered scorn. The extraordinary eyesight common to his family allowed him to see the extent of his brother's injuries, and he knew that Piccolo wouldn't be getting up anytime soon.
He also knew that, if Kami had his way, Piccolo wouldn't be getting up at all.
Cymbal wiped a trickle of blood from the high, sharp cheekbone of a face that was startlingly like the one of his late sire, unconsciously wrinkling his nose a bit in disgust – not at bleeding, but at losing. Losing to a human, no less. He had always loathed humans. Especially Son Goku.
His appearance was an exercise in extremities – anyone who could have seen him would not have doubted his identity unless they mistook him for his parent. He was a lighter green than his fallen sibling, and he wore the red sash that had been a trademark of his father with the air of one who had every right to such a distinction. His gi was an imitation of the one that his father had worn, being closer to maroon than midnight. No crest or symbol adorned his uniform; he had no need of one. Yes, Piccolo had been the one to inherit Daimao's memories, but the mark of his features rested most clearly on his firstborn.
At another time, Cymbal might have made use of his enemy's distraction with a surprise attack, but he knew better than that. His battle with the triclops Tenshinhan had weakened him far too much to fight a recently healed Son Goku. Cymbal made a mental note to kill the idiotic old man with the senzou – Roshi, he thought - very slowly when the opportunity came. Very slowly indeed. On the bright side, that three-eyed human freak had been paid in full for his interference. Cymbal smiled thinly, but his mind was on other things.
"If I'd brought the other three…perhaps we could have finished this today. Tambourine was right about that after all. I hope for his sake that he doesn't gloat too much." The demon spoke aloud as he tended to do when he was pondering. His voice was deep, but it didn't resonate. There was shallowness to it, like the sound of a cello on a recording.
Hawklike, Cymbal's glaring red eyes narrowed as he watched his lifelong enemy advance toward his youngest brother. By then, he could actually see the purple spreading out from around Piccolo: it looked as if his brother was lying on a rumpled cloth. He hadn't seen his younger counterpart so badly hurt for some months – not since he had finished his last growth spurt. He viewed the scene with a growing sense of unreality. It was very strange, the way that Piccolo looked so different from the way he had that he was almost unrecognizable. Yet, there was sameness present in the events that made the demon decidedly uncomfortable.
And not much of anything made Cymbal uncomfortable. Not the sight of blood, certainly not killing or watching others kill.
Yet he felt a twinge of…something. It felt like doubt, or perhaps indecision. He wavered a moment, his eyes slitting further. Did he doubt that he could kill Goku without Piccolo, or was he undecided as to whether his brother was less trouble dead than alive? It can hardly be that, he thought irritably. Nothing could possibly be more difficult for me than Piccolo. Besides, I've never particularly cared for him…
The demon raised a hand to his cheek to trace the fine bone, a twinge of remembered pain tingling beneath his fingertips. A humorless smile painted itself across his face. His decision was made. "So, little brother, you've failed. I shouldn't be surprised, you know, but it's still hard to believe that a monkey could prove too much for the likes of us. Ah well, at least I'm finally rid of you." Cymbal banked, turned, and flew off, calling a casual "Ja ne," over one shoulder as he went. Best decision I ever made, he thought fiercely. And he knew that the strange feeling blooming in his gut would wilt and die if he ignored it long enough. They always did.
* * *
Piccolo could not hear his brother's words - those were lost to the currents of the wind - but knew that he could expect no help. Not that he cared; he wouldn't have accepted Cymbal's aide if it had been offered. Besides, he had a more pressing concern – his imminent demise.
Or, more specifically, his inability to do anything about it.
He realized dimly that he was clenching his fist so hard that he had left a trail of bloody half-crescents across his palm. The blood felt strangely cool against his flesh – he must still be flushed from the battle. He didn't mind the pain; it helped to anchor his thoughts. It was strange that in the presence of so much agony, a small, nagging irritation could be so noticeable.
He lay on his back, staring into the endless blue of the sky. He didn't know if he could move, could barely breathe. His shattered ribs shifted painfully each time he forced his tortured lungs to expand; he could feel the ends grating together. The sound of Son Goku's footsteps reached his ears, and he knew that he wouldn't have to worry about breathing much longer...or ever again.
He didn't feel fear or anger, as he should have at such a realization. It was as if a hole had opened inside him, and all of those emotions had drained away. A bitter taste started in the back of his throat, but he wasn't certain if it was from his injuries or his frustration.
He couldn't attribute his apathy to shock. He had seen death many times before. It was something that he had learned to accept as a certainty in his uncertain life – sooner or later, everyone had to die. What was life, anyway? All lives essentially had the same destination: a hole in the ground. If only I could have taken him with me… the demon thought, at last feeling a fluttering of emotion deep in his chest. He turned his face – quite an accomplishment, given his condition – and locked eyes with his approaching enemy.
* * *
Goku paused for a moment before walking toward the crater. Again, a surge of reluctance rose within him – and with it, the freezing-cold feeling that he was stepping into something that would haunt him for the rest of his life. There are no senzous left…otherwise I could offer him one. As it is now, he's in a lot of pain. I know he wouldn't want me to help him, so maybe it's better this way. Son's steps almost faltered. Almost. Then again, no one's asked him…
Goku kept walking.
There had been times when he had killed, though he had never been comfortable with it. This, he thought, felt more like murder. "Murder" was a word that you used for killing a person. Was a demon – was Piccolo – really a person at all? He has to be, doesn't he? He thinks, that's for sure; otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to fight like he just did. Does he feel anything, though? If he really is Daimao's reincarnation, he doesn't feel much, at least nothing good. That's what makes someone a person, isn't it? Goku wanted very badly to rub his temples, sit down, do anything to relieve this incoming headache.
Well, there was one way to find out. He could look at his eyes. If they were anything like Daimao's, anything at all, then he would know.
He could still hear Daimao laughing. Only his bloodlust had allowed Goku to defeat him; that, a lot of luck, and a little divine intervention. The moment of Daimao's death would remain with him forever, especially his eyes. Anger. Hatred. A madness that burned anyone who could see it, even when the demon was relaxed. Or as relaxed as he got, anyway. It had seemed to Goku that Daimao had never been completely at ease. His eyes were always moving, or fixed on something (usually someone) with an intensity that seemed to corrode with burning fingers through the shell of flesh to tug at the soul inside. Goku had never really been able to decide whether the pull exerted by Daimao's drawing gaze had been more like an attempt to seize the soul it latched onto, or more like a man drowning in the sea of his anguish and latching onto anything he could reach, only to find that he was pulling it in with him.
Whatever the pull was, Son fully expected to find it in the eyes of a man who, he had been told, was Daimao all over again. He reached the lip of the crater and, like an explorer about to plunge into unknown waters, he paused for the barest trace of a moment to gather his breath and his thoughts.
For the first time in his life, Goku froze. The obsidian orbs that glared up at him from Piccolo's shattered body were not Daimao's. There was no fear floating across them to cause them to widen or dilate; there was only resignation written clearly in the half-lowered lids. Defiance stood in place of disbelief and, was he imagining it, or was a faint hint of sadness touching the uncompromising planes of the demon's face? Also, oddly, the insanity that had constantly confronted Goku in the eyes of a being made up of nothing but evil was completely absent from his offspring. Piccolo's glare was calm, unwavering, and perfectly sane. They held, but did not devour.
* * *
Piccolo waited with growing impatience for the final blow to fall. Seconds stretched into minutes. Then, to his astonishment, Goku's brows knit in confusion. The hand that should have snuffed out the candle flame of his existence wavered. Dropped. Relaxed at the man's side.
Ironically, it was Kami who gave voice to the question that was threatening to overpower Piccolo's mind. "Son Goku," the deity snapped, his voice a clap of thunder, "what are you doing?"
The cheering and celebrating in the stands ground to a halt like a train that had inexplicably run out of fuel. Piccolo could well imagine the baffled expressions that the humans must have been sporting. In fact, the only one who didn't look completely lost was Son Goku himself. "I don't know," he stated. Then – maddeningly - he flashed his usual, face-splitting grin. "Oi, I'm glad I didn't go through with it, though. I think I would have felt really bad later."
Kami's face had undergone a change, from surprised to comprehending to resolute. "Goku, I know where you stand on this…issue, but it's in this planet's best interest that you…" He trailed off. His onetime student's expression was changing, taking on its stubborn set. It was time to try a different angle. "Haven't your experiences with these demons been enough to convince you that they're a danger to everyone around them?"
"He hasn't hurt anyone yet," Goku countered, gesturing toward the hole. "Well, I mean, besides me. And Krillen, but he's okay now, too."
"And it would have been a large portion of the audience, had they not panicked and evacuated the area," Kami persisted, his brow clouding like the sky before a storm.
"But they did leave!" the human blurted, his eyes widening a bit in innocent consternation. "The important thing is that none of them got hurt, isn't it?"
Kami rolled his eyes. "No, Son Goku, that is not the point. The point is that he could, would, and will do harm to humankind as often as he can. He hates your people with a passion, he always has. Remember, he…" here, the guardian of earth closed his eyes, "…was a part of me. I know Daimao."
"But this isn't Daimao," the human stated confidently..
Kami snorted. "Perhaps he is, perhaps he isn't – he's close enough. Listen, Goku, if you are so adamant that he remain alive, then would you object too strongly to his being re-absorbed?"
Piccolo had been fully prepared to die, but being absorbed was completely out of the question. No, he thought, resignation giving way to an insurmountable wave of fury. I could deal with being killed outright, but I will not be sucked into that worthless old man. With a snarl, almost a roar of effort, Piccolo shot to his feet. Cries of alarm from the stand replaced triumphant cheers.
This may kill me, he realized grimly as the earth beneath him seemed to tilt ridiculously on its axis, but it beats re-enacting the story of Jonah.
When his vision stopped swimming, the first thing that he noticed was that Son Goku was regarding him with nothing short of astonishment. Ignoring his older counterpart completely, Piccolo drew his lips back in a feral smile. He could taste blood in his mouth, feel it running like a miniature river down his face. "You might not," he growled mockingly as he struggled to stay on his feet, "but I do." The earth beneath him was moving too fast, his head was buzzing. Attacking wasn't an option. If he was going to persuade Son Goku to kill him, it was going to have to be by threat – or, more accurately, by bluff. "I'd rather die than live as part of him – and if I'm going to die, then I'm not going to be the only one. You're coming with me."
Son Goku actually seemed relieved. Worse, he showed no inclination to attack. Wow…
"Why do you wait? Are you afraid?" Even Piccolo scarcely recognized his own voice; it had lost all of its smoothness and came out as little more than an adapted growl.
The man that Piccolo had been raised to hate and born to kill looked at him with wide, reassuring eyes and held out a hand, palm up. "Piccolo, come on, it's over...you don't have to get absorbed, whatever that means. Kami probably didn't mean it anyway, he was just trying to get me to kill you."
Kami rolled his eyes heavenward and sighed. "I'm sure that's going to make him feel much better, Goku," he reproached softly.
The human put a hand behind his head, mentally went over what had just come out of his mouth, and groaned. "Yeah, I see what you mean. Um, I'm not going to kill you either!" he said the last part with his eyes directly on Piccolo. "And neither is anyone else…today, anyway."
For a long stretch of time, Piccolo couldn't seem to think of anything – his mind was too impeded by swelling confusion. Son Goku was offering him protection from a decrepit old man. Ignoring an offer to finish a fight. That was a slap across the face if he had ever been given one. For a moment, he was too busy recoiling to react.
Son, mistaking his hesitance for acceptance, took a step forward.
The demon crouched slightly, going on the defensive. "You will pay dearly for this insult, Son Goku," he hissed. Without warning, Piccolo launched himself into air, blind indignation pulsing through his veins as wildly as his ki had scant moments before. He continued straight upward until he had risen above the arena's vacated seats before trying to level his flight. For a heart-stopping moment, he felt his power falter…it was like an air bubble in a straw, signifying that his store of energy was virtually nonexistent.
Piccolo knew he was going to fall in that instant, he knew he was going to crash into those worthless human chairs, and he knew that it wouldn't kill him. Worst of all, he knew that he would most likely still be conscious. He would look up and find Son Goku staring down at him, his eyes virtually brimming over with that detestable pity…No. Not that. Never.
The thought was enough to draw a final flare of energy from the demon's depleted store. He ceased to drop, though his barely-visible aura faded from cobalt blue to a strained blue-gray, and he began to move away from the arena at a fair speed, though for him it was painfully slow. He only hoped that he would make it far enough from that accursed battleground and those bumbling humans that no one would be close enough to see him crash.
* * *
As Goku watched his opponent disappear over the horizon, his heart tightened painfully. Piccolo was doing a fair job of hiding it, but even Son could see that he was weaving more than he should have been. The demon wasn't trying to make a getaway; he was going somewhere private so that he could crumble. He won't get far, not hurt as badly as he is. Too bad, he was a great fighter. I would have liked a rematch. "I told you," he said matter-of-factly. "Daimao would never have done that. He would have self- destructed or tried to blow up the whole arena or something."
Even though he couldn't see his old teacher, Son heard him sigh again. "Goku, I know you won't believe me, but I think that you've made a grave mistake. If he lives, he's going to be even more determined to kill you than before."
Goku shook his head, smiling a little. "I know. He thinks I'm mocking him or something. He'll come around. And he'll live, I'm sure of it."
Kami actually slapped himself on the forehead. Son winced internally – he must really be getting under his latest sensei's skin. "Son Goku, he's pure evil. He can't come around – for him, darkness is full circle. However, I doubt that anything I say is going to convince you to go after him." In spite of his harsh (well, harsh for Kami, anyway) words, the deity sounded vaguely amused. "Perhaps you'd be interested in taking up my position? You're hard-headed enough…"
Hiding a smile as he shook his head – he had known all along that Kami wouldn't hold his actions against him for long - Goku turned on his heel and made his way over to a blackened, scorched corner of the arena. Somehow he doubted that any number of washings would restore the ruined tile to its original purity. The blemishing soot would have been hard enough to clear away, but the blood that lay scrawled across the floor like red ink spattered carelessly in a massive signature would be far more difficult to cover.
In the middle of this devastation, a virtually unrecognizable form lay facedown, still and unbreathing. There wasn't much left to distinguish this body as Tenshinhan's. The once-brilliant green sash had been burnt beyond any color but ash gray in the places where it wasn't stained copper. The trademark three eyes were swollen shut. All that really remained to set aside this corpse from any other was its size…and the frail-looking, dollish Chaotsu who was kneeling beside what remained of his friend. Chaotsu was not sobbing, nor was he doing much of anything at all. He only sat there, unmindful of the soot that was staining his childish hands a slate gray, staring down at a single, star-shaped bloodstain.
Son Goku shuddered once in spite of the sunlight that pounded down on him. I didn't know that Cymbal had improved that much…Tien and I held our own against him and two of the others three years ago. Then again, I didn't know about Piccolo at all. A lot has changed.
Goku was not so naïve that he hadn't expected trouble. He had known for a fact that Cymbal, at least, would show up at this Budokai. His hope, though, was that he could fight Daimao's oldest son without dragging anyone else into the fray. Unfortunately, things had not gone that way. His first indication that something was wrong had come when he saw Cymbal stroll in with another being, obviously of the same race, that no one recognized.
Something in the way the two acted around one another suggested that their relationship was a bit less than amiable. Goku had seen the way that they watched one another even more warily than they did him, he could sense the friction that hung between them like some unpenatrable curtain. Even so, they were there for the same reason; the newcomer had assured him of this himself when Goku asked him. That had been before the match, or rather mismatch, between Cymbal and Tenshinhan had ended…
* * *
The same cruel, derisive laughter that had come so often from Diamoh rang across the arena. Cymbal wasn't really fighting – he was dancing. It was a strange dance, one that involved no frills and no posing, only Tenshinhan, who was trying desperately to follow the demon's movements quickly enough to land a punch. Goku growled, unconsciously widening his stance. "No killing, Cymbal," he muttered, his eyes following the movements below with unmatched intensity, "there's no killing in Budokais…" he didn't know if he was saying this to reassure himself or if he was hoping that the demon would somehow hear him.
"Cymbal isn't here to play some silly tournament game," a new voice, one that Goku had not heard before, growled. It was as deep as Cymbal's, but richer, colder. It seemed to rumble a bit at the ends of words, but it didn't grate. The monkey-tailed man turned to regard the speaker, not too surprised to find the other demon standing behind him with all the easy self-assurance of a viper. This one stood a little taller than Cymbal did, his eyes were darker as was his skin, and his gi was the color of the ocean during a hurricane. One corner of this being's mouth twisted slightly at the look of astonishment that must have crossed Goku's face. "Neither am I."
Another cry of pain, obviously human, echoed from the arena floor.
Goku felt his tail come free of his waist and set up its customary lashing. He longed to turn around and see how Ten was faring, but… "Who are you?" Kami had already told him that this was Piccolo Daimao reborn, but he felt as if he had to hear it for himself.
The strange being inclined his head slightly, that one corner of his lip rising a bit higher. "I'll tell you this much," he answered mockingly, "I'm not Ma Junia."
The light of an energy blast flared up, casting both warriors into stark black and white before fading back to normal, daylight colors.
"What is your name, then?" Goku asked, the fine hairs on his tail beginning to bristle. "And why are you here?"
"I'm here to kill you. My name is Piccolo." Apparently enjoying his future opponent's confusion, the being had glanced toward the arena."Hmmm, Cymbal's getting careless," Piccolo whispered. He certainly didn't sound concerned. Goku had started to ask what he meant when he heard Ten's shout: "Taiyo-Ken!"
Cymbal screamed in pain, flinging himself up and back, out of his opponent's reach. The triclops' hands formed a triangle before his face. "Kikohou..."
The powerful blast arced up toward the blinded demon. Perhaps he heard it coming, or maybe he had felt the displacing of air that always accompanied a ki attack, but the eldest of the Demon King's sons threw himself to his right. The main part of the beam tore past him harmlessly. The outskirts of the blast, however…
Cymbal was lifted from the ground by the force of the energy, and slammed with a resounding crack against one of the marble pillars. The pillar shattered. For a long moment, it looked as if Cymbal was going to fall out of the ring. Goku leaned forward eagerly, could sense Piccolo doing the same, and for an eerie moment, Goku felt as if they were both hoping for the same outcome.
It didn't happen. Cymbal twisted like a falling cat, still too dazed to fly, but cognizant enough to land in the ring anyway. Goku glanced at his newly found rival, and thought he saw disappointment in the set of Piccolo's shoulders. The human's brows arched in surprise – and then he heard the crowd cry out as one. Cymbal was up to a kneeling position, though he couldn't see. Smiling in that grimacing way of his, Cymbal had lifted his hands and fired in the direction of Tenshinhan's labored breathing.
The blast, when it hit, was like the end of the world. A spray of tile was torn up like confetti tore free, and then rained from the sky. Goku threw up both arms to block flying rubble, closing his eyes for a moment, searching for Ten's ki, for anything…
"He's killed him!" the announcer's voice fairly screamed. "That's a disqualification!"
Goku heard a wail that could only have come from Chaotsu, and he knew that it was true. Tien was gone. He opened his eyes, stood up, glared down at the ring. One of the judges was talking to the announcer. The announcer shook his head, cupping a hand over his microphone, seeming to be arguing heatedly with the judge. The judge pointed to a paragraph in an open book emphatically. The announcer shook his head again, furiously. The judge again proffered the book.
The announcer sighed visibly, his shoulders moving up and down in resignation. Then, he lifted his hand from the mike. "No…disqualification. The contestant…could not see…and the blast he launched…was no greater than that used by Tenshinhan…who…resorted to energy blasts first…this falls under self-defense…no disqualification."
"WHAT!?" Goku all but screamed. His was the only voice that rose, startling in the silence that gripped the arena. The other crowd-members remained entrenched in shock.
Cymbal tilted his head and flashed a broad, amused smile at the people in the stands – his vision was obviously returning – and waved his hand once, dismissively.
The announcer's microphone clattered to the ground. A good five minutes passed before he picked it up again. "Opponent 16…withdraws from the tournament."
Goku's brows knitted hopelessly in confusion. He felt as if he had just been kicked in the gut. "Why did he pull out? He wasn't feeling guilty, that's for sure…"
Piccolo chuckled softly. "No. He was my opponent for the next round. Now I advance automatically to fight you, and I will do so without the damage that he could have caused me. He was more seriously injured than I am, and so he was the one to withdraw. Simple enough even for you to understand, ne?"
* * *
.
Goku knelt beside the small, doll-like creature. "We'll wish him back, don't worry." Chaotsu nodded in agreement, but his eyes were still brimming with tears.
"Goku!"
Son turned to face his best friend Krillen, who had flown down to his side. "You won! Of course, I knew you would," he added hastily, "but man! I've never seen anything that close. It looked like Piccolo was gonna win for a while there...not, eh, that I was ever fooled or anything..."
For the first time that day, Son Goku felt like laughing. Casting aside the odd ache that had settled in his chest over the past few moments, the man lifted his smaller friend onto one shoulder and trotted over to the stands.
* * *
He couldn't fly any farther. The wilderness beneath him blurred as if he were underwater (so much so, in fact that he looked around to make sure that there was no sea in sight, for fear that he had landed in one without realizing it) and it wasn't just from the descending twilight. Every breath was like inhaling a mouthful of needles.
Therefore, it came as no real surprise to Piccolo when he found that he was losing altitude, or that he had started spiraling as if he were some hatchling learning to fly all over again. His mind was so dulled that it took him several times longer than it should have to realize that this turn of events was probably not good. The demon shook his head once, trying to take a deep breath to focus, but it was too painful. A last effort to slow his descent with his depleted energy proved to be partially successful in that he didn't die immediately when he hit the ground. The jolt of impact was still enough to make him wonder if he should have bothered.
Cursing, the demon turned his head, coughing blood onto the sand, watching detachedly as it spider-webbed into a graceful splotch on the whiteness. This is the worst I've ever been… No. No pity. I won't have it from him, from myself, from anyone.
Driven by that thought, he tried once to change positions, but the hot pains surfacing in various parts of his body stopped him short. Nothing seemed worth the strain of moving, so he heaved a shallow sigh and settled back into the sand. The once-white grains were already damp with his blood – he was not bleeding nearly as heavily as before, but he was still covered with the liquid from earlier. The grains clung to him like the wet sand on a beach clings to sunbather's feet. He hardly noticed and couldn't have done anything about it if he had. Besides, the sand was still warm from the sun – even though the granules were abrasive to his raw skin and open wounds, the heat was welcome.
He wouldn't have such a luxury for long. He knew from long experience that the desert grew very cold at night. Just one more reason that he probably wouldn't live to see morning. Stop it, he thought with mounting anger. Stop moping and move.
His eyes, as if ignoring him, began to close of their own accord. The demon shook his head, desperately trying to wake himself up. If he lost consciousness, he knew what would happen. His body might start to heal itself – of course, he might be too far gone to recover anyway, but even if he wasn't, he would be in a virtual coma in the meantime. In the desert sun, it wouldn't take him long to dehydrate. He would die.
Not seeming to care, his eyes closed completely. For a while, he was still fully aware and consciously trying to roust himself. Then he realized how tired he was – he couldn't fight his body's demand for sleep any longer. It really didn't matter, anyway. Abandoning his useless efforts, he allowed his mind to blank and his thoughts to be obscured by darkness in the same way that a funeral shroud covers a corpse.
Over the horizon, the crescent moon climbed like a silver scythe lifted by the Reaper's hand to gather in souls. It seemed as if the creatures of the desert had all disappeared, for there was nothing to be seen in the quicksilver spread cast by this moon save for a single, broken form, scraps of cloth occasionally fluttering a bit in a breeze.
* * *
A massive book, black as tar and emblazoned with a pentagram that could well have been drawn in blood, crashed to the slate-gray of the stone floor and lay there like a tear of night sky against a sheet of clouds. Even though the room was large and domed, the fall did not echo. It seemed as if the sound had been cut off, absorbed by the lightless cover.
Tambourine made no move to retrieve it.
His dark eyes, temporarily unfocused, arched toward a window as if in pain. The partial moon flooded the whites with silver, but the midnight irises were unaffected. The fragmented light that they glittered with was of themselves.
"So…" the word was a missile. It didn't echo, nor did the walls, which seemed to be made of wet slices of darkness, absorb it; instead, the word seemed to fly directly out the window, traveling unreflected and unchanged into the night. "I expected as much." There was no anger in the voice, no sadness. No anything.
A green hand clenched against a table to steady a thin, wraithlike frame, gripping so tightly that deep gouges appeared in the wood. The demon swayed slightly as his eyes regained their focus, becoming stronger, stranger. "If he had let us come – I never expected you to win, Piccolo. Son Goku was fighting for his life. You were only fighting for death. Yours or his…I don't think it really mattered much to you, did it? You didn't know that yourself – but no one hides anything from me for long. I knew. And I knew that this would happen."
He looked up suddenly, his eyes fastening on a wall as if it were only a glass curtain. He stayed posed like that, taut and waiting. He looked away with equal abruptness, sitting back down in the chair he had been occupying. One long, supple hand reached down, stretching across the cover of the book. There was a strange harmony to the way that the hand clasped the tome. It was the way that a skilled painter touched a brush, the way that a professional basketball player held a ball. The book was not being carried – it was an extension of the demon's arm.
The demon opened the book with the unconcern of a parent opening a newspaper – a cup of coffee in his other hand would not have seemed out of place. He bowed his head over the page, one that was headed with illuminated text. It read: EXORCISM AND CONTAINMENT.
His lips were pressed into a bloodless, thin line. The hands did not shake. The pages did not rattle. And if his eyes wandered now and again to the crescent moon hovering outside his window, it was most likely only to rest them from the scrawling script on the pages that his delicate, practiced fingers turned.
* * *
Kami checked another sigh as he landed on the marble platform that was his sanctuary, his office, his home, and his life. He was really getting too old for such an adventurous line of work, he thought, but apprentices were a bit difficult to come by. Make that very difficult to come by. Perhaps the hours had something to do with it, he thought ruefully.
"Kami!" a deep, bass voice cried. "Oh, I was so worried – you could have been killed!" After a split-second's silence, the speaker added a belated, "On multiple occasions!"
The aging deity chuckled softly. "Come now, Popo, has it been so very long since I've had to fight?"
"Not long enough, Kami," Popo replied, crossing his arms.
Kami-sama allowed himself another indulgent moment of amusement before the dull ache spreading through his body – most notably in the back, shoulder, and chest – drew his attention to a more serious matter. His eyes softened ever so slightly in what one who knew him well enough would recognize as worry. "Popo, how is Piccolo managing?"
The unaging denizen of the lookout immediately became grim. "Not very well, Kami – not well at all. Should we do something?"
Closing his eyes, the old guardian bowed his head. Presently, he looked up. "No. I have a feeling that "something" is going to happen on its own. Fate has her own agenda to play here, Popo."
"But what if he dies?" the rounded entity countered.
Kami shrugged. "Then that is what fate has in mind. We should not intervene. Besides, after my talk of merging, I have no doubt but that Piccolo would do himself greater injury trying to get away from either of us."
Popo blinked. "Yes, I remember you saying something about that. Why did you bring it up, Kami? You also suggested killing him, which isn't like you at all. Would you really have…"
Shaking his head, the Kami replied, "I don't know. Probably not."
If anything, Popo looked more confused. "Then why suggest it? Before, he merely despised you. Now…"
Smirking in that unsettling way of his, Kami said, "I didn't really want to. Call it intuition. You know that Kamis sometimes have premonitions. I haven't seen much with this one, Popo, but I have seen enough to know that a very strange turn of events is coming up. Our lives will be getting much more complicated over the next few years. Now, if you have no further questions that need answering, I intend to get some sleep."
"Of course, Kami," Popo said softly as his old friend made his way to the palace. He couldn't help but notice the strained expression on Kami's face. He was feeling Piccolo's injuries…Popo could guess that much. "I'll wake you up at the usual time – if you're still alive."
* * *
Goku smiled and stretched, enjoying the sensation of sunlight on his stiff muscles. Behind him was the house he had built yesterday – he had expected the job to take longer, but the Ox King had helped him - and his new wife, Chichi, was still sleeping soundly in the big double bed. He really didn't understand why anyone would want to sleep through such a morning. Naps were for the afternoon.
Well, he could get used to that, he guessed. Actually, he was going to have to get used to a lot of things. There was family life, wiping his feet before he came inside, not training all the time…It seemed to him that an old book had been closed the day before at the Budokai, and a new one had been started. Now all he needed to do was work on his reading…he'd never really gotten the hang of that.
It was by pure chance that he felt it: a slight flickering of ki, almost like a sputtering candle, just east of where he was. The power, whatever it was, was very low, possibly dying, but familiar. Son hesitated a moment. He glanced back at the house nervously to make sure that his wife had not yet awakened and then set off toward the most formidable opponent that he had ever faced.
The soft, verdant treetops of Mount Paozo gave way to rolling sand dunes, much like an ocean giving way to the shore. A spattered green and purple object caught Goku's eye, shockingly dark as it was against the sun- lightened sand. He landed carefully, tucking his tail securely around his waist.
Piccolo lay on the ground before him. He wasn't moving. Not even Son Goku's trained senses could detect a ki level much above one, and even that was probably just residue. When someone with a high power level died, it took a very long time for every last trace of ki to seep away. These "ki ghosts" had tricked him before – most memorably when grandpa Gohan had died.
Son Goku closed his eyes, offering his most powerful opponent a moment of silence. It hurt him inside to see such a waste, hurt more than it should have, more than he would have expected. I'm sorry, Piccolo. I wish you would have let me help you – it could have been different. If I'd known that you were gonna go off and die, I would have followed you. Maybe it would even have been kinder to kill you.
Sprawled out on his side, the demon looked much smaller than he actually was. His eyes were closed, the heavy brows drawn into a scowl. The earth around him was marred by swirling gashes, as if he had tried to move after he had crashed. A thick bluish-purple fluid continued to drip from a few of his wounds; in other places it had dried into a dark, nearly black crust. Even the sand he was lying on was tinted purple, though it was light like a watercolor wash.
Goku knelt beside the unmoving body of his enemy. He had the distinct feeling that he should do something for the warrior – bury him, at the very least. He wondered if touching the corpse would be irreverent. The demon certainly wouldn't have put up with that if he had been alive. On the other hand, he wasn't – that was the whole problem.
Plagued by indecision, the man did nothing but stare at his late rival for some time. The burns that had turned his emerald skin to the color of dark pine needles. The elven ears. The way that his chest rose only occasionally, barely a quarter of an inch…the way that the grains of sand near his mouth were faintly disturbed with every rise…wait a minute. Goku's eyes narrowed, making sure that he was really seeing what he thought he was seeing. He was. Piccolo was still breathing, if just barely.
His first reaction was to utter a disbelieving question: "Piccolo?" Of course, there was no answer. Nervously, Goku reached out a hand and shook the prone warrior a little. This time, he did get a reply of sorts: a barely audible groan. Son grinned in spite of himself. "Wow, I guess you're more stubborn than I gave you credit for."
Son's relief lasted about as long as it took for him to figure out that this turn of events had opened a new problem: if Piccolo was alive, what should be done with him? The man sighed and shifted to a sitting position, crossing his legs Indian style. He propped his elbow on his knee, rested his chin on his palm, and started to think, which was always a very serious undertaking for him. His long, furry tail unwound from his waist and began to weave pensively back and forth as a charmed cobra would.
"Kami thinks I should kill you," Goku muttered. "It'd be a real shame seeing as you've already survived this long, Pic - but maybe he's right." Son didn't know why he was addressing the demon, but he didn't bother to puzzle that through. For him, it was best to stick to one train of thought at a time. "If you're just gonna go around killing people, well…Kami knows more about you than I do. He's told me a lot about you, y'know, and most of it wasn't good. Why do you want to kill everyone, anyway? People aren't so bad." Realizing whom he was talking about, he added, " Well, most of us aren't."
Piccolo didn't so much as twitch. Goku sighed and fidgeted like a student who is called to the blackboard and confronted with a difficult math problem.
"You're evil. I know that, I guess I can't really blame you. I mean, if I had family like yours, I guess I'd be kind of upset, too. Besides, you're a good warrior, best I've ever met." Goku smiled a little, remembering the fight. Here on the ground was possibly the only being who was a match for him in stength, speed, skill, or determination. "I haven't fought your brothers for a while, but I saw Cymbal fight. We're better than he is."
Still, Piccolo was silent. "This would be a lot easier if you'd give me some input," the human said wryly. "You know more about you than any of us. All I know firsthand is that you can fight – well, that and you really don't like me much, do you? Why is that, Piccolo? You never even met me before the Budokai because you aren't Daimao."
Son waited a while before speaking again. "I don't know why I keep thinking you'll talk back. You wouldn't give me a straight answer while you were awake, much less…hey, hold on a second. If you were awake, you could answer some of this stuff. You probably wouldn't want to, but you could."
In Goku's mind, that settled it; he was really, genuinely curious. The man was a lot like a cat that way. He had gone so far as to lift Piccolo from the ground and prepare to take off when he realized that he had no idea where to take him. Goku lay the still-unconscious demon back down as gently as he could and resumed thinking.
I could take him home, I guess... A mental image of Chichi brandishing a rolling pin and screeching in fury caused Goku to wince. Maybe that's not such a great idea. He's hurt pretty bad; maybe he should be in a hospital... An army of white-clad nurses armed with antiseptic, syringes, and various other instruments of torture paraded through Son's mind. Man, I wouldn't wish that on anybody.
Goku gave in to massaging his temples to stave off a headache. Kami'll want to lock me up in a nut bin for even suggesting something like that – besides, he's mad enough at me already. And I don't even want to think about what Piccolo would do if he woke up and Kami was around. Master Roshi won't help, Krillen will faint or something if I even bring Piccolo near him, Yamcha will blast him on sight, it's not safe for him to be around people... A small cave a short distance away caught his eye. "Well, it's not much, but it should work for now," he stated cheerfully as he once again lifted Piccolo.
* * *
The old stone fortress clung tenaciously to the mountainside. To most, it would have been frightening: the walls were large and squarish, turrets spiraled up ominously from the inner walls like spears, accenting the austere lines of the battlements. Iron spikes jutted out from the walls at irregular intervals, giving those walls the look of a large set of crooked, bared teeth. Any passers by would have avoided the structure like a plague... but then, Cymbal reflected, one of the many advantages of living in the Tsumi Tsubri Mountains was that very few passed by.
The eldest son of Daimao glided through the open skylight, landing in a broad, cavernous room. He walked up to his customary seat at the circular table, sweeping the room briefly with his restless eyes. Three other beings, all bearing a strong resemblance to their dead sire, already sat in three of the four remaining chairs. Drum and Piano, hulking creatures that were easily eight feet tall and almost half that broad across the shoulders, sat to his right and left. Tambourine was sitting to the left of Piano, his long fingers pressing together lightly at the tips, his expression studiously blank. Cymbal swore mentally, his raw nerves vibrating like violin strings. He's going to make a nuisance of himself, the elder demon thought, annoyed.
No shorter than Cymbal or Piccolo, Tambourine was slighter, although still well muscled. Physically, he didn't look much like a fighter. Thank all the fates for that, Cymbal thought, smirking a bit. If his power level were even half as remarkable as his insolence, we'd all be in trouble.
The chair opposite Cymbal's remained empty, as did the unadorned throne that crouched at the far end of the room. Cymbal made a mental note to have both removed as quickly as possible. The chair, which had very rarely been used before, was worse than useless now. The throne was something that none of them had used to begin with; it had belonged to Daimao. Now, it served only as a reminder – and an ominous one at that. Even Drum, who was notoriously unimaginative, had often complained that the chair bothered him. He said he could occasionally feel eyes boring into him from that direction.
Reactions to that complaint varied greatly. Piano would shrug dully. Tambourine had behaved indifferently, save for a faint glitter in the pupils of his eyes that could have meant any number of things. Piccolo, on rare occasions when he had been around, would snort disdainfully and mutter something derogatory. This was a rare issue on which Piccolo and Cymbal could agree – stone was stone. The fact that Cymbal sat facing the aforementioned stone rather than with his back to it was purely coincidental.
"Well?" growled Piano, not bothering to hide his impatience.
"The monkey's still alive," Cymbal stated, voice never wavering, tone resigned.
"And where is our brother?" Drum asked, tapping his fingers on the table absently. "Did he die, or was it just too much trouble to come back here and report?"
"I don't know. When I left, he was bleeding his life out on the arena floor. We need not trouble ourselves over him." The oldest of the four turned to inspecting his claws as if looking for some lingering trace of blood, though if one looked hard enough, one might have seen a satisfied smile playing about his thin lips.
"Do you think that Kami died with him?" Piano asked, leaning forward with almost childish eagerness.
Cymbal shrugged. "Who knows, or cares, what happened to that old fool. What matters is that Son Goku is alive, and Piccolo isn't. He had little to do with us anyway; he only worked with us when he had no other recourse. He did not disgrace us, at least; Daimao was right about his power, but he was too...independent."
A low, smooth voice made itself heard for the first time. The speaker sounded as if he were whispering. "How sure are you that he's dead, brother?" The tone held no concern, no hope, no satisfaction, and only a very little interest. But then, Tambourine didn't show interest in much of anything.
His gaze remaining downcast, the oldest of the demons pressed his lips together tightly. "He had lost. He was bleeding heavily. Had a few broken bones, more likely than not. Son Goku had just eaten a senzou and was headed toward him. He'd need more lives than a cat to get out of that one, Tambourine."
Tambourine shrugged. "I suppose so. It's just as well – convenient, in a way – that he should die just as he was becoming difficult to control. It's saved you the trouble of having to kill him.
Cymbal looked up sharply at Tambourine, searching for any sign of accusation. There was no outward indication of insincerity in his younger brother's mannerism. Tambourine met his brother's gaze unflinchingly with relaxed eyes and half-lowered lids. It was not as if Tambourine were looking at him or into him. The stare was not defiant – was, in fact, far less belligerent than those which Piccolo had often directed at him. The look was offensive only because Cymbal felt as if he weren't there. Yes, that was the problem with Tambourine exactly: he made people feel as if they had no selves, as if they were mere extensions of everyone else. And Cymbal hated it.
.
"I'm glad that you see it that way," the eldest demon said softly, testing for a response. One didn't respond to something that didn't exist.
Tambourine's posture remained lax – in fact, he seemed bored. Cymbal fought back a growl – how did he manage always to react in the exact way that Cymbal didn't want him to without being openly…anything? He hated talking to his younger brother. He always felt as if he had looked up a half-second too late, as if Tambourine were laughing at him whenever he turned away. As if Tambourine knew what he wanted and purposely withheld it.
"Should we attack Son Goku now, Cymbal?"
The eldest brother started, shaken from his reverie by Piano's suggestion. "He is too powerful," he snapped, emptying his frustration into those words. "We must continue our training and wait for the right moment. Who knows, something favorable might come up."
Author's Notes
Yeah, I know, most of you will see this section, cringe, and hit the back button – but I promise that the rest of the chapter is actual story, and these notes aren't very long. If you hate author's notes, then you can simply scroll down, and I won't think any less of you for it. However, some might like a bit of background info on this story before they dive into it, so…here goes.
Dark Star has been my pet project for the past four years. In this story, I explore a question: what if Piccolo's brothers from the original Dragonball had been true Namekseijinn instead of the twisted creatures which they actually were? Naturally, there are many different ways that such a story could go – and not everyone might agree with the outcome that I chose. That's all right with me; no, really, it is. I don't mind a little dissention – I'd even say that you could burn me in effigy if you knew what I looked like. All that I really ask is for you to be civil. Also, if you have any questions (or if you just want to talk) feel free to email me.
Last but not least, I'd like to thank each and every person who encouraged me to write this story. You know who you are, and you deserve a great deal of credit…I'm afraid to list you, because I might forget someone, but thank you all just the same. But I do need to give especial thanks to Bucky, J^2, Juunigou, and Velasa for helping me with the proofing.
And now, with no further ado, the fic.
* * *
It was over. All of it – two years of fighting, three years of training, and the single most taxing battle of his life. Over. Finally.
Goku stood shakily, his tail stretching awkwardly behind him for balance. His nose crinkled in a small grimace – he could still taste the senzou that he had just eaten. Much as he'd needed it, the bean had tasted like something Bulma might have cooked.
The warrior ran a hand absently through his dust-coated raven hair, shaking some of the dirt out of it. Only then did he take stock of his surroundings with wide, surprised eyes. Wow. We sure made a mess. Broken tiles lay scattered about him like the petals of a dying rose, near-empty bleachers enfolded his field of view, interrupted by the occasional hole. The place reminded him of Swiss cheese, but burnt. Goku took a deep breath. The scent of half a dozen different things, all of them scorched, led him to resolve not to breathe in through his nose anymore.
Someone was calling his name. He couldn't tell right away where the sound was coming from since the pitifully empty arena was bouncing the voice around with all the gusto of a top-ranked volleyball team. With some effort, he found the source of the calls. Chichi was leaning over the railing and waving at him as if from the bow of a departing ship. Her sidelocks completed the image, dancing about her face like an ebony breeze. Any other man probably would have gone tearing across the arena to embrace his newly discovered fiancé, but Son was not any other man. He simply grinned and waved back.
He was still waving, in fact, when he saw the trench. This trench was little more than a tear in the marble floor, a superficial ditch that extended into the dirt encircling the fighting arena. It was not very deep, nor was it impressive in any other way…unless one considered the fact that someone had plowed such a gash in the earth with his shoulder. The only other reason that the gouge in the pearl-white tile of the Budokai floor stood apart from the rest of the destruction was because the center of it was highlighted by a streak of true indigo, and the end was marked by a crumpled heap of swirled green and purple. Son wondered if it was still alive – he hoped not. He didn't want to have to kill it.
No, he thought sternly. Don't cheat. There's no thing in that crater – it's not an it, it's a he.
"Goku, he isn't dead." The voice came from directly beside him. Goku went vertical. He landed, panting as if he had just run wind sprints, and rounded on Kami-sama with good-natured indignation sparkling in his eyes.
"Geesh, Kami, are you trying to give me a heart attack?" he asked, putting one hand behind his head and the other over his heart for emphasis.
Earth's ancient protector smiled indulgently, but Goku could tell that the expression was forced by the way Kami's fists were clenched at his sides. "No, I'm trying to get you to tie up your loose ends."
The man could feel his natural cheerfulness slipping away as he realized what Kami was speaking of. "Won't you die if I kill him?" he asked, his mannerism more that of a forlorn little boy than the savior of a planet.
Kami lowered his eyes briefly. "Yes, but right now Piccolo is a greater danger to this world than I am of use to it," he stated calmly. "You've nothing to worry about, Son Goku – the Kamis' Heaven is said to be a rather nice place this time of year."
Goku closed his eyes for a moment – an obvious indication that he was in deep thought. I don't know about this…but he is my teacher…he must know what he's talking about… Finally, he sighed and nodded once. Straightening, squaring his shoulders, he started toward his enemy, pointedly ignoring the sick feeling in his stomach. He hadn't been thinking the first time that he had killed one of these demons; he had been so different then, so angry. This time, the blindfold of his anger wouldn't descend to help him.
He had never killed in cold blood before. To be honest, he wasn't so sure that he could.
* * *
Miles above the arena, a lone figure floated effortlessly, not at all disturbed by the buffeting wind which tore at the lose folds of his clothing like a nagging child. His arms were crossed loosely across his broad chest, and his eyes were half lidded in apparent unconcern. He, the oldest of Daimao's five sons, watched the scene with untempered scorn. The extraordinary eyesight common to his family allowed him to see the extent of his brother's injuries, and he knew that Piccolo wouldn't be getting up anytime soon.
He also knew that, if Kami had his way, Piccolo wouldn't be getting up at all.
Cymbal wiped a trickle of blood from the high, sharp cheekbone of a face that was startlingly like the one of his late sire, unconsciously wrinkling his nose a bit in disgust – not at bleeding, but at losing. Losing to a human, no less. He had always loathed humans. Especially Son Goku.
His appearance was an exercise in extremities – anyone who could have seen him would not have doubted his identity unless they mistook him for his parent. He was a lighter green than his fallen sibling, and he wore the red sash that had been a trademark of his father with the air of one who had every right to such a distinction. His gi was an imitation of the one that his father had worn, being closer to maroon than midnight. No crest or symbol adorned his uniform; he had no need of one. Yes, Piccolo had been the one to inherit Daimao's memories, but the mark of his features rested most clearly on his firstborn.
At another time, Cymbal might have made use of his enemy's distraction with a surprise attack, but he knew better than that. His battle with the triclops Tenshinhan had weakened him far too much to fight a recently healed Son Goku. Cymbal made a mental note to kill the idiotic old man with the senzou – Roshi, he thought - very slowly when the opportunity came. Very slowly indeed. On the bright side, that three-eyed human freak had been paid in full for his interference. Cymbal smiled thinly, but his mind was on other things.
"If I'd brought the other three…perhaps we could have finished this today. Tambourine was right about that after all. I hope for his sake that he doesn't gloat too much." The demon spoke aloud as he tended to do when he was pondering. His voice was deep, but it didn't resonate. There was shallowness to it, like the sound of a cello on a recording.
Hawklike, Cymbal's glaring red eyes narrowed as he watched his lifelong enemy advance toward his youngest brother. By then, he could actually see the purple spreading out from around Piccolo: it looked as if his brother was lying on a rumpled cloth. He hadn't seen his younger counterpart so badly hurt for some months – not since he had finished his last growth spurt. He viewed the scene with a growing sense of unreality. It was very strange, the way that Piccolo looked so different from the way he had that he was almost unrecognizable. Yet, there was sameness present in the events that made the demon decidedly uncomfortable.
And not much of anything made Cymbal uncomfortable. Not the sight of blood, certainly not killing or watching others kill.
Yet he felt a twinge of…something. It felt like doubt, or perhaps indecision. He wavered a moment, his eyes slitting further. Did he doubt that he could kill Goku without Piccolo, or was he undecided as to whether his brother was less trouble dead than alive? It can hardly be that, he thought irritably. Nothing could possibly be more difficult for me than Piccolo. Besides, I've never particularly cared for him…
The demon raised a hand to his cheek to trace the fine bone, a twinge of remembered pain tingling beneath his fingertips. A humorless smile painted itself across his face. His decision was made. "So, little brother, you've failed. I shouldn't be surprised, you know, but it's still hard to believe that a monkey could prove too much for the likes of us. Ah well, at least I'm finally rid of you." Cymbal banked, turned, and flew off, calling a casual "Ja ne," over one shoulder as he went. Best decision I ever made, he thought fiercely. And he knew that the strange feeling blooming in his gut would wilt and die if he ignored it long enough. They always did.
* * *
Piccolo could not hear his brother's words - those were lost to the currents of the wind - but knew that he could expect no help. Not that he cared; he wouldn't have accepted Cymbal's aide if it had been offered. Besides, he had a more pressing concern – his imminent demise.
Or, more specifically, his inability to do anything about it.
He realized dimly that he was clenching his fist so hard that he had left a trail of bloody half-crescents across his palm. The blood felt strangely cool against his flesh – he must still be flushed from the battle. He didn't mind the pain; it helped to anchor his thoughts. It was strange that in the presence of so much agony, a small, nagging irritation could be so noticeable.
He lay on his back, staring into the endless blue of the sky. He didn't know if he could move, could barely breathe. His shattered ribs shifted painfully each time he forced his tortured lungs to expand; he could feel the ends grating together. The sound of Son Goku's footsteps reached his ears, and he knew that he wouldn't have to worry about breathing much longer...or ever again.
He didn't feel fear or anger, as he should have at such a realization. It was as if a hole had opened inside him, and all of those emotions had drained away. A bitter taste started in the back of his throat, but he wasn't certain if it was from his injuries or his frustration.
He couldn't attribute his apathy to shock. He had seen death many times before. It was something that he had learned to accept as a certainty in his uncertain life – sooner or later, everyone had to die. What was life, anyway? All lives essentially had the same destination: a hole in the ground. If only I could have taken him with me… the demon thought, at last feeling a fluttering of emotion deep in his chest. He turned his face – quite an accomplishment, given his condition – and locked eyes with his approaching enemy.
* * *
Goku paused for a moment before walking toward the crater. Again, a surge of reluctance rose within him – and with it, the freezing-cold feeling that he was stepping into something that would haunt him for the rest of his life. There are no senzous left…otherwise I could offer him one. As it is now, he's in a lot of pain. I know he wouldn't want me to help him, so maybe it's better this way. Son's steps almost faltered. Almost. Then again, no one's asked him…
Goku kept walking.
There had been times when he had killed, though he had never been comfortable with it. This, he thought, felt more like murder. "Murder" was a word that you used for killing a person. Was a demon – was Piccolo – really a person at all? He has to be, doesn't he? He thinks, that's for sure; otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to fight like he just did. Does he feel anything, though? If he really is Daimao's reincarnation, he doesn't feel much, at least nothing good. That's what makes someone a person, isn't it? Goku wanted very badly to rub his temples, sit down, do anything to relieve this incoming headache.
Well, there was one way to find out. He could look at his eyes. If they were anything like Daimao's, anything at all, then he would know.
He could still hear Daimao laughing. Only his bloodlust had allowed Goku to defeat him; that, a lot of luck, and a little divine intervention. The moment of Daimao's death would remain with him forever, especially his eyes. Anger. Hatred. A madness that burned anyone who could see it, even when the demon was relaxed. Or as relaxed as he got, anyway. It had seemed to Goku that Daimao had never been completely at ease. His eyes were always moving, or fixed on something (usually someone) with an intensity that seemed to corrode with burning fingers through the shell of flesh to tug at the soul inside. Goku had never really been able to decide whether the pull exerted by Daimao's drawing gaze had been more like an attempt to seize the soul it latched onto, or more like a man drowning in the sea of his anguish and latching onto anything he could reach, only to find that he was pulling it in with him.
Whatever the pull was, Son fully expected to find it in the eyes of a man who, he had been told, was Daimao all over again. He reached the lip of the crater and, like an explorer about to plunge into unknown waters, he paused for the barest trace of a moment to gather his breath and his thoughts.
For the first time in his life, Goku froze. The obsidian orbs that glared up at him from Piccolo's shattered body were not Daimao's. There was no fear floating across them to cause them to widen or dilate; there was only resignation written clearly in the half-lowered lids. Defiance stood in place of disbelief and, was he imagining it, or was a faint hint of sadness touching the uncompromising planes of the demon's face? Also, oddly, the insanity that had constantly confronted Goku in the eyes of a being made up of nothing but evil was completely absent from his offspring. Piccolo's glare was calm, unwavering, and perfectly sane. They held, but did not devour.
* * *
Piccolo waited with growing impatience for the final blow to fall. Seconds stretched into minutes. Then, to his astonishment, Goku's brows knit in confusion. The hand that should have snuffed out the candle flame of his existence wavered. Dropped. Relaxed at the man's side.
Ironically, it was Kami who gave voice to the question that was threatening to overpower Piccolo's mind. "Son Goku," the deity snapped, his voice a clap of thunder, "what are you doing?"
The cheering and celebrating in the stands ground to a halt like a train that had inexplicably run out of fuel. Piccolo could well imagine the baffled expressions that the humans must have been sporting. In fact, the only one who didn't look completely lost was Son Goku himself. "I don't know," he stated. Then – maddeningly - he flashed his usual, face-splitting grin. "Oi, I'm glad I didn't go through with it, though. I think I would have felt really bad later."
Kami's face had undergone a change, from surprised to comprehending to resolute. "Goku, I know where you stand on this…issue, but it's in this planet's best interest that you…" He trailed off. His onetime student's expression was changing, taking on its stubborn set. It was time to try a different angle. "Haven't your experiences with these demons been enough to convince you that they're a danger to everyone around them?"
"He hasn't hurt anyone yet," Goku countered, gesturing toward the hole. "Well, I mean, besides me. And Krillen, but he's okay now, too."
"And it would have been a large portion of the audience, had they not panicked and evacuated the area," Kami persisted, his brow clouding like the sky before a storm.
"But they did leave!" the human blurted, his eyes widening a bit in innocent consternation. "The important thing is that none of them got hurt, isn't it?"
Kami rolled his eyes. "No, Son Goku, that is not the point. The point is that he could, would, and will do harm to humankind as often as he can. He hates your people with a passion, he always has. Remember, he…" here, the guardian of earth closed his eyes, "…was a part of me. I know Daimao."
"But this isn't Daimao," the human stated confidently..
Kami snorted. "Perhaps he is, perhaps he isn't – he's close enough. Listen, Goku, if you are so adamant that he remain alive, then would you object too strongly to his being re-absorbed?"
Piccolo had been fully prepared to die, but being absorbed was completely out of the question. No, he thought, resignation giving way to an insurmountable wave of fury. I could deal with being killed outright, but I will not be sucked into that worthless old man. With a snarl, almost a roar of effort, Piccolo shot to his feet. Cries of alarm from the stand replaced triumphant cheers.
This may kill me, he realized grimly as the earth beneath him seemed to tilt ridiculously on its axis, but it beats re-enacting the story of Jonah.
When his vision stopped swimming, the first thing that he noticed was that Son Goku was regarding him with nothing short of astonishment. Ignoring his older counterpart completely, Piccolo drew his lips back in a feral smile. He could taste blood in his mouth, feel it running like a miniature river down his face. "You might not," he growled mockingly as he struggled to stay on his feet, "but I do." The earth beneath him was moving too fast, his head was buzzing. Attacking wasn't an option. If he was going to persuade Son Goku to kill him, it was going to have to be by threat – or, more accurately, by bluff. "I'd rather die than live as part of him – and if I'm going to die, then I'm not going to be the only one. You're coming with me."
Son Goku actually seemed relieved. Worse, he showed no inclination to attack. Wow…
"Why do you wait? Are you afraid?" Even Piccolo scarcely recognized his own voice; it had lost all of its smoothness and came out as little more than an adapted growl.
The man that Piccolo had been raised to hate and born to kill looked at him with wide, reassuring eyes and held out a hand, palm up. "Piccolo, come on, it's over...you don't have to get absorbed, whatever that means. Kami probably didn't mean it anyway, he was just trying to get me to kill you."
Kami rolled his eyes heavenward and sighed. "I'm sure that's going to make him feel much better, Goku," he reproached softly.
The human put a hand behind his head, mentally went over what had just come out of his mouth, and groaned. "Yeah, I see what you mean. Um, I'm not going to kill you either!" he said the last part with his eyes directly on Piccolo. "And neither is anyone else…today, anyway."
For a long stretch of time, Piccolo couldn't seem to think of anything – his mind was too impeded by swelling confusion. Son Goku was offering him protection from a decrepit old man. Ignoring an offer to finish a fight. That was a slap across the face if he had ever been given one. For a moment, he was too busy recoiling to react.
Son, mistaking his hesitance for acceptance, took a step forward.
The demon crouched slightly, going on the defensive. "You will pay dearly for this insult, Son Goku," he hissed. Without warning, Piccolo launched himself into air, blind indignation pulsing through his veins as wildly as his ki had scant moments before. He continued straight upward until he had risen above the arena's vacated seats before trying to level his flight. For a heart-stopping moment, he felt his power falter…it was like an air bubble in a straw, signifying that his store of energy was virtually nonexistent.
Piccolo knew he was going to fall in that instant, he knew he was going to crash into those worthless human chairs, and he knew that it wouldn't kill him. Worst of all, he knew that he would most likely still be conscious. He would look up and find Son Goku staring down at him, his eyes virtually brimming over with that detestable pity…No. Not that. Never.
The thought was enough to draw a final flare of energy from the demon's depleted store. He ceased to drop, though his barely-visible aura faded from cobalt blue to a strained blue-gray, and he began to move away from the arena at a fair speed, though for him it was painfully slow. He only hoped that he would make it far enough from that accursed battleground and those bumbling humans that no one would be close enough to see him crash.
* * *
As Goku watched his opponent disappear over the horizon, his heart tightened painfully. Piccolo was doing a fair job of hiding it, but even Son could see that he was weaving more than he should have been. The demon wasn't trying to make a getaway; he was going somewhere private so that he could crumble. He won't get far, not hurt as badly as he is. Too bad, he was a great fighter. I would have liked a rematch. "I told you," he said matter-of-factly. "Daimao would never have done that. He would have self- destructed or tried to blow up the whole arena or something."
Even though he couldn't see his old teacher, Son heard him sigh again. "Goku, I know you won't believe me, but I think that you've made a grave mistake. If he lives, he's going to be even more determined to kill you than before."
Goku shook his head, smiling a little. "I know. He thinks I'm mocking him or something. He'll come around. And he'll live, I'm sure of it."
Kami actually slapped himself on the forehead. Son winced internally – he must really be getting under his latest sensei's skin. "Son Goku, he's pure evil. He can't come around – for him, darkness is full circle. However, I doubt that anything I say is going to convince you to go after him." In spite of his harsh (well, harsh for Kami, anyway) words, the deity sounded vaguely amused. "Perhaps you'd be interested in taking up my position? You're hard-headed enough…"
Hiding a smile as he shook his head – he had known all along that Kami wouldn't hold his actions against him for long - Goku turned on his heel and made his way over to a blackened, scorched corner of the arena. Somehow he doubted that any number of washings would restore the ruined tile to its original purity. The blemishing soot would have been hard enough to clear away, but the blood that lay scrawled across the floor like red ink spattered carelessly in a massive signature would be far more difficult to cover.
In the middle of this devastation, a virtually unrecognizable form lay facedown, still and unbreathing. There wasn't much left to distinguish this body as Tenshinhan's. The once-brilliant green sash had been burnt beyond any color but ash gray in the places where it wasn't stained copper. The trademark three eyes were swollen shut. All that really remained to set aside this corpse from any other was its size…and the frail-looking, dollish Chaotsu who was kneeling beside what remained of his friend. Chaotsu was not sobbing, nor was he doing much of anything at all. He only sat there, unmindful of the soot that was staining his childish hands a slate gray, staring down at a single, star-shaped bloodstain.
Son Goku shuddered once in spite of the sunlight that pounded down on him. I didn't know that Cymbal had improved that much…Tien and I held our own against him and two of the others three years ago. Then again, I didn't know about Piccolo at all. A lot has changed.
Goku was not so naïve that he hadn't expected trouble. He had known for a fact that Cymbal, at least, would show up at this Budokai. His hope, though, was that he could fight Daimao's oldest son without dragging anyone else into the fray. Unfortunately, things had not gone that way. His first indication that something was wrong had come when he saw Cymbal stroll in with another being, obviously of the same race, that no one recognized.
Something in the way the two acted around one another suggested that their relationship was a bit less than amiable. Goku had seen the way that they watched one another even more warily than they did him, he could sense the friction that hung between them like some unpenatrable curtain. Even so, they were there for the same reason; the newcomer had assured him of this himself when Goku asked him. That had been before the match, or rather mismatch, between Cymbal and Tenshinhan had ended…
* * *
The same cruel, derisive laughter that had come so often from Diamoh rang across the arena. Cymbal wasn't really fighting – he was dancing. It was a strange dance, one that involved no frills and no posing, only Tenshinhan, who was trying desperately to follow the demon's movements quickly enough to land a punch. Goku growled, unconsciously widening his stance. "No killing, Cymbal," he muttered, his eyes following the movements below with unmatched intensity, "there's no killing in Budokais…" he didn't know if he was saying this to reassure himself or if he was hoping that the demon would somehow hear him.
"Cymbal isn't here to play some silly tournament game," a new voice, one that Goku had not heard before, growled. It was as deep as Cymbal's, but richer, colder. It seemed to rumble a bit at the ends of words, but it didn't grate. The monkey-tailed man turned to regard the speaker, not too surprised to find the other demon standing behind him with all the easy self-assurance of a viper. This one stood a little taller than Cymbal did, his eyes were darker as was his skin, and his gi was the color of the ocean during a hurricane. One corner of this being's mouth twisted slightly at the look of astonishment that must have crossed Goku's face. "Neither am I."
Another cry of pain, obviously human, echoed from the arena floor.
Goku felt his tail come free of his waist and set up its customary lashing. He longed to turn around and see how Ten was faring, but… "Who are you?" Kami had already told him that this was Piccolo Daimao reborn, but he felt as if he had to hear it for himself.
The strange being inclined his head slightly, that one corner of his lip rising a bit higher. "I'll tell you this much," he answered mockingly, "I'm not Ma Junia."
The light of an energy blast flared up, casting both warriors into stark black and white before fading back to normal, daylight colors.
"What is your name, then?" Goku asked, the fine hairs on his tail beginning to bristle. "And why are you here?"
"I'm here to kill you. My name is Piccolo." Apparently enjoying his future opponent's confusion, the being had glanced toward the arena."Hmmm, Cymbal's getting careless," Piccolo whispered. He certainly didn't sound concerned. Goku had started to ask what he meant when he heard Ten's shout: "Taiyo-Ken!"
Cymbal screamed in pain, flinging himself up and back, out of his opponent's reach. The triclops' hands formed a triangle before his face. "Kikohou..."
The powerful blast arced up toward the blinded demon. Perhaps he heard it coming, or maybe he had felt the displacing of air that always accompanied a ki attack, but the eldest of the Demon King's sons threw himself to his right. The main part of the beam tore past him harmlessly. The outskirts of the blast, however…
Cymbal was lifted from the ground by the force of the energy, and slammed with a resounding crack against one of the marble pillars. The pillar shattered. For a long moment, it looked as if Cymbal was going to fall out of the ring. Goku leaned forward eagerly, could sense Piccolo doing the same, and for an eerie moment, Goku felt as if they were both hoping for the same outcome.
It didn't happen. Cymbal twisted like a falling cat, still too dazed to fly, but cognizant enough to land in the ring anyway. Goku glanced at his newly found rival, and thought he saw disappointment in the set of Piccolo's shoulders. The human's brows arched in surprise – and then he heard the crowd cry out as one. Cymbal was up to a kneeling position, though he couldn't see. Smiling in that grimacing way of his, Cymbal had lifted his hands and fired in the direction of Tenshinhan's labored breathing.
The blast, when it hit, was like the end of the world. A spray of tile was torn up like confetti tore free, and then rained from the sky. Goku threw up both arms to block flying rubble, closing his eyes for a moment, searching for Ten's ki, for anything…
"He's killed him!" the announcer's voice fairly screamed. "That's a disqualification!"
Goku heard a wail that could only have come from Chaotsu, and he knew that it was true. Tien was gone. He opened his eyes, stood up, glared down at the ring. One of the judges was talking to the announcer. The announcer shook his head, cupping a hand over his microphone, seeming to be arguing heatedly with the judge. The judge pointed to a paragraph in an open book emphatically. The announcer shook his head again, furiously. The judge again proffered the book.
The announcer sighed visibly, his shoulders moving up and down in resignation. Then, he lifted his hand from the mike. "No…disqualification. The contestant…could not see…and the blast he launched…was no greater than that used by Tenshinhan…who…resorted to energy blasts first…this falls under self-defense…no disqualification."
"WHAT!?" Goku all but screamed. His was the only voice that rose, startling in the silence that gripped the arena. The other crowd-members remained entrenched in shock.
Cymbal tilted his head and flashed a broad, amused smile at the people in the stands – his vision was obviously returning – and waved his hand once, dismissively.
The announcer's microphone clattered to the ground. A good five minutes passed before he picked it up again. "Opponent 16…withdraws from the tournament."
Goku's brows knitted hopelessly in confusion. He felt as if he had just been kicked in the gut. "Why did he pull out? He wasn't feeling guilty, that's for sure…"
Piccolo chuckled softly. "No. He was my opponent for the next round. Now I advance automatically to fight you, and I will do so without the damage that he could have caused me. He was more seriously injured than I am, and so he was the one to withdraw. Simple enough even for you to understand, ne?"
* * *
.
Goku knelt beside the small, doll-like creature. "We'll wish him back, don't worry." Chaotsu nodded in agreement, but his eyes were still brimming with tears.
"Goku!"
Son turned to face his best friend Krillen, who had flown down to his side. "You won! Of course, I knew you would," he added hastily, "but man! I've never seen anything that close. It looked like Piccolo was gonna win for a while there...not, eh, that I was ever fooled or anything..."
For the first time that day, Son Goku felt like laughing. Casting aside the odd ache that had settled in his chest over the past few moments, the man lifted his smaller friend onto one shoulder and trotted over to the stands.
* * *
He couldn't fly any farther. The wilderness beneath him blurred as if he were underwater (so much so, in fact that he looked around to make sure that there was no sea in sight, for fear that he had landed in one without realizing it) and it wasn't just from the descending twilight. Every breath was like inhaling a mouthful of needles.
Therefore, it came as no real surprise to Piccolo when he found that he was losing altitude, or that he had started spiraling as if he were some hatchling learning to fly all over again. His mind was so dulled that it took him several times longer than it should have to realize that this turn of events was probably not good. The demon shook his head once, trying to take a deep breath to focus, but it was too painful. A last effort to slow his descent with his depleted energy proved to be partially successful in that he didn't die immediately when he hit the ground. The jolt of impact was still enough to make him wonder if he should have bothered.
Cursing, the demon turned his head, coughing blood onto the sand, watching detachedly as it spider-webbed into a graceful splotch on the whiteness. This is the worst I've ever been… No. No pity. I won't have it from him, from myself, from anyone.
Driven by that thought, he tried once to change positions, but the hot pains surfacing in various parts of his body stopped him short. Nothing seemed worth the strain of moving, so he heaved a shallow sigh and settled back into the sand. The once-white grains were already damp with his blood – he was not bleeding nearly as heavily as before, but he was still covered with the liquid from earlier. The grains clung to him like the wet sand on a beach clings to sunbather's feet. He hardly noticed and couldn't have done anything about it if he had. Besides, the sand was still warm from the sun – even though the granules were abrasive to his raw skin and open wounds, the heat was welcome.
He wouldn't have such a luxury for long. He knew from long experience that the desert grew very cold at night. Just one more reason that he probably wouldn't live to see morning. Stop it, he thought with mounting anger. Stop moping and move.
His eyes, as if ignoring him, began to close of their own accord. The demon shook his head, desperately trying to wake himself up. If he lost consciousness, he knew what would happen. His body might start to heal itself – of course, he might be too far gone to recover anyway, but even if he wasn't, he would be in a virtual coma in the meantime. In the desert sun, it wouldn't take him long to dehydrate. He would die.
Not seeming to care, his eyes closed completely. For a while, he was still fully aware and consciously trying to roust himself. Then he realized how tired he was – he couldn't fight his body's demand for sleep any longer. It really didn't matter, anyway. Abandoning his useless efforts, he allowed his mind to blank and his thoughts to be obscured by darkness in the same way that a funeral shroud covers a corpse.
Over the horizon, the crescent moon climbed like a silver scythe lifted by the Reaper's hand to gather in souls. It seemed as if the creatures of the desert had all disappeared, for there was nothing to be seen in the quicksilver spread cast by this moon save for a single, broken form, scraps of cloth occasionally fluttering a bit in a breeze.
* * *
A massive book, black as tar and emblazoned with a pentagram that could well have been drawn in blood, crashed to the slate-gray of the stone floor and lay there like a tear of night sky against a sheet of clouds. Even though the room was large and domed, the fall did not echo. It seemed as if the sound had been cut off, absorbed by the lightless cover.
Tambourine made no move to retrieve it.
His dark eyes, temporarily unfocused, arched toward a window as if in pain. The partial moon flooded the whites with silver, but the midnight irises were unaffected. The fragmented light that they glittered with was of themselves.
"So…" the word was a missile. It didn't echo, nor did the walls, which seemed to be made of wet slices of darkness, absorb it; instead, the word seemed to fly directly out the window, traveling unreflected and unchanged into the night. "I expected as much." There was no anger in the voice, no sadness. No anything.
A green hand clenched against a table to steady a thin, wraithlike frame, gripping so tightly that deep gouges appeared in the wood. The demon swayed slightly as his eyes regained their focus, becoming stronger, stranger. "If he had let us come – I never expected you to win, Piccolo. Son Goku was fighting for his life. You were only fighting for death. Yours or his…I don't think it really mattered much to you, did it? You didn't know that yourself – but no one hides anything from me for long. I knew. And I knew that this would happen."
He looked up suddenly, his eyes fastening on a wall as if it were only a glass curtain. He stayed posed like that, taut and waiting. He looked away with equal abruptness, sitting back down in the chair he had been occupying. One long, supple hand reached down, stretching across the cover of the book. There was a strange harmony to the way that the hand clasped the tome. It was the way that a skilled painter touched a brush, the way that a professional basketball player held a ball. The book was not being carried – it was an extension of the demon's arm.
The demon opened the book with the unconcern of a parent opening a newspaper – a cup of coffee in his other hand would not have seemed out of place. He bowed his head over the page, one that was headed with illuminated text. It read: EXORCISM AND CONTAINMENT.
His lips were pressed into a bloodless, thin line. The hands did not shake. The pages did not rattle. And if his eyes wandered now and again to the crescent moon hovering outside his window, it was most likely only to rest them from the scrawling script on the pages that his delicate, practiced fingers turned.
* * *
Kami checked another sigh as he landed on the marble platform that was his sanctuary, his office, his home, and his life. He was really getting too old for such an adventurous line of work, he thought, but apprentices were a bit difficult to come by. Make that very difficult to come by. Perhaps the hours had something to do with it, he thought ruefully.
"Kami!" a deep, bass voice cried. "Oh, I was so worried – you could have been killed!" After a split-second's silence, the speaker added a belated, "On multiple occasions!"
The aging deity chuckled softly. "Come now, Popo, has it been so very long since I've had to fight?"
"Not long enough, Kami," Popo replied, crossing his arms.
Kami-sama allowed himself another indulgent moment of amusement before the dull ache spreading through his body – most notably in the back, shoulder, and chest – drew his attention to a more serious matter. His eyes softened ever so slightly in what one who knew him well enough would recognize as worry. "Popo, how is Piccolo managing?"
The unaging denizen of the lookout immediately became grim. "Not very well, Kami – not well at all. Should we do something?"
Closing his eyes, the old guardian bowed his head. Presently, he looked up. "No. I have a feeling that "something" is going to happen on its own. Fate has her own agenda to play here, Popo."
"But what if he dies?" the rounded entity countered.
Kami shrugged. "Then that is what fate has in mind. We should not intervene. Besides, after my talk of merging, I have no doubt but that Piccolo would do himself greater injury trying to get away from either of us."
Popo blinked. "Yes, I remember you saying something about that. Why did you bring it up, Kami? You also suggested killing him, which isn't like you at all. Would you really have…"
Shaking his head, the Kami replied, "I don't know. Probably not."
If anything, Popo looked more confused. "Then why suggest it? Before, he merely despised you. Now…"
Smirking in that unsettling way of his, Kami said, "I didn't really want to. Call it intuition. You know that Kamis sometimes have premonitions. I haven't seen much with this one, Popo, but I have seen enough to know that a very strange turn of events is coming up. Our lives will be getting much more complicated over the next few years. Now, if you have no further questions that need answering, I intend to get some sleep."
"Of course, Kami," Popo said softly as his old friend made his way to the palace. He couldn't help but notice the strained expression on Kami's face. He was feeling Piccolo's injuries…Popo could guess that much. "I'll wake you up at the usual time – if you're still alive."
* * *
Goku smiled and stretched, enjoying the sensation of sunlight on his stiff muscles. Behind him was the house he had built yesterday – he had expected the job to take longer, but the Ox King had helped him - and his new wife, Chichi, was still sleeping soundly in the big double bed. He really didn't understand why anyone would want to sleep through such a morning. Naps were for the afternoon.
Well, he could get used to that, he guessed. Actually, he was going to have to get used to a lot of things. There was family life, wiping his feet before he came inside, not training all the time…It seemed to him that an old book had been closed the day before at the Budokai, and a new one had been started. Now all he needed to do was work on his reading…he'd never really gotten the hang of that.
It was by pure chance that he felt it: a slight flickering of ki, almost like a sputtering candle, just east of where he was. The power, whatever it was, was very low, possibly dying, but familiar. Son hesitated a moment. He glanced back at the house nervously to make sure that his wife had not yet awakened and then set off toward the most formidable opponent that he had ever faced.
The soft, verdant treetops of Mount Paozo gave way to rolling sand dunes, much like an ocean giving way to the shore. A spattered green and purple object caught Goku's eye, shockingly dark as it was against the sun- lightened sand. He landed carefully, tucking his tail securely around his waist.
Piccolo lay on the ground before him. He wasn't moving. Not even Son Goku's trained senses could detect a ki level much above one, and even that was probably just residue. When someone with a high power level died, it took a very long time for every last trace of ki to seep away. These "ki ghosts" had tricked him before – most memorably when grandpa Gohan had died.
Son Goku closed his eyes, offering his most powerful opponent a moment of silence. It hurt him inside to see such a waste, hurt more than it should have, more than he would have expected. I'm sorry, Piccolo. I wish you would have let me help you – it could have been different. If I'd known that you were gonna go off and die, I would have followed you. Maybe it would even have been kinder to kill you.
Sprawled out on his side, the demon looked much smaller than he actually was. His eyes were closed, the heavy brows drawn into a scowl. The earth around him was marred by swirling gashes, as if he had tried to move after he had crashed. A thick bluish-purple fluid continued to drip from a few of his wounds; in other places it had dried into a dark, nearly black crust. Even the sand he was lying on was tinted purple, though it was light like a watercolor wash.
Goku knelt beside the unmoving body of his enemy. He had the distinct feeling that he should do something for the warrior – bury him, at the very least. He wondered if touching the corpse would be irreverent. The demon certainly wouldn't have put up with that if he had been alive. On the other hand, he wasn't – that was the whole problem.
Plagued by indecision, the man did nothing but stare at his late rival for some time. The burns that had turned his emerald skin to the color of dark pine needles. The elven ears. The way that his chest rose only occasionally, barely a quarter of an inch…the way that the grains of sand near his mouth were faintly disturbed with every rise…wait a minute. Goku's eyes narrowed, making sure that he was really seeing what he thought he was seeing. He was. Piccolo was still breathing, if just barely.
His first reaction was to utter a disbelieving question: "Piccolo?" Of course, there was no answer. Nervously, Goku reached out a hand and shook the prone warrior a little. This time, he did get a reply of sorts: a barely audible groan. Son grinned in spite of himself. "Wow, I guess you're more stubborn than I gave you credit for."
Son's relief lasted about as long as it took for him to figure out that this turn of events had opened a new problem: if Piccolo was alive, what should be done with him? The man sighed and shifted to a sitting position, crossing his legs Indian style. He propped his elbow on his knee, rested his chin on his palm, and started to think, which was always a very serious undertaking for him. His long, furry tail unwound from his waist and began to weave pensively back and forth as a charmed cobra would.
"Kami thinks I should kill you," Goku muttered. "It'd be a real shame seeing as you've already survived this long, Pic - but maybe he's right." Son didn't know why he was addressing the demon, but he didn't bother to puzzle that through. For him, it was best to stick to one train of thought at a time. "If you're just gonna go around killing people, well…Kami knows more about you than I do. He's told me a lot about you, y'know, and most of it wasn't good. Why do you want to kill everyone, anyway? People aren't so bad." Realizing whom he was talking about, he added, " Well, most of us aren't."
Piccolo didn't so much as twitch. Goku sighed and fidgeted like a student who is called to the blackboard and confronted with a difficult math problem.
"You're evil. I know that, I guess I can't really blame you. I mean, if I had family like yours, I guess I'd be kind of upset, too. Besides, you're a good warrior, best I've ever met." Goku smiled a little, remembering the fight. Here on the ground was possibly the only being who was a match for him in stength, speed, skill, or determination. "I haven't fought your brothers for a while, but I saw Cymbal fight. We're better than he is."
Still, Piccolo was silent. "This would be a lot easier if you'd give me some input," the human said wryly. "You know more about you than any of us. All I know firsthand is that you can fight – well, that and you really don't like me much, do you? Why is that, Piccolo? You never even met me before the Budokai because you aren't Daimao."
Son waited a while before speaking again. "I don't know why I keep thinking you'll talk back. You wouldn't give me a straight answer while you were awake, much less…hey, hold on a second. If you were awake, you could answer some of this stuff. You probably wouldn't want to, but you could."
In Goku's mind, that settled it; he was really, genuinely curious. The man was a lot like a cat that way. He had gone so far as to lift Piccolo from the ground and prepare to take off when he realized that he had no idea where to take him. Goku lay the still-unconscious demon back down as gently as he could and resumed thinking.
I could take him home, I guess... A mental image of Chichi brandishing a rolling pin and screeching in fury caused Goku to wince. Maybe that's not such a great idea. He's hurt pretty bad; maybe he should be in a hospital... An army of white-clad nurses armed with antiseptic, syringes, and various other instruments of torture paraded through Son's mind. Man, I wouldn't wish that on anybody.
Goku gave in to massaging his temples to stave off a headache. Kami'll want to lock me up in a nut bin for even suggesting something like that – besides, he's mad enough at me already. And I don't even want to think about what Piccolo would do if he woke up and Kami was around. Master Roshi won't help, Krillen will faint or something if I even bring Piccolo near him, Yamcha will blast him on sight, it's not safe for him to be around people... A small cave a short distance away caught his eye. "Well, it's not much, but it should work for now," he stated cheerfully as he once again lifted Piccolo.
* * *
The old stone fortress clung tenaciously to the mountainside. To most, it would have been frightening: the walls were large and squarish, turrets spiraled up ominously from the inner walls like spears, accenting the austere lines of the battlements. Iron spikes jutted out from the walls at irregular intervals, giving those walls the look of a large set of crooked, bared teeth. Any passers by would have avoided the structure like a plague... but then, Cymbal reflected, one of the many advantages of living in the Tsumi Tsubri Mountains was that very few passed by.
The eldest son of Daimao glided through the open skylight, landing in a broad, cavernous room. He walked up to his customary seat at the circular table, sweeping the room briefly with his restless eyes. Three other beings, all bearing a strong resemblance to their dead sire, already sat in three of the four remaining chairs. Drum and Piano, hulking creatures that were easily eight feet tall and almost half that broad across the shoulders, sat to his right and left. Tambourine was sitting to the left of Piano, his long fingers pressing together lightly at the tips, his expression studiously blank. Cymbal swore mentally, his raw nerves vibrating like violin strings. He's going to make a nuisance of himself, the elder demon thought, annoyed.
No shorter than Cymbal or Piccolo, Tambourine was slighter, although still well muscled. Physically, he didn't look much like a fighter. Thank all the fates for that, Cymbal thought, smirking a bit. If his power level were even half as remarkable as his insolence, we'd all be in trouble.
The chair opposite Cymbal's remained empty, as did the unadorned throne that crouched at the far end of the room. Cymbal made a mental note to have both removed as quickly as possible. The chair, which had very rarely been used before, was worse than useless now. The throne was something that none of them had used to begin with; it had belonged to Daimao. Now, it served only as a reminder – and an ominous one at that. Even Drum, who was notoriously unimaginative, had often complained that the chair bothered him. He said he could occasionally feel eyes boring into him from that direction.
Reactions to that complaint varied greatly. Piano would shrug dully. Tambourine had behaved indifferently, save for a faint glitter in the pupils of his eyes that could have meant any number of things. Piccolo, on rare occasions when he had been around, would snort disdainfully and mutter something derogatory. This was a rare issue on which Piccolo and Cymbal could agree – stone was stone. The fact that Cymbal sat facing the aforementioned stone rather than with his back to it was purely coincidental.
"Well?" growled Piano, not bothering to hide his impatience.
"The monkey's still alive," Cymbal stated, voice never wavering, tone resigned.
"And where is our brother?" Drum asked, tapping his fingers on the table absently. "Did he die, or was it just too much trouble to come back here and report?"
"I don't know. When I left, he was bleeding his life out on the arena floor. We need not trouble ourselves over him." The oldest of the four turned to inspecting his claws as if looking for some lingering trace of blood, though if one looked hard enough, one might have seen a satisfied smile playing about his thin lips.
"Do you think that Kami died with him?" Piano asked, leaning forward with almost childish eagerness.
Cymbal shrugged. "Who knows, or cares, what happened to that old fool. What matters is that Son Goku is alive, and Piccolo isn't. He had little to do with us anyway; he only worked with us when he had no other recourse. He did not disgrace us, at least; Daimao was right about his power, but he was too...independent."
A low, smooth voice made itself heard for the first time. The speaker sounded as if he were whispering. "How sure are you that he's dead, brother?" The tone held no concern, no hope, no satisfaction, and only a very little interest. But then, Tambourine didn't show interest in much of anything.
His gaze remaining downcast, the oldest of the demons pressed his lips together tightly. "He had lost. He was bleeding heavily. Had a few broken bones, more likely than not. Son Goku had just eaten a senzou and was headed toward him. He'd need more lives than a cat to get out of that one, Tambourine."
Tambourine shrugged. "I suppose so. It's just as well – convenient, in a way – that he should die just as he was becoming difficult to control. It's saved you the trouble of having to kill him.
Cymbal looked up sharply at Tambourine, searching for any sign of accusation. There was no outward indication of insincerity in his younger brother's mannerism. Tambourine met his brother's gaze unflinchingly with relaxed eyes and half-lowered lids. It was not as if Tambourine were looking at him or into him. The stare was not defiant – was, in fact, far less belligerent than those which Piccolo had often directed at him. The look was offensive only because Cymbal felt as if he weren't there. Yes, that was the problem with Tambourine exactly: he made people feel as if they had no selves, as if they were mere extensions of everyone else. And Cymbal hated it.
.
"I'm glad that you see it that way," the eldest demon said softly, testing for a response. One didn't respond to something that didn't exist.
Tambourine's posture remained lax – in fact, he seemed bored. Cymbal fought back a growl – how did he manage always to react in the exact way that Cymbal didn't want him to without being openly…anything? He hated talking to his younger brother. He always felt as if he had looked up a half-second too late, as if Tambourine were laughing at him whenever he turned away. As if Tambourine knew what he wanted and purposely withheld it.
"Should we attack Son Goku now, Cymbal?"
The eldest brother started, shaken from his reverie by Piano's suggestion. "He is too powerful," he snapped, emptying his frustration into those words. "We must continue our training and wait for the right moment. Who knows, something favorable might come up."