Author's Note: Hey guys! I know, its been a long time, longer than originally promised. All this time, I've been working on this story, writing and rewriting, developing my skills until finally, I think I've begun to produce something worthwhile, for both you and me. As well, I had originally promised that I would give a 'big update', in which I would have written enough new chapters to replace those that currently are posted, or at this point, had been originally posted. I've realized by now that I would never get that done, and the 'stress' of that idea, piled on top of the beginning of my junior high school year, among other things, would have added to the procrastination that prolonged the actual update to this story. So, I'm going to write each chapter one at a time. Right now, the prologue is, as you know, finished, and chapter 1 is in the works, about halfway through. A good portion of the rest of the story is already planned out, but needs to be written. So, all in all, I think we're in a better place than when we started!
As foxyrules and The God of War Kratos pointed out in their original reviews (among many others of whom I am grateful for their criticism!), my original draft was confusing and quite OOC. Now, I think I have semi-solid story which will be far more in depth and explanatory than the last, and hopefully, much more satisfying. So, without much further adieu, I hope you will enjoy the second draft of Dragon Ball Z: Gods and Monsters!
(Also, how awesome was Avengers: Infinity War?! And who is HYPED for Dragon Ball Super: Broly?!)
[BTW, this will most likely be uploaded on mobile, so please excuse any issues, if there are any. I will fix this, and re-upload from a computer when I am able.]
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Prologue:
Nestled deep in the farthest recess of his mind, he drifted in a sort of solace, though his might be a humiliation to the word. He simmered, his soul yet raw and thrumming from the titanic effort of his latest tantrum, one that, once, would have bid the very scaffold of the galaxy quake in a mad moment of terror. He kept himself barely under control, if only for the calming necessity of sentience; for, without that factor to part him from those lesser beings, what would he become? He had already glimpsed a sliver of that possible fate, the effect of his continued, futile rage. Screaming out into the infinite blackness, reduced to hardly anything more than a writhing, mindless mess trapped within the cage of his own, empty conscious... he'd fall unhinged from the deprivation of it all, his lack of sensation driving him to an edge of depravity he had never imagined possible. And the Makers had called it a display of "charity"! A given grace to a monster undeserving of the gift of life itself!
No, no no! he thought, Those swine just didn't have the power to finish me off, as they well should have!
The mere memory of it pitched him into another explosive fit of fury, his essence further unraveling from its fragile spool.
THeIRs WaS A MiSTaKE! he cried out into abyss, feeling for all the world too similar to a rabid animal on the verge of collapse. He could see it now, in his mind, his form a replica of that frenzied beast backed into a corner, thrashing from side to side, desperately searching for some grounding medium out of which he could garner some sense of sanity. No, no, he was better than this, wasn't he? He was a GOD, and they could not take that from him! Yes, he was the muse from which was inspired all those fantastically horrid tales one might tell their children to frighten them into obedience. The lurking, displaced deity observing their zealots from the shadows afar; forgotten by the centuries, unwelcome, abandoned and powerless.
Powerless.
Oh, YES, a fatal mistake, he reconciled. Leaving me alive has only served to provide me time; time to fabricate my revenge!
Oh, and how sweet that revenge would be.
Occupied as he was, spinning webs of intricate schemes and treacherous plots (the stuff of unspeakable murder, really), he was taken by surprise when a rift was rent through the seams of his reality. The light spilling through the rift shined brighter than a thousand suns, a brilliance so dazzling and piercing as to reduce him to a cowering invalid. He shied away from the glare, and endeavored to shield himself from the awful, scouring glow like a foul creature of the night. Its cleansing, caustic nature sprayed about him in gilded sheets, scorching against the tainted veneer of his vile psyche. Blinding as it was, a radiant lightning storm, he endured until, at last, he had cultivated an ample resilience to its near-divine strength.
Bracing himself, he peered closer at the rift, spying its jagged brink, like a tear in the flesh. A hazardous, peculiar sense of hope frothed up in his mind, countless possibilities that ran through his fraying head like tap water, each going too fast to elaborate upon before he snapped. Had they been in a physical mode of reality, one might have witnessed him launch himself at the breach in a stroke of utter madness, captivated entirely by the mystery of the fissure's potential. He pawed and scrabbled at the serrated edges, vying for a grip on the fracture to stare through into the other side. As he came close enough to press an eye to the figurative looking glass, all went still in his existence, bated breath catching in his throat.
Yes, yes, YES! You damnable, filthy cretins!
There, before the shell of his physical body, was a ring of lowly mortals about his feet. They appeared as ants before his enormous form, little stumps of things cloaked in shadow. Warlocks, he assumed, their Gregorian chanting swelling in a chorus of unintelligible words and syllables that, blended together in that precise way of theirs, fabricated the heart of their black magics.
Oh, their efforts were not lost in vain, he knew for certain. Drilling into the hull of his prison, the warlocks' sorcery hacked apart the finely crafted spellwork of the Makers, chipping away at the seams of him. He had been rendered catatonic by his fellow gods, locked up within his own body and frozen still. Now, all their meticulous labor with those foolish, draining incantations were to be undone at the hands of mortals. Mortals! The mere thought of it riled him silly.
Each strike of the black magic against his ancient husk fired shivers about his deadened flesh, tremors of sensation wriggling through the concourse of his wakening form. How strange and wonderful it was, to feel again, with each pulse of the witchcraft around him throbbing in concert alongside the rousing of his presently feeble heart. And how quickly his senses returned to him! The rift had been no rift at all, but rather the first piece of his puzzle being torn away.
First came his eye, as each and every chunk of carved stone fell away from his whole. He could feel it spin in his skull, adjusting itself after years of neglect and misuse, the pupil contracting and expanding as it grew used to the new, natural light of the world. Then, his tongue; it lay thick and heavy in his jaw, and he lolled it around his mouth, tasting the bitter unrealness of the magic at work like a splash of salt.
The rest of his nervous system followed after, sensation seeping back into him as a wave against the sand. It came, crashing and heaving, snarling a thrill of vertigo about his legs and neck that invited only a strange quiver of delight at its mere perception. He flexed his limbs and digits, rolling the gargantuan broadness of his shoulders, and letting the enormous length of his tail whip and lash. Oh it felt so good to be alive again! The dark blood in his veins was pumping, pulsing in his titanic ears, and he parted his jaws for a monstrous cry that rattled the planet he had been stationed upon.
Then, a noise. A small, gnat of sound pricked at his ear, and suddenly vexed, he drew his impatient gaze down upon the earth far below, searching for the source of the nettling racket. As before, he now noticed, the warlocks that had brought about his freedom were still in a formation that encircled his feet, though they had scattered a bit, their circle ragged and misshapen. They had vaguely dispersed, moving frantically to avoid the falling boulders and slabs of rock tumbling off of his body. Presently, they gawked in shock and awe at the reality of the creature they had summoned, trembling, paralyzed in fear.
How small they were… he could quash them with a single step, if he were so inclined. No. That would be barbaric. After all, they were the ones who had freed him of his shackles. Treating them with some semblance more dignity than the immense loathing he bore for them currently would have been a more appropriate stance; and yet, indulging in that lingering, morbidly familiar sense of madness felt as an all the more enticing choice.
Their wicked, pitiful prayers and cries for mercy fell upon deaf ears. In a single stride, silence once more consumed the solar system. As he raised his head to the heavens and looked out into the infinite blackness, the full scope of his punishment was made known to him.
For his prison, the edge of the universe was a poor choice of locale, for though he was nowhere near any form of life (at even the most base definition of the word), the Makers' brainless decision had provided him the opportunity of attack from any side.
The thought of revenge had never seemed so sweet.
And then, an epiphany. The revelation, it danced and swirled about in his head, growing greater and more elaborate with each passing moment. Yes… yes, how marvelous... it seems they couldn't erase every blemish of mine…
Traces of his power, from that time long past, yet remained in the universe, stained too deeply into the fabric of creation to be ripped out. The Makers had tried to weave over his 'mistakes', and though their attempt was admirable at best, like a fingerprint or unseen wisp of scent in the forest, his hold on their precious cosmos had not wholly been removed. From the inside, he would demolish the Kais' beloved work like a virus, and he knew just where to start.
How curious… he thought as he prepared to depart, angling his regard upon the far away site of his destination. They permitted a seed of mine to slip through…
He afforded himself no further indulgence of such folly, such waste of time. He would need to act fast, then nurture a new virtue of patience, for he knew that fortune came to those who wait.
Oh, how comforting it was, in a way, to utilize that long lost power of his. Testing and flexing the scope of his renewing abilities, there was pleasure in the familiarity of it all as he utilized his favored form of passage. He commanded his body crumble under the strength of his will, the remains of him nothing more than a storm of ash and dust carried off by the tugging, unseen threads of gravity and cosmic winds.
It's showtime.
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His was perfect, the ultimate perception of sound and scent, touch and taste. All of this made up for the glaring flaw in his person, offering him a fruitful perk or two. His spirit knew greater liberation, greater mastery, where his eyes yet failed him.
Strolling into the tunnel, escaping from under the shaded veil of night, he slackened his gait, surrendering unto the cadence and choir of the world's innate beauty. The flickering of the torches sounded fiercely in his ears, a pleasant ambiance in concert with the echoes of his footfalls about the hall.
Then that world of calm and quiet went away. He breached some unseen boundary, and the very air around him seized up with a peculiar heaviness, lurching as though mirroring the sway of the tides. He halted immediately in his tracks.
Something was not right. The natural balance was upset.
Hurrying along, though attempting to maintain some semblance of nonchalance, he made his way to the end of the hall. As he made for the throne room, a stark realization began to peck at his peripherals, growing bolder with every step. Though he could not see it, there was the shadow of a man at the edge of the room ahead, and the soul, how familiar it was...
His mouth went dry at the thought, his wariness made manifest. Just steps away, he slowed, his pace like that of a snail's. Assuming his typical stance, he approached the man at the foot of the throne room.
"I assume my faith in you is not misplaced, my lord." he inquired quietly.
"Oracle, you know me." said the man.
"I do. Such is the reason why I shall not question the presence of a dead man in the throne room."
He felt the other's eyes upon him, but he carried on, shameless.
The corpse was lying there in the center of the floor, face pressed against the stonework, heaved onto its side. Oh, and the smell! They were in the company of Death, and the room was wreathed in that pungent musk of rot and decay. The mere smell of it wriggled in his skin, as revolting as the peeling back of his nails. How long had the unfortunate fellow been abandoned to the elements...
Something inside him shifted as that brief moment began to stretch, when soon he needed a change of topic, some distracting ephemera.
"However, I am here to bring up what has been a pressing concern of mine. Permission to seek audience with the King?" it was a mouthful to say, and that came at the consequence of his natural, musical inflection.
"Permission granted. Oracle, you should know by now, there is no need to be so formal with me!"
Those words — from his King, his friend! — they broke him; nevertheless, he forged on.
"I understand. I am simply maintaining my position as impartial adviser to the Queen and King." he supplied, rolling his shoulders. After a moment's pause, Oracle fastened his wrapped, sightless gaze upon his comrade. "Drago, does the Lady still intend to perform the ritual?"
The intensity of his Lordship's glare sharpened, though no anger serrated those dark eyes. No.. it was something else entirely. If Drago had been with bated breath, he'd concealed it well. Oracle's King heaved a great sigh, the tension coiling in his muscles unwinding.
"Aye, she does. Within the coming month, I think." Drago divulged, the exhaustion in his voice utterly betraying him.
"She does recall that it requires five Saiyans of righteous endeavor, correct?" he pointed out.
"I'm certain she knows. She intends to go on with her plans, regardless of our caution." Drago snapped. Oracle repressed the urge to flinch at that. He likened the temper in his companion's utterance to the bite of a thorn.
Impatience, Oracle surmised. But why?
"Oracle, you are dismissed." ordered Drago, never once gracing his old friend with the affirmation of even the smallest of glances. He peered down upon the dead man before him, so taken, so enraptured in his stare that Oracle might have made the assumption that he wasn't all there.
"My lord?" inquired the adviser, leaning to, perchance, catch the eyes of his occupied King. Tickled, Oracle shook out his head, shifting the place of the bang clipping out of his inscribed blindfold.
"Leave, my friend. I require solitude." came the curt reply.
Not daring to test the temper of his King any further, Oracle straightened, lacing his fingers behind his back, the wide hems of his sleeves falling over the detail of his hands. Offering a quiet word of farewell, Oracle made to depart, turning on his heel in a single, graceful movement.
On his brief journey from the throne room, the adviser finally found the word to entitle the hideous, unbearable sentiment rising in his belly, and shaking up his once-serene thoughts like a swarm of bees. Suspicion. Doubt, skepticism, and all their intolerable allies had been given purchase in his deportment after that curious encounter with Drago, and Oracle despised that. He cherished and upheld himself as the impartial medium between all the evils of the mortal soul, and relished in never knowing the taint of such corruption. He could not boast that position now, and more than that, he knew he could not trust the man who had been his closest companion. Cold blood now soaked that man's hands, and Drago could not tell him why. While Oracle knew that secrets would be secrets, the evident severity of this one, he understood, spelled chaos for all involved. Of this, he was certain.
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That was close... too close.. Idle and uncomfortable in his own skin, Drago yielded to his ravenous need and distracted himself, massaging his brow with calloused fingers. Oh how he hated this, concealing secrets from his kingdom, from the two most trusted people in his life! He couldn't reveal this to them now, though, could he? It was far too late in the game, they'd think him mad, out of his mind, and with good reason...
What, the King of all Saiyans talking to the voices in his head? Pursuing nonsense, 'prophetic' dreams of untold death and destruction?
Slowly, slowly, his trembling hand dropped, and free of selfish diversion, Drago looked down upon his vile work.
Slaughtering his own, all for a farce that may never pan out.
He gulped down the cold saliva pooling in his jaw.
Gods, what had he done…
Drago's stomach turned, hot bile bubbling up into his throat. Nausea snatched at him, sinking its ill, quivering teeth into his veins. The room felt suddenly constricting, tight and musty and-
Something slammed against him, and he stumbled, catching himself as he staggered a step back. When he made to look up, dread petrified his insides, calcifying every fleck of hope.
The room was filled with smoke and dappled with ash. Where once torches had brightened the hall, casting the throne room in a comfortable orange glow, darkness pervaded every nook and cranny. It was as if all the light in the world had been snuffed out, save for the phantasmal gray haunting the room like a low fog. Specks of dust choked out the air, hanging suspended about the room and drifting lazily.
Drago shivered at the eldritch scene before him, taken with the sense that he'd stepped into the aftermath of a planet's death.
In that instant, the obscuring veil of sooty specks halted, unmoving. In the blink of an eye (he missed it), all the grime clogging the air spiralled into a furious vortex, the mad winds swiping mercilessly at him before all fell still again.
Wary of another, lurking tempest, Drago moved at a more lax pace as he made to look up and survey the room. His arm, braced just before his eyes, lowered steadily when he came to realize that the throne room had again returned to its regular state. The torches crackled at the edges of the hall, but that was it. Something, though, pricked at the back of his mind. There was something missing…
"I assume you are the one with whom I spoke of the nigh apocalypse?"
Unseen fingers melted through his chest and grasped at his heart, crushing, suffocating. The cadaver was alive. Standing and stretching out its rusting limbs, the carcass he'd harvested was animated before him once more.
Tendrils of power were unraveling from this thing, and though he could not physically feel them, the very thought of the energy this abomination possessed turned Drago's blood to ice. There was no limit to it; it kept going and going. The longer Drago tried to gauge its level, the more endless the level of spirit grew. It made his head spin, vertigo seizing him in a death roll. The tendrils snaked along his arms, his legs, his neck, and squeezed. Drago couldn't breathe.
Never before had he, in all of his life, felt so small and frightened as he did now. Beneath the corpse's all-consuming, molten gold glare, Drago lost himself in an oblivion of his own making.
"Hm?"
Choking on a gasp, Drago desperately attempted to quell the trembling in his hands.The body moved, face to face with him now, and Drago could not comprehend a moment of it. As he summoned the courage and words to speak, Drago found himself beguiled by the cadaver's dark, captivating aspect.
"Aye. I am." was all he could muster, hacking up the syllables against his own inhibitions.
Lips moved, grinning beneath an untamed, protruding tangle of beard. "Good, good. We have much to do. Much to discuss." said the dead man, retreating a pace.
This was what he'd slaughtered that man for. He'd killed him in an ambush, a cloak-and-dagger affair. Drago simmered, feeling hollow and rotten. That was no way to die; the fellow hadn't even had the chance to fight back! He didn't even remember the sacrifice's name. What was it…
"Tell me, do you have a name?" came the words, unbidden, from his mouth. Another selfish, futile distraction.
"I have had many names in my lifetime. Too many to count, too insignificant to matter." said the living carcass, as easily as one would blink. It looked down fondly as it unfolded an arm, flexing its hand and staring as though working a show of magic. Casting a sideways glance, it studied the long member jutting out of its backside, watching with intrigue as its tail swayed from side to side, hypnotic. "Tell me, what was the name of this man, the one you murdered for my vessel?"
The insult, however underhanded, speared into him, simply more salt in his wound. Oh, how his self-hatred boiled!
That was when the realization dawned on him. That's it.
"Argon. His name was Argon." he murmured, the words soft-spoken as a drifting feather.
"A sturdy title… it will do. Now, the time for preparation has come." proclaimed the monstrosity possessing Argon's dead body. It took up a peculiar stance, stamping its fists at the small of its back. Drago was with a sense that he'd seen that same posture somewhere else before, but where…
"Come," beckoned the possessor, having strode past Drago, all the way to the mouth of the palace tunnel. Drago submitted, doing as commanded. His was a slower gait, though they strolled side by side into the darkened hall when he'd found his footing.
Drago could not help but feel kept under lock and lead beneath the cadaver's glowing stare and cunning, ivory smile. The unseen leash constricted tight around his throat, and as the pair of them stepped out into the crisp night air, he wanted nothing more than to melt into the nihility of the vast universe. Kept secured and fastened to his new, vile duty by the fiend at his side, such a fate had become all but impossible.
After a time, the reality of his present destiny, once a fuse at the ready, exploded in his mind. Like a drug, the truth of it all filled up his veins, sedating his every thought. Before, he might have supplied some form of resistance against this threat. Now, all he knew was the macabre sincerity of this terminal, irrevocable death sentence.
In the moment of his final realization, he felt as if it had taken all his strength to turn, and gaze at his executioner. Perhaps it had.
"There is a pawn that we need. They are necessary to our plans, and I understand that you may be familiar with their name." drawled the new Argon, preoccupied as he examined the sprawling metropolis spreading out from the foot of the palace. "Tell me, do you know of the one they call Freeza?"