Been reading angsty Yamcha stories. So here's my contribution to the stockpile. Yes, I know Puar is supposed to be guy. This'll probably only be two chapters. Three at most.

Disclaimer: I don't even own the clothes on my back.

Yamcha stared at himself in the mirror. The bags under his eyes were not quite as heavy as they might have been yesterday, but they were still pronounced enough for him to hate them. He felt like ass and he'd tried everything not to. He'd taken four pills instead of two, he'd chased them down with damn near a full glass of Hennessy, he'd hugged Puar and told her he loved her, and he'd even gotten in contact with his favorite call girl. Yamcha unscrewed the cap of his mouthwash. The noxious scent of mint filled his small bathroom. Maybe it was the fact she'd already been booked for the afternoon and so he'd only gotten a half hour with her that was keeping him from reaching a decent high. That was as good an explanation as any, he reasoned. In any case Yamcha felt like ass.

As he stood in front of the bathroom mirror rinsing his mouth out (because you can always stand to do it a second time, especially after drinking), he listened to Puar answer the phone. It was one of the things he was leaving up to the shapeshifter lately, he realized but thought little of it. No one worth talking to ever called anyway. Besides, Yamcha liked listening to Puar talk.

"Yes…" Yamcha heard the high pitched and always hesitant voice of his friend say. "Yamcha's getting ready right now. We'll- we'll be there… Yes. No. I mean it. He's coming out of the bathroom right now- Yes. Ok. Goodbye." There's a click as Puar hangs up the phone. The shapeshifter sighs, then floats towards her friend, her first friend, and smiles for him. Years ago, when they were still thieves eking out a living in the desert, he had told her he would happily trade a king's ransom for any of her goofy grins, and since then she had always greeted him with one. "Yamcha," she says. "That was Krillin. He wanted to make sure you could make it today."

The former highwayman spit and watched the mouthwash bubble as it clung to the corners of his sink. "Figured," he says. Then he leaves the bathroom, makes his way to the closet he calls his, and begins rifling through all of his many worthless possessions. "Hey, Puar," Yamcha calls out over his shoulder. "You seen my suit jacket? The shitty yellow one?"

"It's- um- on your bed, Yamcha. I laid out your clothes while you were washing up." So she had. Yamcha doesn't waste time trying to understand how he missed something so obvious. He'd missed a lot of things throughout his life and what was one more on top of that? But this wasn't just one more, a voice in his mind reminded him. Lately he didn't notice much of anything. He forgot meals, what day it was, where he left his keys, and so much more. The voice reminded him it was only because of Puar he ever managed a full stomach. Deciding he had enough, Yamcha swatted the voice away as best he could. It would be back but hopefully not until after this party was over.

Supposedly it was the anniversary of the first Budokai they'd all participated in. The one where Yamcha had had his leg broken and Krillin had died. For some reason this was something they should have been celebrating every year. At least according to Bulma and Chi-Chi.

And Krillin, he remembered (sort of). Krillin had thought it a good idea too. Ever since Buu, the former monk had begun imagining they were this close-knit group of friends and it made Yamcha sick to listen to him. You'd think they were something out of an old fairy-tale with the way the dwarf described them to his daughter. And even to his wife who knew better. Yamcha knew better too and unlike her he had no problem correcting Krillin. They were strangers, he had told him. Strangers who'd jotted down each other's contact information years ago and now thought it too impolite to not send out an invitation whenever there was some kind of party. So the dwarf should stop telling such ridiculous stories. And as for heroes? What danger had they ever averted in all their lives? Krillin had given him an angry look that gradually became less severe until it looked almost like pity. And then it had been Yamcha's turn to be angry.

"Do you want to take a cab, Yamcha?" Puar asked. She'd been hovering in the corner of the room watching him dress. "I know- I know you don't like to because it's so much slower than flying but-"

"Sure, we can take a cab," says Yamcha as he fastened a belt around his trousers. He doesn't bother with a button up shirt tonight. "Actually, let me make sure I've got bills small enough to pay with." He did. They were right there in his wallet alongside his own obnoxiously grinning face. He pulls the ID out and flips it so that his face is covered by the wallet's leather then pockets the whole thing and tries to force it from his mind. "Cab guy'll be getting a pretty big tip," he says to Puar.

Puar talked the whole way. About the laundry, about the new cashier girl at corner store, about how a dress she'd found that she thought might go good with the human form she used for shopping trips, about anything she could think of to fill the silence. Yamcha listened because at some point in the last couple years he'd forgotten how to talk to her. Well not just her. Everyone. But he liked to listen, and he liked to hold Puar so when she complained about how unattractive her human visage was, he reached over and hugged her. Something like a whimper had come out of Puar then and Yamcha didn't know what to make of it. Maybe how to hug her was something else he'd forgotten.

So it goes.

The city passed them in a blur. It was too early in the afternoon for it to have come alive like cities did at night, with the darkness making their innumerable man-made lights shimmer like jewels. Yet it was also too late in the day for the marble towers to force their size onto those wandering their streets. Instead everything was covered in an ugly shade of orange that was just bright enough to drown out the street lamps.

Black trashbags dipped in orange by the setting sun waited patiently along the curb. Come morning all would be loaded onto the back of a dump truck and crushed by its gears until everything fit.

Yamcha wonder what it would be like to be crushed. He'd died so many different ways now (well, really only twice but the others were so close they might as well count) yet never by crushing. Maybe it felt like the time Tenshinhan shattered his leg except on a much broader scale? As they neared the Brief's residence he imagined himself being compacted by the grinding machinery of a dump truck and flattened by something heavy like a statue or boulder. His skin would bulge and discolor as the veins that ran throughout it burst and then there'd be a crunching noise like when you step on a small insect. But then he remembered he wasn't mundane enough for a death like that and he angrily tipped the cab man almost half the fare.

"We're here," says Puar nervously. She smiles at Yamcha. "Are you alright?" she asks.

"Yeah, I'm good," he says. "Let's get this over with," he adds as if resignation will make the minutes move faster or somehow make him less aware of them. Puar nods and the two make their way to the intercom. Yamcha remembers the code that would allow him to talk to house directly. It's the day Bulma solved an equation her father couldn't. She'd been ten according to the story Tights had told him. But Yamcha knew how worthless stories were and he hit the number posted for the security guard instead. "Yamcha and Puar," he said into the device. "Here for the Z Gathering." There's the sound of static and then the gate opens. A small robot greets them before showing the way to what Yamcha had assumed would be a cookout area. Instead he finds a perfect recreation of the ring from the old World Martial Arts Tournaments.

"Well color me surprised!" Yamcha turns to see Bulma walking towards him. She must have come from the main compound. "I figured you two were going to be at least an hour late but you're actually on time."

"Hello, Bulma," says Puar cheerfully.

"Yeah, hi," says Yamcha turning back to stare at the ring. "What's with the tournament stage?"

"Just a fun little thing I thought we'd all enjoy. A martial arts tournament like the one we're commemorating." Bulma sounds a little wistful as she speaks. She's staring at the tournament ring now too and it's enough to convince Yamcha to look elsewhere. "This used to ground us. Every three years we'd meet, swap stories, and make promises for next time. When we stopped attending we all drifted apart. Which is why I want it back in our lives." Bulma pauses and the silence lets Yamcha know that he's supposed to say something. But he doesn't want to. So he stands there, quiet, and lets the silence carry on until Bulma herself feels compelled to fill it. "A-anyway, we got every kind of food you could imagine inside. So help yourselves to some but don't eat too much! Unless you're Goku fighting on a full stomach is never good."

"I'm not participating," says Yamcha. He's still not looking at her but he knows she's set her jaw. He can almost feel it in fact. "Who else is here?"

"The Sons and Piccolo," Bulma answers determined to be a good host. "Come on, I've got enough food laid out to feed a small nation which means we've only got a few minutes before Goku and Goten finish it all." Puar laughed. Yamcha didn't. Both followed Bulma into the air-conditioned building, through the pallid white halls ("A mad scientist's lair." Isn't that what he'd called it? When? Too long ago. Dr Brief's was unassuming but still had an edge. Hard eyes when he looked at Yamcha. The man had said nothing and yet everything when he shook his head. Yamcha had been so scared he wanted to run. He should have run. Why doesn't he run now?) and finally into a huge open room with tables and chairs and even televisions littered about.

Everyone comes in threes. Gohan comes with Videl and their daughter Pan. Bulma is there with Vegeta and Trunks. Launch is clutching onto Tenshinhan's arm while he looks uncomfortable and Chiaotzu smirks at them. Krillin arrives with Eighteen and their daughter Maron. The Muten Roshi appears with Oolong and Sea Turtle in tow. Even Piccolo can be said to be three, not one. They talk and Yamcha listens.

At some point during the night Puar lets Yamcha know that all of his favorite meals are there and that they all taste delicious.

"This stuff is great," says the shapeshifter, still in her natural shape. She holds up a plate carrying something likely unappetizing to a cat but perfectly fine for a human. "Try some!"

Yamcha shrugs without even looking at the food. "I'm not hungry, Puar."

"Yamcha," says Puar as she puts a paw on his hand. "You haven't eaten today. You have to be hungry."

"Dunno what to tell you, Puar. I'm just not."

"But, Yamcha-" Puar's voice is calm. Even sympathetic. And for some reason that makes Yamcha angry. Angry with the one person he's never once felt anger towards.

"I said I'm not hungry!" he snaps and Puar recoils as if she'd been smacked. Her smile cracks, tears welling in her eyes.

"I'm sorry, Yamcha," she says softly. "I didn't mean to push you like that."

"No- Puar, I'm-" but he doesn't know what.

"I have to go. Excuse me." And just like that she leaves him.

Yamcha doesn't chase after her or scream. He doesn't know if he can. His limbs feel cold, distant, as if they belong to someone else and he's feeling this world through that person. Do his legs work? Yes. He's beginning to stand so clearly they must. There are eyes on him. Too many. Pin pricks on his back and all around his neck like dried sweat being cracked open on a hot day. He needs to go. To be somewhere else.

The halls haven't changed in all the years he's been gone. Only the pictures that line them are different. Maybe the lights too but he can't really see them. He makes a left then a right and he finds himself in a familiar room. It's the small kitchen the family used when they didn't feel like being served. Empty liquor bottles line the top of the fridge, a tradition Bulma had picked up from Tights. There had to be more in the cabinet, Yamcha thought to himself. Actual bottles of whiskey, brandy, maybe even wine. Bulma thought every household should carry wine regardless of how much the residents actually enjoyed it.

"Yamcha," an elderly voice says. The former highwayman spins in place to see the massive form of Piccolo standing in the doorway. The doorway he had only just come through. Was the Namekian following him? And what was that voice? "Are you alright?"

Yamcha grimaces. "Peachy," he says turning back to his task. He finds a bottle of cheap bourbon, places it on the counter, and notices that Piccolo is still watching him. "Can I help you with something?"

"Possibly," says the normally stoic Namekian. Why is his voice so different? "Do you mind listening to an old man for a few minutes?"

"Not like I'm doing anything."

Piccolo nods and steps into the room. He's smiling, something Yamcha had never seen him do. Not unless it was the kind of smile meant to show off his fangs. "How have you been, Yamcha?" he asks. "It has been many years since we've spoken."

"Been alright." Silence. It's still Yamcha's turn to speak. "What's with the voice?" he asks because it's bothering him more than it should.

"Hm? It is I. The one you once called Kami."

"Aren't you an' Piccolo one now or something?"

"Of course but we still had very different lives and very different feelings for the same people. Sometimes it gets jumbled together making it difficult to discern how I should be feeling. This… well talking like this helps me organize my mind. And I thought you might find it easier to talk to than Piccolo's normal put-upon harshness." He's still smiling. Yamcha focuses on pouring himself a drink. His limbs are starting to feel his again if only barely but the Namekian's eyes are digging into him. "That doesn't seem healthy, Yamcha."

"Neither's anything else about my life." Yamcha drinks. There's quiet. He hopes the Namekian will leave. Kami doesn't.

"Do you remember when you came to me for training?" Yamcha doesn't answer. "You were such a braggadocio! So full of confidence. It drove Mr Popo mad. I don't think in all his years he'd ever met a martial artist like you. In fact, he went so far as to tell me he didn't think people like you should be martial artists but-" the former god went silent. He was wrestling with something. The thoughts of a demon, a god, and a warrior all in place must leave him confused at times. Then he nodded, as if some higher consensus had been reached. "The months after Trunks was conceived. You were living in the city and you felt Bulma's ki fluctuate wildly one night. You went to her. The two of you had screamed such obscenities at one another, yet you rushed to her side to find her weeping by her bed. She was pregnant and Vegeta had already run off into space. You lived with her for next seven years after that. You left only when Vegeta swore to be a good father.

"It was such a small thing and yet… I asked Mr Popo if he still thought you unfit to be a warrior. He said 'a good man a good fighter does not make' but I ignored him. For centuries there had been a sour taste in my mouth. More and more I found myself apathetic to the lives of men. The dragonballs meant to restore hope became the cause of endless war. The students of the champion I had once selected squabbled amongst each other and isolated themselves from the world."

"Is this going to be some 'It's a Wonderful Life' speech?" Yamcha pours himself another glass. This time he doesn't even taste the alcohol as he downs it.

"Forgive me," says the Namekian. "What I am trying to say is, you and Krillin reminded me that apathy is folly. That while it is no one person's responsibility to end all suffering, none of us are free to shirk the responsibility of helping those around us whatever our own misgivings. Which is why I am trying to understand how is it that you've fallen so far into apathy yourself." Yamcha's hand smacked down on the counter but the Namekian pressed on. "You were not like this just a few short years ago when we faced Majin Buu. What has been happening, Yamcha? Tell me." No response. The human was shaking, his body pulling itself in twenty different directions as the Namekian spoke.

"Are you mocking me, Piccolo?" he said finally able to give voice to at least one of the thoughts running through him. "Is this some kind of joke?" The Namekian ignored Yamcha's outburst. He continued to stare at him, alien eyes never leaving the human. And then Yamcha felt something like a tug but not on his physical person. Memories and thoughts became crisper and then seemingly more ordered. "Stop," he said. The sensation continued. "I said stop!" Yamcha now shouted. His breathing had quickened to match his heart rate. "No one gave you permission to do that."

"Yamcha, please," the once Devil and God said. His four fingered hands were outstretched in a show passivity. "I am trying to help you."

"Get away from me!" Yamcha shoved his way into the hall his mind once again pulling him a hundred different ways. He thought of Puar, for a moment convincing himself he needed to find her and that then everything would be well. But then the walls started coming in. Tighter and tighter they squeezed until it was impossible to breathe. Yamcha fled out into the night, hoping to get away from the constriction. He stumbled for a few moments, finally able to breathe, before the feeling returned. His clothes now were digging into him.

Yamcha tore them away. First his jacket then the shirt underneath. And it was then that he realized it hadn't been the walls strangling him. It was his own skin. Like a man possessed Yamcha slowly raised his hands to his throat. With a vice-like grip he clamped down around it.

Die.

"Hey you ok there, buddy?" asked a familiar voice.

Even through the haze Yamcha could sense Krillin behind him. He forced his emotions down, choking back his hate, and stood. Still Yamcha did not look at Krillin. The bandit couldn't trust himself to do that.

"What's it to you?" Yamcha demanded to know.

"Found Puar crying in the bathroom," said Krillin almost nonchalantly. "She seemed pretty worked up, man. Told me some worrying stuff."

Now Yamcha's hands were balled into fists. "Like what?" he asked.

"Like how she's scared to leave for groceries because she doesn't know if you'll still be alive when she gets back," answered Krillin. How like him to cut as deep as he could in one swing. "Personally, I think that's more my thing, ya know. Me and Eighteen were joking about it on the fly over. We figure next time it happens I'll start building us a little cottage along Snake Way." The small fighter disappeared in a blur just as Yamcha struck where he had been standing. "Booze is messing up your aim, pal." Krillin's voice is calm as always. Even tempered and measured. He's landed in the center of the ring and he's smiling as if this were all a friendly conversation. It's enough to make Yamcha sick. "Why not give it another try?"