A Baker's Dozen
Piccolo has a lot of free time and when Gohan goes away on a trip he is left with babysitting Icarus the dragon. Unfortunately, he doesn't like the dragon much and after a traumatic experience inspired by a fridge, he really doesn't.
Night enveloped the gentle land of Mt. Paozu and Icarus the higher dragon was curled up underneath an overhanging cliff, deep in sleep. A calm breeze swept over the land, yet carried a dangerous scent. Wolves, a pack more than a dozen strong rushed to encircle the peaceful dragon. On first impression it would seem mad to hunt a dragon-a beast famed for having wings that whipped up hurricanes, snapping jaws that could consume mountains, and for even possessing supernatural powers that could grant wishes that even the most underserving could obtain; yet, Icarus held none of these traits. His wings flapped loosely and hung like chicken wings.
His jaws were accustomed to only eating soft prey. Additionally, Icarus's body was portly and small, with not a drop of magic to be found. Without hesitation the pack clustered together for an attack and Icarus only perked from his slumber quick enough to screech in terror. Countless maws bit into his flesh. The wolves pinned Icarus to the ground and tiny wings struggled to break free to attempt an escape. All Icarus could do was scream in agony! The wolves growled in delight towards the feast to come. Within moments it would be over!
Suddenly a blinding light enveloped the scene. A ball of yellow fire engulfed a straggling wolf. It dropped dead to the ground. The pack, startled, sprung away from the dragon. A new figure emerged, with hand raised-coolly observed the scene. Without so much as a twitch of effort each wolf was incinerated with a separate ki blast. Soon the once glorious pack garnished the land as mocking piles of ash. The smell of burnt fur was repulsive. With horror, Icarus cowered into the corner of the cliff overhang. The new predator approached stiffly, with gleaming fangs and claws. Icarus was desperate. He panicked! With tiny wings finally free, frantic flaps propelled Icarus into the air. Escape was almost to be had but the predator was quicker! Icarus's tail was gripped harshly and was used to pull him back to the ground. As a final stand, Icarus pooled in his courage and twisted to bite his attacker!
However, much to the amusement of both parties involved, Icarus stopped. His jaw clicked shut and after a few seconds snapped open. Instead of a bite, he lavished a bounty of affectionate licks upon the predator. It was Piccolo, a friend, not a foe! Icarus's tiny heart pounded in relief though such a happy sensation was soon doused when clenched fists firmly pushed him away. Piccolo danced around in hissing disgust! Dragon spit caked his features and quickly congealed in the cold night air. The spit was thick and rancid. It smelled worse than the smoky remains of the wolves! Piccolo's eyes ignited with a murderous rage focused on Icarus and the dragon wisely took a few steps backwards. The reaction seemed to quell Piccolo's anger and he turned, flying away. Icarus was left to his own devices. He was disappointed at the lack of returned affection, but he wasn't surprised. Piccolo wasn't like his friend Gohan. Icarus yawned and looked back to his spot under the overhanging cliff. With newfound hesitance he settled back down to rest, but found sleeping to be no trouble at all.
Once morning came, the Son household was alive with activity and Icarus cautiously approached Gohan's bedroom window. Inside Gohan was frantically packing clothes and various accessories into a suitcase, fighting to shut the top before the contents spilled over. Eventually he did so and noticed Icarus. With a happy embrace the two greeted each other. Icarus bathed Gohan in licks and the boy laughed as he patted the dragon in return, yet Icarus squealed in pain as Gohan's hand brushed wounds from the night before. Shocked, Gohan observed Icarus more closely and saw the many bites.
"Wolves." Piccolo grunted.
Caught up in the moment, Piccolo wasn't immediately noticed as he peered in from the remaining window space.
"What really?!" Gohan's eyes swelled into dinner plates, while in turn, Piccolo's eyes narrowed. "No Gohan, it was a pack of pomeranians." Piccolo would have rolled his eyes if he were more gregarious. Upon seeing Piccolo, Icarus was once again compelled to lick his rescuer but a murderous glare caused Icarus to flinch and to shrink away. Gohan frowned at this exchange but a smile soon graced his features.
"Wait Piccolo, so you watch over Icarus while I'm away?"
Now it was Piccolo's turn to flinch. He didn't want the kid to get the idea that he was growing soft. Looking past Gohan he focused his attention on the disordered room, obviously not wanting to answer the question. "Yes, that's right."
Gohan beamed an even brighter smile, "That's great! I was thinking of asking you to watch out for Icarus while I was away anyway!"
Piccolo blinked, Gohan was going away? Gohan rubbed his head nervously, "Uh, you didn't forget about my trip did you Piccolo?"
At this Piccolo grimaced, "Don't be ridiculous kid." He had forgotten. Today he had hoped to spar with Gohan, but never in a million years would he admit it. To do so would have been an attack on his pride.
Gohan saw Piccolo's disappointment but his mood didn't sour. "Why don't you come in for some water? Mom and dad are actually both out right now—imagine that!"
Piccolo raised a bald eyebrow at that—an empty house was a rare luxury for Gohan. The beast of a mother of his, Chi-Chi, was always breathing down her poor son's neck. Piccolo would always limit any space shared with that ear-wrenching banshee. Seeing the value of the situation, Piccolo entered the room awkwardly through the window. He also noted that Icarus wanted to come in as well, but Gohan, and him especially, would have none of it.
Icarus had the tediously to track mud and other unsightly debris everywhere. Living in the wilderness, one naturally acquired the elements. Of course, Piccolo was the same as Icarus. His ears twitched uncomfortably as dirt flaked off his already brown moccasins onto Gohan's floor-no, Chi-Chi's floor! Only once before had Piccolo made the mistake. Chi-Chi the Banshee, while her territory was small in comparison to creatures of equal ferocity, she guarded her house with relentless hostility. Every inch of the house was Chi-Chi's domain. Only due to his close friendship with Gohan had Piccolo made the insane habit of becoming comfortable around the boy's environment—enclosed spaces, human possessions, clean shoes, along with a strange assortment of soft articles called a bed. Of course, anything outside of Gohan's room was off limits.
Piccolo loathed the presence of the Banshee entirely and the time she was absent was precious. Taking Gohan's words to heart Piccolo walked out of the room without hesitation, winding his way into the kitchen with the boy pottering ahead. Gohan pulled down a tall glass, filling it with iced water, and setting it down onto the kitchen table. Begrudgingly, Piccolo took a seat, but Gohan did not join him. Instead the boy gave him a hurried apologetic look.
"Sorry Piccolo, just one sec. I have to get the things in my room in order before Mom gets home." Piccolo nodded in agreement.
He wanted Gohan to avoid the wrath of the Banshee as much as he did. Still, Piccolo huffed in annoyance; though, the boy had already scurried off and he idly wondered if the dirt he tracked in would be noticed. Discreetly, Piccolo looked at the bottom of his moccasins and noted that there wasn't any dirt left to track in. He turned to look at the floor he had walked from Gohan's room and was pleased to find it in pristine condition.
Still, Piccolo summarized that anything pristine would never be enough for the spoiled Princess Chi-Chi. Piccolo focused his attention on his glass, sipping it and scanning the room—curiosity over took him. It was a rule to avoid kitchens in general. The smell of cooking food disgusted him and would impair the use of his nose. The areas tended to be crowded, full of drooling dolts that angry cooks would brash away with searing hot frying pans. Piccolo shuddered—the frying pan was Chi-Chi's favorite weapon and were he not a skilled warrior he would have been defeated several times over. The glass was now empty and Piccolo got up, placing it in the sink. He then noticed the fridge, an odd white rectangular box. Opening it up he saw stacks and stacks of food, colorful items that stunk even when uncooked. What caught Piccolo's attention was a grey carton. Strange, it didn't look edible and he pulled it out. He almost dropped it out of shock when he flipped the top off.
Eggs. Piccolo looked at the various meats on display: ham, fish, sausage, beef. He shouldn't have been surprised. It wasn't unusual to eat eggs but he figured the Son household would have been too good hearted to stomach the stuff. Piccolo couldn't help feel a bit disappointed, perhaps sad as he viewed a dozen little white eggs. He picked one up, noting with relief how the life didn't even begin before it was snuffed out. A slam of a car door ripped Piccolo from his observations. Quickly, but carefully, he placed the carton back and as silently as he could, shuffled back into Gohan's room. Fortunately, the room was in order and the dirt was removed. Piccolo patted Gohan on the head and with a nod wished him luck on his trip before slipping out the window.
Outside Icarus was waiting and watched Piccolo fly away. He was a bit confused, Gohan was inside, why would he leave? The sound of a familiar dreaded voice gave Icarus his answer.
"Gohan, I'm home~! You better be packed because we are leaving right this minute..."
The Banshee was back! Icarus wasted no time in following Piccolo's lead.
The wretched little dragon was following him! Piccolo was at a loss. Things only ran away from him and he was only followed if he commanded it; regardless, Icarus seemed determined to catch up to him, nipping at his heels like a lost puppy. Recalling the disgusting nature of dragon spit, Piccolo was not keen on the idea and so he increased his speed. Within seconds Icarus was left far behind and Piccolo was free to resume his solo expedition. After an hour or so of flying he arrived at his favorite spot, a waterfall that fed into a small river, which was covered on both sides by a thick forest. Here nobody bothered Piccolo, this was his home. Confident in that fact Piccolo settled into the air and dove into meditation. Of course, Icarus had no notion of courtesy or privacy. He barreled through the forest and squawked in delight as he flapped up to greet Piccolo.
In return, Piccolo gave no move of acknowledgement and intended for the dragon to lose interest. Unfortunately, Piccolo's plan backfired. Icarus, mistaking Piccolo's calm demeanor as acceptance of his presence, didn't hesitate to rain down a shower of sloppy licks, rivalling even the spray of the waterfall. Piccolo wasted no time in refuting the affections, landing a firm uppercut into the dragon's throat. Startled and hurt, Icarus toppled into the river, belly flopping onto sharp rocks below. He crawled to land and his wings whipped at his sides, sending droplets about as he attempted to dry off.
The fall had splashed Piccolo and he hissed in anger, making the mistake of opening his mouth, allowing for some dragon spit to pool inside. Thoroughly disgusted, Piccolo thrust himself into the waterfall, resigning himself to a shower. He emerged livid and he disposed of his training gear besides the dragon. Not finding the punishment fair, Piccolo stomped upon the dragon's head and with a strike behind the neck, Icarus fell unconscious—perhaps now the creature would leave him be.
It was nightfall by the time Icarus came to and he whimpered as he shuffled to his feet. To say he was confused would have been an understatement. Just moments ago he had been greeting Piccolo, then something awful happened, and now Piccolo was gone! Icarus became distressed as he processed this information and looked around frantically. Piccolo was nowhere to be seen, but, his strange white clothes were! Icarus sniffed the articles and shrunk back—Piccolo's sweat was stinky!
The cold night air caused Icarus to become more alert and he shivered as water still clung to his scales. It wasn't all water-Icarus lapped at his sides, tasting blood. Echoes of wolves bounded from the forest and Icarus was reminded of the recent trauma he had faced. More nervous now, the dragon resniffed Piccolo's clothes. The smell meant safety, Icarus's brain confirmed. Piccolo was like Gohan. The dragon grabbed at the clothes for comfort, but found the weight to be too much—it was like rocks wrapped in damp towels. The echoes turned into howls and the danger of wolves grew close. Rows and rows of hungry yellow eyes peppered the darkness. Panicked, Icarus flapped his wings, making a beeline for Piccolo's sweaty stink that was smelled farther away.
Inside the entrance of a cave atop a cliffside, Piccolo dozed. Being the most sensible out of all the wildlife on Mt. Paozu, Piccolo felt safest above ground and tucked away in the niche corners of a cave. In truth, it wasn't because the outside posed any danger, but instead it presented a plethora of inconveniences. Staying out in the open tended to invite pteranodon attacks—the things bred like rats and no matter how many Piccolo shot out of the sky they never failed to pester him. Additionally, nothing kicked off a great day like being greeted, "Good morning!" by the roar of a young paozusaurus who had yet to learn that Piccolo was top dog in the local food chain. Even worse would be curious goats who would sometimes have the gall to chew on his cape or shoes, mistaking Piccolo for a plant, but fortunately they didn't like caves. Yet none could rival the inconvenience that was Icarus. The dragon waddled into the cave undeterred and settled down next to Piccolo, happy to escape the wolves.
When Piccolo cracked his eyes open he was none to pleased. He figured the dragon arriving in the night had been a terrible dream, but a copious amount of spit that had gathered on the cave floor and later soaked into his gi attested otherwise. Fortunately, Icarus was still asleep, else the dragon would have jumped at the chance to spray spittle in his direction. Piccolo's first inclination was to punch Icarus out of his space, but instead he shrunk back, finding a better alternative. He walked around the dragon, tiptoeing carefully around spit and crunchy ground. When he was out of the cave he wasted no time in lifting off. It was still dark out and twilight was only just beginning. The wilderness was alive with beasts. Piccolo was baffled how something as pathetic as Icarus was able to survive for so long.
He loathed having to watch the dragon, least it was eaten and Gohan's frail heart gave out—he invested too much time into his student. Piccolo flew until he reached the Break Wasteland, an open plane of pointed cliffs that he favored for training. It was here he spent most of his time, meditating and chopping rocks into dust. Piccolo was a creature of habit, finding solace in the monotony of building his power where others would have found a crushing emptiness. He persisted in his training for hours, kicking down mountains with the tips of his toes and hopping about as if fleeing from invisible foes. Even when the sun rose high and later settled into twilight once more, Piccolo did not tire. He wanted more. He continued to throw punches and kicks—faster as if it would stall the sun from setting. It did not and a wolf's howl pulled him from his trance. As if cued onto a play stage, Icarus idled some distance from Piccolo. Neither made a move to acknowledge the other. Piccolo ignored the dragon, staring ahead and sitting cross-legged to begin meditation. Icarus did much the same, curling like a cat into sleep.
The sun pelted down onto the Break Wasteland, clouds absent. Both Piccolo and Icarus awoke, parched. They went again to the waterfall, each drinking their fill. A truce had settled on the pair. Piccolo had come to terms with his responsibility, coming to appreciate that Icarus followed him instead of him being forced to follow to ensure wolves didn't rip the dragon apart. He sighed, the rescue was meant to be a one-time thing but Gohan had prevented such.
Meanwhile, Icarus simply looked at the water, sniffing at stale wolf scents and scraps of food. Shadows of fish caught Icarus's attention—hungry, the dragon dived in for a hunt. Piccolo observed the dragon with detached curiosity—wings flapped like fins, bobbing as if Icarus himself was a fish. Icarus gorged himself, gulping down fish whole and his tail swayed happily behind. Icarus brought a fish to shore, out of habit to share with Gohan. He blinked, Gohan wasn't around and his attention was naturally directed towards Piccolo. Piccolo was like Gohan, just different. Icarus walked up to Piccolo. He was tall, not short like Gohan, so he had to stretch his neck up, not down. Icarus bobbed his head as he processed this information.
Piccolo was baffled, wondering offhandedly if the fish had made the dragon sick. Finally it clicked as Icarus shoved the fish into his chest. If dragon spit was disgusting before it was made doubly so as slimy fish was added to the mixture. Piccolo grumbled and held out the fish by its tail. Early memories came back to Piccolo. A fish had been the first and one of the last things he had eaten. At the time the taste was refreshing and agreeable, much more interesting than water. Still, it was a novelty that didn't last. Piccolo did not need to eat to live, so he saw no reason to do it, or any other activity that didn't directly tie into his training—it would be a waste of time. Regardless, Piccolo bent down and washed the fish—hoping all the spit was gone, he boldly bit into it. It was delicious. After a few more bites, like Icarus, he ate it whole. For once he didn't glare at the dragon with hostility, but instead with mild acceptance. Icarus seemed to notice the change and gurgled in approval.
Now full, Icarus set off down the river, sniffing out new scents. Piccolo watched him until he was out of sight. He looked over to the waterfall. He was going to meditate but he oddly didn't feel the need. He smacked his lips—the fish was making him feel rebellious. Piccolo walked after Icarus but he didn't have to go far. Icarus instead came back to him, carrying a large bone in his jaws. He pushed it into Piccolo's chest, who sneered—surely the dragon didn't expect him to chew on it like a dog? That was not the case. When Piccolo held the bone away the dragon darted a few paces back, wagging his tail excitedly. Piccolo had seen Gohan play with Icarus before and knew what was expected. While the dragon clearly wasn't a dog, it acted like one. Piccolo threw the bone high and far, reeling his arm back like a catapult. Icarus took off, squealing in delight. The display was amusing and Piccolo smirked as he turned to go back to the waterfall. Icarus met him halfway and the bone was thrown again. The process was repeated several times over before Piccolo reached the waterfall.
Now Piccolo was able to meditate and when Icarus realized the game had concluded, he loitered around the river bank, sniffing a plethora of scents. Evidently however, the dragon found a scent worth exploring to the source. Icarus rushed into the forest, making such a racket that Piccolo's meditation was interrupted. Piccolo smacked his lips, recalling the taste of fish; he was being very distracted today. He floated and took off after Icarus. The dragon was big enough to be seen through the trees. The scent led Icarus out of the forest into a meadow—no, a pasture—a farmer's pasture. Large featherless ostrich-like fowl roamed the area and scattered as Icarus brushed past them. Icarus hopped over a fence into a barnyard. Icarus grew excited—there was a good reason he followed the scent so quickly. Piccolo saw as Icarus sniffed around the edges of a barn, and soon after a chicken coop. The dragon broke in easily, smashing down the wooden exterior. Chickens scattered but Icarus made no move to eat them. At that Piccolo raised a brow and landed. He saw inside what Icarus was after—eggs. White ones.
On any other day Piccolo would have dismissed the fact—but again he tasted the fish—today would be different. Piccolo rushed in, snatching up eggs and shooed Icarus out. Icarus was furious, hissing and puttering up a storm! The chickens more so as their quarters were assaulted, but their protests were ignored. Piccolo emerged with a bundle of eggs, carried in a ripped portion of his cape. An angry farmer popped out from a house, shooting off rounds from a gun. Icarus and Piccolo swiftly left. Piccolo didn't think as he took off and flew. He only began to process what he had done once he had landed, this time in a cave. He regarded the bundle carefully. He definitely didn't take the eggs to eat them and Piccolo was baffled why he did. He grew fearful. Was he so unhinged that skipping just a portion of his daily meditation caused him to jump into a bout of insanity? Did eating the fish trigger some subconscious breakdown? Piccolo snorted, laughing the idea off but as he stared at the little white eggs, he grew increasingly disturbed. A primal cocktail of emotions enveloped Piccolo and he settled into meditation in order to combat the strange threat.
Eventually Icarus found him, flustered, but the dragon lifted his spirits when he spied the eggs. He popped a few in his mouth, eating them whole as he did the fish. At first Piccolo made no move to stop him, finding his initial reaction ridiculous, but again like a tidal wave the strange emotions over took him. Piccolo flew into a rage, tackling Icarus and pushing him out of the cave. Thoroughly caught off guard Icarus fled. Piccolo smirked in confused amusement, wanting to distract himself from…something. He settled back down to meditate, peering at the eggs from the corner of his eye. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and delved back into his mind. Hoping to find answers, he just found more questions.
There was a wall, being torn apart from both sides. It was breaking, Piccolo was breaking, but it wasn't horrible. The force was welcomed, like a flood washing over holes that were never noticed before. Piccolo was startled, but wasn't afraid or angry; he was confused, though not uncomfortable. He opened his eyes—glazed over as the flood tapered away. His mind was pocketed with pools, oddly refreshed as he got his bearings. Slowly, but eventually, he gathered the courage to look at the eggs—fully this time.
He smiled, for once involuntarily. He picked up an egg, comparing it to the ones he'd found in Chi-Chi's fridge. It was warmer, doubly so—and with clear reason. It was alive! Tiny ki signatures radiated from each egg, and while the power was pathetic Piccolo was in awe. He was dumbfounded he didn't pay attention to eggs before! His smile didn't lessen as he brushed the surface of every egg. He counted a baker's dozen. He took the torn cape and wrapped it more firmly around the eggs, composing a sort of nest. Still, it wasn't enough and the remaining cape was ripped up. Piccolo sat back, satisfied of his work. He didn't think as much as he normally did. The pools in his mind muffled the bulk of his thoughts. Still, his wasn't afraid or angry, though perhaps a little mad.
That night, Icarus slept on the ground, hidden by foliage where one could peer into the cave Piccolo inhabited above. The dragon was mad, fuming mad. Piccolo stole all the food—all the eggs! He didn't give like Icarus did with the fish. He was not like Gohan! Rarely did such a mental conundrum confound Icarus as it did in that very moment. His brain was overheating, quite literally. Tiny fumes of smoke wiggled from his nostrils and he licked his teeth as he savored remaining egg shells. For a fraction of a second Icarus welled up, ferocious and hungry. He craned his neck, ready to let loose a roar—but, a wolf's howl interrupted him and he was reminded of his place. He dreamed of fish.
Piccolo meditated, meditated, and mediated—trained, but mostly meditated. He felt oddly compelled to sit around and do nothing, far more than usual. He would be in a trance starting from morning to blinking awake when it was the next morning—not even knowing a day had passed. It was ridiculous, unacceptable, but actions were hard when words and thoughts were soft, pleasant. Of course, Piccolo was a creature of habit, and discipline. It wasn't long before he was back into the daily drove of training. Yet it was weaker. Instead of splitting mountains with his toes Piccolo broke boulders. In place of hops and twirls from place to place he leap about as if he were a lame stag. He did not throw his punches and kicks with the intention of racing the sun, but instead he cheered it on as it crossed the finish line of the horizon. As soon as such an event occurred, like clockwork Piccolo would shoot up towards the cave. There he inspected the nest like a preening hen, adding new warm cloth and turned eggs. 'One, two…three…' A tiny prick of anxiety tended to strike him as he counted. '…seven...ten…thirteen.'
It was reasonable to fear that he would find the nest empty one day. He tried to remain neutral towards the outcome. Apart of him would have been overjoyed at being relieved of the pointless duty, but it wouldn't have lasted. He pride in his responsible qualities would suffer—he wouldn't allow it. Additionally, his responsibilities still extended to Icarus, who he kept careful, meticulous tabs on. On more than one occasion did Icarus try to eat the eggs. Piccolo hoped the dragon would finally learn his lesson, especially after a thorough beating, but it seemed to only dislodge Icarus's brain and self-preservation further. In fact, Icarus was such a nuisance Piccolo wouldn't leave the cave if he was nearby, only exiting when the dragon lumbered down to the waterfall to fish. It was also then Piccolo would drink. Fortunately, he found less of a need to do so as the pools that pocketed his mind sustained him plenty. Although Piccolo was a creature of habit, the toll of daily responsibility tired him. He grew bitter, almost reaching the curiosity of seeing how scrambled eggs would taste with fish—until finally, an egg cracked.
The sky could fall and Piccolo wouldn't have noticed. All his attention and senses were focused on the single rocking back and forth of an egg. Up until this point he would have to constantly reassure himself that he wasn't a fool for wasting his time tending a nest. Weeks before he had heard peeping and movement; his impatience increased by the day. Now his impatience had reached its peak as he gripped his head in angry anticipation. Several hours passed before the cracked egg started making headway. Piccolo tapped his fingers impatiently, almost tempted to crack open the egg himself; of course, he knew better. Besides, the life inside had to prove it had a will to live. Piccolo had no help hatching and he would extend the same kindness to others. Eventually, a baby chick struggled out of its confines. It was yellow, slimy and disgusting. It stared up at Piccolo with beady little eyes and scurried close on scrawny legs. Piccolo was unimpressed but not surprised. He was careful to keep expectations low. He wasn't hatching dinosaurs after all.
The first chick was dubbed 'One,' and its siblings were named 'Two' through 'Thirteen,' respectively. Piccolo did get a surprise but it held little merit. Number 'Thirteen' was just a duck instead. Piccolo wasn't sure what to do now that the eggs had hatched. If he thought watching over a nest was hard, a brood just increased his grief. Now his tiny charges wandered about. Piccolo face-palmed, scratching his face—only then did he realize his work was just beginning. The first day was like the previous. Piccolo sat, unmoving as he mediated, but the quality went down dramatically.
The little brats, as Piccolo dubbed the chicks—peeped up a storm, making any focus impossible. Unlike Gohan, he couldn't tell them to shut up. Wiring their beaks shut also wasn't a solution nor wringing their necks. The solution was one Piccolo didn't like. The brats loved to gather on his lap and would explode into a noisy bunch if he so much as moved. Alarmingly, the frantic peeping they made unnerved him, as if they would drop dead from exhaustion as a result. The noise also dug into his brain, nicking his sensitive ears like sharp steel. All logical accounts of his mind screamed at him to get rid of the little fiends—the yellow pests! It was simple! All he had to do was toss them off for Icarus to catch or to send a nice ki blast their way…even, leaving and never coming back would…work.
Piccolo sighed, feeling stupid. He had no idea what possessed him to hatch eggs. The project was a waste with no benefits! Piccolo gathered up the brats, tying them in a cloth bundle like he did when they were eggs. The sack was swung over his shoulder and he took off towards the farm. He was wary upon landing, not wanting to get shot by an angry farmer. Piccolo went to the chicken coop, intending to return what he had stolen. He was surprised to find that a number of chicks had also hatched. The farmer likely wouldn't notice his brats added to the mix. He undid the bundle and dumped the brood out. He expected them to scatter and mingle eagerly with their peers, happy to escape the commonly deemed 'scary green man,' but the brats didn't budge. They huddled around him, peaking at his moccasins, and looked up with beady black eyes. Piccolo carefully moved around the brood, but as soon as he took a step they clustered around the leading moccasin—along with the next, and the next, with every step he took. Piccolo began to make bigger strides as he walked, getting a little further ahead of the brood as they ran after him.
He smirked at the idiocy of it all but when he stopped and turned, he realized he was double the distance from the chicken coop. Flustered, Piccolo changed strategies. Formal introductions to the chicken community apparently had to be made. He picked up number 'Four' as he returned to the coop, hovering this time. Four was placed into a nesting box where a few stranger chicks lingered. They clustered around as if to welcome Four, but the situation quickly turned hostile. They attacked Four, intent on establishing a pecking order. They pecked and scratched at Four, sending out speckles of yellow fluff. Piccolo viewed the event, trying to remain impassive, but Four was calling for help! The panicked peeping wiggled into his brain, stinging his ears! It was the twitching of his finger tips that made him finally lose composure and with cold calculation Piccolo snatched up Four from his assailants. Normally Piccolo wouldn't interfere, preferring for natural selection to be left alone, yet there was something profoundly sad about Four cowering in the palm of his hand. Four was pathetic. And adorable, Piccolo admitted grimly.
Piccolo than redirected his attention towards the rest of the brood. His brats were making a mess of things. The chicken community had not taken a liking to them. The hens were flustered, herding the brats around this way and that—slowly determining what to make of them. Things seemed hopeful when the brats began to mingle with other chicks. Unfortunately, all it took was for one hen to squawk in disapproval as she singled out the brats from her own brood. The coop erupted into chaos! Chicken politics were apparently a serious matter—this Piccolo learned when the hens summoned their savior. Out from the recesses of the coop bounded a great rooster knight! Its eyes reflected the inklings of a wise void, its plumage was speckled like a vast starry sky, and its holy blood, known to little, originated from King Arthur's very court! With the fury of ancient spirits behind a battle cry, the rooster leap onto Piccolo's face. Now few things caught Piccolo off guard. He always had his wits and extended his senses towards his surroundings. Before only a dumb question from Gohan would temporarily dismantle his defenses. Regardless, the pure audacity and senselessness of the attack was enough. Never before had a chicken been an opponent and Piccolo found that he had to humor his aggressor.
He expected retaliation in the form of useless flapping and pecking, but he was soon again surprised. The rooster wasn't a fighting novice and with cold calculation dug its leg spurs into the sides of Piccolo's face. It hurt. Piccolo clenched his fists, wanting to kill the rooster, but fortunately found the goodwill to fling it off instead. The rooster was honorable in his retreat, and so was Piccolo as he walked away, dumbfounded. Piccolo's pride did not allow him to fly or to move quickly—instead only to walk in a straight-line. Eventually he came to a river, the same one the waterfall fed into. Purple blood dripped into the water and Piccolo felt humiliated.
He grew dead set on retaining his dignity, especially when a chorus of familiar peeps clustered around him. He had failed in getting rid of them. As he looked the brats over he was surprised to find them out of breath and sluggish as they stumbled over to him. Apparently they had been running to keep up with him on those pathetic twigs they called legs. Piccolo felt oddly humbled. He counted them. 'One, two, three…five, six…twelve?' He was missing a chick…or perhaps not. In the death grip of a fist was number Four, who had been crushed in surprise when the rooster had attacked. Piccolo hadn't noticed, even though the chick was bent at the strangest of angles. All dignity vanished from Piccolo as he gripped the little body harder. Four looked so sad that Piccolo had to look away. He dunked the offending hand in the river and let the body loose. He flexed his hand as he removed all signs of Four. He dipped his head, granting the chick a warrior's death. After a time he looked down the river. A part of him never wanted to walk down the same direction again.
The brats were loyal disciples. They followed Piccolo through budding tundra to sharp sandy winds. He refused to carry them despite the convenience it would allow. He wanted to mimic the upbringing a hen would give. He figured it was the least he could do after displacing their proper home. And if chicken politics were serious the chicks had to become serious chickens. A bond between master and pupils was formed. Training began almost immediately. Piccolo would at random increments dart ahead as great speeds, giving the brats a work out as they sought to catch up.
The chicks were pathetic, and the lone duckling 'Thirteen' was deemed the most inept as tended to lagged behind on webbed feet. Of course, Piccolo also knew to supply the basics of survival. He started with shelter, which came naturally enough. All he had to do was sit down cross-legged and let the brats crawl all over him. It became an issue when the brats began to freely defecate. It was disgusting—dragon spit became appealing! To tolerate their mere presence Piccolo had to zap on little cloth wrappings onto each brat to keep the messes contained—diapers some would call them. Only then would he touch them.
Pure silence was scarce and when the brats finally shut up Piccolo would take the chance to meditate and to doze off; unfortunately, all it took was a lapse in concentration for things to go wrong. Some brats got curious and wandered away. A shadow blocked their light. A pterodactyl, emboldened by the yellow morsels below swooped down for an attack. On reflex, Piccolo shot it out of the sky, but it was a few seconds too close. The pterodactyl, dead, fell right on top of the curious brats. Piccolo cringed. 'Five' and 'Three' were gone. Now he was down to ten.
The next issue to address was water, which came naturally enough. The river was plenty; yet, food eluded him. Piccolo did the most sensible thing he knew and plucked a fish from the river. He tossed it over to his brood and he expected them to devour it. They did not. Instead they cowered away from it, with only Thirteen the duckling, becoming excited—normal for it with anything to do with water. With the patience of a depraved saint Piccolo scooped up pieces of the fish in the cups of his claws. He had to tap on their ugly beaks for them to get the message and to open up. The brats ate painfully slow—at a pace a snail would pity. Confusion was etched on their stupid cute faces. It was then the genius of Thirteen was known; the duckling had the sense to directly eat from the fish, earning just rewards. The process was repeated several times over when appropriate but Piccolo knew a brat's diet consisted of more than fish, and his patience was thin.
Again he was at a loss and recalled what birds of the forest ate. They ate seeds, berries…worms—all reasonable things. He was most familiar with worms, having watched chicks in nests being fed numerous times. The small creatures were so loud that on goings of their lives were hard to miss. To find the worms was simple. One just needed to dig. He did so by flying up and diving straight down, ending up in a hole fit for a well. Patiently, he plucked worms from the walls and then flew up, re-covering the hole. One by one he gave each brat a worm, but something was wrong. He counted, 'One, two, three…eight.' There were only eight out of ten chicks present! Piccolo was quick to deduce what was wrong.
A ki signature was shrinking mere steps away! He looked down at the re-covered hole. He had buried a brat alive! An explosion of dirt surrounded the area and a fraction of a second later Piccolo emerged. His expression was gritty. The dirt stung his eyes. "Nine," and "Eleven" were clasped in his hands. Both were limp, weakened by the fall into the hole and the following rush of dirt had flattened them considerably. Piccolo placed both of them back into the hole and re-covered it, this time careful to see if all the remaining eight brats were present. He couldn't see properly for the rest of the day.
Next, he started with the seeds. Piccolo journeyed into a public park where birds always fed and grew fat. There he found the grandmaster of the bounty, a generous old lady who threw seeds at such a speed, it could have been considered littering. She sat confidently upon her bench throne and her flock of peasant pigeons were engaged in celebration. Piccolo was apprehensive in socializing, but the disturbing peeps of the brats spurred him forward. Fortunately, he didn't have to. After a glance the lady was propelled into a hasty retreat, terrified of the 'scary green man' and the panicked flight of pigeons covered her escape.
Unfortunately, the lady possessed the spirit of a snail. Piccolo had to awkwardly watch as she waddled away. She had left her belongings behind and Piccolo briefly felt compelled to return them. Sadly, he couldn't, not wanting to stress the lady's heart further—least she dropped dead; it had happened before. As a courtesy he waited a few moments when he could no longer see her, then began to pick through her belongings. He found little value in the majority, not understanding the function of things; but, he did find some treasure. It was a bag of seeds, which shimmered like gold.
Later, he deposited a pile for the brats. He hoped they would have known what to do but he had no luck. Not wanting to hand feed them again, he instead tapped his feet to get their attention and lightly kicked seeds in their general direction. It worked, but slowly. Letting them eat fish first might have been a bad idea. Seeds must have tasted so bland in comparison. Curiosity got the better of him and he ate a few seeds—disgusting! He sympathized with the brats, slightly. It was then he remembered birds ate something better than seeds. He even saw Gohan eat them a lot…round, colorful...cherries? No…no…berries! It was berries. Yes, those would be better. Gohan mentioned that they were healthy and delicious!
Piccolo saw nothing wrong with the venture, wanting to forget the disgusting taste of seeds. He hovered up, scanning the area for any signs of "berries." To his delight he found them almost immediately. It was a strange bush as it jutted from the ground, but it looked very promising. Its branches were coated in round, plump berries ranging from red to purple that weighted each down. He tore off a branch and popped a berry in his mouth. It was worse than the seeds! Oh Kami, he needed WATER!
With little regard for his surroundings Piccolo bolted for the nearby river, rinsing his face. He came to the conclusion that eating should be left to Gohan and other insane creatures. Apparently, the brats included. They bounded down to him, quickly. Their training was paying off. Luckily, he still held the branch. It splintered into his fist after the traumatic experience. He took a berry on the tip of his claw and crouched down, allowing a pair of chicks to sample it. They made quick work of it—greedy fiends. The others were preoccupied with drinking water, fatigued from the run. He gave them another, and another—until they suddenly wandered away, as if spooked.
Odd. Piccolo preoccupied himself by trying to eat another berry. He chewed slowly, trying to figure what made them so appealing. He never did. His mouth became numb and he felt ill. After a few minutes the ki signatures of the brats who wandered off began fluctuating—rapidly. Piccolo looked curiously in their direction, finding them curled up on the ground, shivering not in cold or fear, but what could be guessed as sporadic bouts of pain. He picked them up. The brats were number "Ten," and "Twelve." Piccolo could only watch in horror as their life forces dwindled away. Both went limp. On their beaks a milky substance trickled down and Piccolo was able to piece together the situation. He hummed in disapproval. Poison. It couldn't have been anything else. Quickly, Piccolo disposed of the remaining berries, throwing them far off into the sky. He shook his head. The poison numbed his senses, but he was still ashamed to note that only six brats remained.
As the days passed, the chicks grew, set with larger legs and Piccolo had to stop less as they began to match his pace. Unfortunately, such legs made them more appealing to the hungry. Piccolo, confident in the improvement of his students, made a lapse in judgement. He walked farther ahead and faster, not granting his usual protection. A weasel peering from the brush, capitalized on the opportunity. As if possessed, it streamed into an attack, snapping up a chick gracefully. It had the gall to chokingly eat one, before taking another. Its greedy attack doomed it. The peeping of the brats was quick to draw attention to it.
Briefly, its eyes met the damning glare of Piccolo. It had the mind to retreat, rushing into a rocky den. It was comical how outmatched the weasel was. It was an overconfident creature, finding fun in dancing around the fangs of snakes and even once before, managed to slip through the toes of a paozusaurus, but now it was to die. Piccolo wasn't a snake nor a dinosaur, he was the 'scary green man' that everything was right to fear. Piccolo thrust his arm into the den, stretching it as it coiled around the tunnels. Like a four-fanged viper his hand snatched the weasel, crushing its backside as he ripped it from the earth. It was dead by the time it surfaced. The chicks, identified as "Six," and "Two," were also dead, both chewed up beyond recognition. A ki blast set the tiny bodies on fire, so nothing would disturb them; yet, the weasel was left to rot in the sun.
Eventually the trauma of the weasel attack dwindled but was not forgotten. Piccolo walked slower, as if under a spell of muted shame. The brats, held a collected weariness of bushes. Piccolo reflected. He was down to a mere four brats now, less than a third of the number he started with. Before, looking after the brats was just a game, a curious experiment, he told himself. Instead, now he was disappointed—no, worried, about their well-being. Really, he couldn't tell nor cared to. He was failing, quickly in his responsibility—a realization that was rather depressing. Piccolo grew tired of the façade.
He wanted his freedom back, but his pride towards his responsibly kept him rooted in place. Regardless, when Piccolo meditated or dreamed, he tried to recall what silence was like. The peeping of the brats continued to disturb him. Before the sounds could pass as a terrible melody, but the lack of members made the song a convoluted mess. Time also had weakened his patience. He grew sour towards them. Still, the brats followed Piccolo dutifully. Their trust in him was absolute. He wanted to label the brats fools, but he couldn't find fault in them, only himself.
The brats were becoming more capable and to Piccolo's relief they learned to chase bugs to eat. When Piccolo would go down to the river to drink, his good nature would usually pinch out a fish for the brats, which they thankfully ate without assistance. The brats were becoming more adventurous and Piccolo resigned himself to his duties. Additionally, he kept tabs on Icarus, who oddly spent most of his time along the river bank. Piccolo guessed the dragon was waiting for Gohan, along with being a glutton for fish. He himself was waiting for Gohan and looked forward to the time he would arrive. The boy's ki signature was coming closer every day.
Icarus was indeed tired of waiting, but not for Gohan. Instead the dragon was waiting for Piccolo—to make a mistake. He eyed the brats. They were delicious morsels parading around, dressed up like custard Twinkies. It was unnerving and Icarus was becoming jittering mad as he watched them. He was sick of eating fish! He wanted meat, and it was right there! Whenever he saw the brats he would charge in the hopes of snapping one up, but Piccolo always stopped him—always. At first all it took was a glance, but when Icarus grew more courageous the conflicts ran the risk of becoming nasty. Piccolo would resort to flicking stinging ki blasts at Icarus—enough to cause pain, but not to break skin. Gohan would have been arriving any day now—having to explain various injuries on the dragon would not go over well.
Along with Piccolo the brats were becoming increasingly distressed. Icarus was a nuisance and began to shadow the group—as if sensing Piccolo's taboo want for freedom. The days ticked by and so did Piccolo's sanity. Icarus was following him as closely as the brats and he couldn't let his guard down. He couldn't meditate, he couldn't sleep—he hadn't trained properly in weeks. Piccolo felt ridiculous. The situation had numerous solutions, but his tired, angry mind couldn't agree on a single course of action. He could punch Icarus over a mountain! No, he would kill him. He could rip off his wings! No, Gohan would hate him. The most diplomatic solution was for Piccolo to lock himself away, and so he did. He chose a cave and lifted boulders to cover the entrance, leaving just enough space for air.
Much to Icarus's chagrin, he found he was cut off. Piccolo was finally able to find refuge-quickly curling up in a corner, getting some much needed sleep. Yet, Icarus was not done. He had followed Piccolo so long it had become a game. He used to do it with Gohan before. Gohan would always fly off fast and then Icarus would have to catch up. Sometimes it was hard, but then, when he was going to stop—he remembered the reward! When he reached Gohan, he would always get something tasty! Sometimes it was a nut, or fruit—but now it was meat! He nosed around the rocks, using skills he gained from chasing desert rats and lizards. The smell of the meat was strongest when he found a hole. Instinct guided him as he dug out rocks and his huge horned head was used as a battering ram. He popped his head into the cave, using his horns as leverage. Hooking them into the cave wall helped guide his plump body in, widening the hole. With a crash, Icarus belly flopped onto the ground. It was painful, and Icarus felt inclined to wrap his tail around himself for comfort, but he persevered!
The peeping, deep in the cave, echoed—beckoning him like a siren's song. He rushed forward. In the darkness Icarus found his power. It was hunger! Speckles of gold nuggets danced about the cave, peeping a melody so lifting! Icarus's jaw unhinged—a trap of the finest strength that could most likely consume mountains. To bring forth the crescendo of the song Icarus snapped up the delicious nuggets, each sweeter than the last! First was number "one,"—rightly so! Next he ate…number "eight." Lastly, "seven" was gulped down, who was the most unlucky of the bunch as it laid witness to terrifying slaughter before it too soon followed in a consuming pocket of fear. The last stand was made by "Thirteen." It peered up into the darkness towards the great monster. It towered over Thirteen and from the monster's plump body radiated hideous, serrated wings that were very much unlike Thirteen's own. Thirteen bowed, accepting death.
It closed its eyes anticipating pain, but it…never came? Icarus paused. He hadn't stopped due to a sudden epiphany nor did he hold any sort of remorse towards his actions, oh no—he was very satisfied. Icarus had just sensed something very important! It was a funny sensation, buzzing at the back of his brain that caught his attention. It was familiar…and friendly! Gohan was back! It was a while since his friend last visited and Icarus made it top priority to find him! There would be food there too! Oh, FOOD, you had to share food! Gohan taught him that; it was important! With a snap "Thirteen" was given its most unfortunate of days. Upon its death, something green, and most certainly something scary, stirred. Icarus hightailed away from the crime scene.
Funny, Piccolo never dreamed. No nightmares nor daydreams would ever cloud his mind—not any more—it's what his training was for. As reality pounded on his senses, Piccolo slowly reared his head. He shook his head and clenched his fists, granting himself the foolishness in believing he was in a dream. He would not stay calm otherwise. Dust in the ground was all Piccolo saw left of his brats—not even a scrap of clothing or feather was left. He punched the dirt in agitation—there was nothing! He stood up, slowly, in shock. His entire being screamed at him to run—to give chase to the culprit, but he couldn't. There was no sense in it. It was too late. Icarus had defeated him…along with his…brats…too. Piccolo inched his way out of the cave. Each step was jarring and sobering. His turban and training weights were deemed a burden and the attire was tossed to the floor. He rubbed his head. Simultaneously, a familiar feeling both overcame him and left him.
Something…something…happy pools in his head…dried up? He didn't feel nice. Eventually he fumbled out of the cave, refusing to pay the rocks any mind and he cut his legs as he walked through them. Piccolo would have continued his somber movements for quite a while; instead, his attention was captured. It was Gohan! He was BACK! Piccolo did not think as he flew off, homing in onto the ki. Any joy or relief was soon twisted into bitter anger—which slowly coiled into a bubbling rage. Icarus…Icarus was there too. He landed. A campfire was lit and being utilized. Icarus was not there but Gohan was, who held a stick full of fish over the fire.
Normally the scent of cooking fish would have been pleasant. It was the only food smell Piccolo could tolerate, but something, was off. Piccolo grew disturbed, irrationally so. A part of him still wanted to believe he was in a dream—a twisted mental state. He approached Gohan, slowly. Piccolo's intense eyes fixated on a horror. There, skewered on the stick, mockingly placed with some fish, was his last brat. It was surreal seeing it plucked and well roasted. He…he could never enjoy fish again—nor anything, ever! Piccolo was shaking. It was then Gohan noticed him, beckoning him forward with an innocent smile. Piccolo returned nothing of the sort. Instead, he lifted a hand in greeting, yet not for a handshake. He could only see fire!
Piccolo punched Gohan.
Th-E-nd