Bereft
It's so…dark That was his first conscious thought. Water was dripping somewhere; he could hear its forlorn echo rebounding from the timeless stone of the walls. He could feel the dampness against his skin, dampness that indicated standing water, and he wondered how any water could remain unfrozen in such cold.
Where…am I?
He tried without much success to sit up; even if a thousand tiny aches hadn't attacked his muscles, the two cold, unyielding bands that ran across his chest would have prevented him from moving.That's right…I'm Here
He had been Here for a while, and Here was not a great place to be. He could remember very little before he had come Here, and a part of him was greatly bothered by that.What he could remember was jumbled almost to the point of incoherence. He could remember cold, and an endless expanse of alabaster that rose like dragons' teeth to tear at the distant cerulean of the sky. He could remember a terrible, beautiful creature whose eyes were flame and whose words were thunder, whose length filled the sky and whose scales matched his own emerald skin to perfection. He could remember the breathlessness of flight, and he could remember a wrenching urgency that clawed in the back of his mind like a wounded lynx, but he could not remember the cause.
The next part was even more confusing. He remembered landing in a spray of snow amidst of a band of grotesque plant/animal things, watching them scatter like puffs of dandelion seeds at his appearance…and seeing, lying in the snow, a battered young boy. The child had gazed up at him with soft, sleepy eyes partially covered by unruly, ebony bangs, eyes that held mixed confusion and relief. The boy's pale lips, tinged slightly blue from the cold and stained red at the corners by blood, cracked open, leaking a single, hushed word into the crystalline air: "Piccolo-san?"
He couldn't for the life of him recall what 'Piccolo-san' meant, or if it meant anything at all. He could remember the rage he had felt then, if not the reason for it. He assumed that he had been angry at the plant-things, for he had attacked them.
…And he remembered the pain. The pain had come after the plant monsters had been destroyed and after a feeling that something was amiss. Something had come through the ice, something long and thin that had pinned his arms to his sides, and the something had hurt him. A strained, agonized scream had torn free of his throat, and there had been a column of light around him, and there had been wind…. more pain, and he remembered his legs giving out.
The rest was still less clear, like a half-remembered nightmare. He had thought that he had heard laughter, and he seemed to remember struggling to open his eyes, to lift his head from the fine, sharp crystals of the snow. He had felt hands, the same temperature as the snow if not colder, seize him roughly. He could remember being dragged…and he had been Here ever since.
At first, he was fairly sure that he had fought. He had a dim memory of screaming something, he didn't know what, into the darkness. He had been straining against the bands. There had been a prickly sensation much like static running through him, and he had encouraged it, though he couldn't now say why he had wanted the tingle to grow. Then he felt something brush against him, and the pain was worse that time. A massive, clawed thing, a machine of some sort, had been lowering toward him, and then, he supposed, he had blacked out again.
"Kochin," a voice, faintly metallic, rang across the room. It sounded for all the world as if some giant were whispering, as if its full voice would level the distant walls of the enclosure, "is the mind control unit in place?"
Mind control? I don't like the sound of that…
"Hai, and he is responding well to the treatment. I'll give him a few more hours, maybe. He's a stubborn one." This voice was reedy and grated like an old man's would.
' Stubborn one?' What are they doing to me?
"So," the mechanical voice returned, "this is Daimao Piccolo. He was sealed away even before we were, Kochin."
Piccolo again. I wonder what…what that is…
"I don't know," the raspy voice, Kochin's, was doubtful. "He seems a bit well preserved, Dr. Wheelo. Shouldn't he be a little older?"
"I hardly think it matters. He is very strong. He will do well for me. He will probably be a better soldier than your little toys, Kochin," the other, Dr. Wheelo, stated in a tone that seemed slightly bored.
So…tired…what's…
and then, as quickly as that, it didn't seem to matter anymore.* * *
Everything that the animation saw was red, like the world a little child sees reflected in his glass of cherry Kool-Aid. The darkness of the room wasn't a problem to eyes that saw no black or white, only crimson. And he, it, felt nothing.
Intruders have entered the chambers of Dr. Wheelo. Deal with them.
The being didn't think. Its muscles bunched and moved, its lifeless, blood-colored eyes shifted, and it materialized in the room it had been directed to. It was little more than a machine after all, and a machine did not need to think or plan.
It took the thing only a fraction of a second to analyze the situation. Then something small, something with wide, garnet eyes and wild black hair, was rushing toward him, shouting, "Piccolo-san!"
The automation reached out with one hand; one clean swipe and the creature went flying across the room. Whatever-it-was sat up slowly, rubbing its cheek and staring at him with eyes that shimmered like soap bubbles. "Piccolo…"
A growl drew the animation's attention to another being, this one a larger replica of the first. His new opponent was dressed in a glaring orange and was nearly as tall as the puppet itself was. In one fluid motion, the automation launched itself at this new threat.
The automation noted in a dull, casehardened way the sudden flash of pain and…something else…betrayal?…in the warrior's eyes even as its own green arm thudded against a block thrown hastily by the other. It didn't matter, nothing mattered, but why wasn't this being fighting him full out?
Suddenly, the voice from before, the one that belonged to the smaller creature spoke up again. "Piccolo-san! He's not a bad man! Piccolo-san, stop it!"
The thing that felt nothing looked down to see the small, earnest, distraught face of a child, gazing up at him with a mixture of hope and horror. Two bright trails accented the high cheekbones, making the large, cherubic eyes seem even larger. Something almost clicked…something stirred…and then it was gone. The automation, without so much as hesitating, drew back one hand to strike at this obstruction. Another hand, softer, paler, caught the taloned fist, and the battle with the larger warrior was resumed.
Actually, battle wasn't the correct term. The puppet wasn't fighting, wasn't exhilarated, and wasn't running on adrenaline. It was performing a task, the same way that a car runs, the same way that a coffee maker functions.
Again, the child's voice rose. The automation's precise senses registered the disturbance, and it searched its systems for the error that had caused it to abandon the destruction of its primary target. Once more, it launched itself toward the smallest offender.
The shorter creature didn't move and didn't scream. He just closed his eyes as if he were waiting for the blow to fall. The scream that tore through the air, shattering in the brittleness of the cold, was the taller warrior's: "Gohan, no! He's not the same as he used to be!"
Go…han?
For some unknown reason, it took longer than usual to gather the energy for a ki attack. It was almost as if some part of the automation were fighting against it. There was an unfamiliar stinging sensation in the corners of its eyes. The automation drew back, holding a single, softball-sized sphere in the palm of its hand. Golden light spread across its features and the rounder face of the child, reaching out like sunbeams in the abysmal darkness of the laboratory…turning the automation's blood-tinged vision to sunset orange…
Sunset…on canyon walls…
"It's not so bad once you get used to it, is it, Gohan?"
"It's beautiful…"
"I've never had real feelings for anybody in my life."
"I won't let anything happen to you, kid. I promise…"
It must have been some glitch in its programming that prevented the organic machine from flinging the attack, for as soon as it felt the whoosh of displaced air rustle its loose-fitting violet gi, the temporary lock-up released and it fired. It had already calculated that the other would block his shot, but the blast did serve as a distraction. It struck the other warrior, the one who had grabbed its hand before, the one who wore the glaring orange that was, for some unknown reason, so offensive to it.
The automation continued its emotionless battle, blocking, striking, all with the calculated ease of a well-tuned machine. It was dimly aware that the other was hitting it with some force, was screaming at it, pleading with it to stop, but it felt nothing…
And then it heard the scream to end all screams, a mind-bending, world-splitting bellow of rage…
And the redness shattered like rose-colored lenses and fell away.
The newly awakened being stood for a moment, the shock of renewed senses washing over and through him.
What was that? Where am I?
"Piccolo!" The warrior in orange called again.
The being, the former automation, responded this time. His defensive posture never wavered, but his scowl softened. "…Son?"
"Piccolo-san!"
Piccolo shifted from his fighting stance, relaxing infinitesimally. "Gohan?"
And then, without any prelude or forewarning, the worst part of the battle was over. The Namekse-jin's mind had returned to him…as had his anger.
As doctor Wheelo came crashing through the wall, a single sentence dropped from Piccolo's lips, heavier and colder than any snow or ice could ever be. "He's going to pay."
* Disclaimer – I don't own DBZ, any of the characters, or even the story line. I just wanted to tell the dubbed movie "World's Strongest" from a different point of view. Don't sue me, please; I have no money, no car, and nothing of value unless you want my paintbrush…