Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Ball Z or any of the affiliated franchise characters. Everything written below is created solely for entertainment purposes.
A/N: Words cannot describe how inspired I was to write up a satirical piece of sorts after fooling around with Dragon Ball Xenoverse.
A clap of thunder resounded across the damp walls of an alleyway. Deep within the enclosure was a small band of clean-shaven men, slowly encircling a lone figure. Aside from the occasional heavy breathing and mild pattering of rain, the world was all quiet and dark.
"Well, what do we have here? This is not the sort of place I expected to find you all, but it'll have to do," the solitary young man said at last, spreading out his arms in a grandiose manner. "You must be very brave to try and challenge me, the mighty hero."
A long silence ensued, thickly blanketed by the showery heavens. The mob group gradually slowed to a stop, standing amidst of the increasingly damp strip of alleyway soil.
"I beg your pardon?" One of the mob members stepped forward, all the while gently tugging aside the corners of his three-piece suit. "You, my good man, was the one who sent out a notice for us to come here."
"Is that so? Well, I've had enough of your insolence." The youth sneered as he twirled around to face a startled onlooker. "Now, witness the power of my Final Thrash!"
"-and so I stopped wasting time training that useless earthling as soon as I found out his nonexistent affinity for ki manipulation," pronounced a certain musclebound Saiyan sitting by one of the window seats of a local café. "An absolute piece of trash, that one."
One of his two companions snorted as he lifted his Styrofoam cup to his unusually green lips. He looked out of the café window, quietly contemplating the dreary evening skies.
"Sometimes, we have to look beyond what we want and do what's best. Although, I'm not one to talk when it comes to ditching apprentices."
Back in the alleyway, the young man grinded his teeth as he pressed a grimy fist to his wounded forehead.
"What, where is this power coming from?" he muttered, shakily picking himself back up from the ground. "You were so easy to beat one on one."
Another one of the fellows stepped out from the mob and carefully wiped his rain-soaked felt hat.
"Young man, I'm sure the rest of my compatriots can attest to the fact that we've never met before and have no intention of beating anything in this miserable weather. Now, we don't want to hurt you, so won't you be a good fellow and leave us all alone?"
The clouds above roared as the youth sneered once more and clenched the hand on his forehead visibly. "You should never believe anything the enemy tells you! Special Bleed Cannon!"
For the first time since that evening, a few of the men started crinkling their brows as a pathetic splay of liquid sprinkled across their suits. They blinked and stared at the outstretched hand before them. As the skies rumbled subdued above them, the youngster felt a sudden chill run up his spine when the first spokesman started to slowly peel off a set of fine white gloves.
A sudden flash of lightning lit up just above the café, bathing the skies in a brilliant sheen of silver.
"Whoa, check out that out!" whooped a stout child as he plastered his face against the window, "It's almost half as awesome as our Super Saiyan 3!"
Both Saiyan and Namekian wordlessly shook their heads, no doubt wondering just how longer they'll have to wait before the fusion will start taking its training more seriously.
"Oh yeah, there was some guy who wanted to be my underling the other day. I bet he's related to the loser you were talking about."
The dark heavens wept as rain cruelly fell on a bloody, mud-caked face. He was a fallen man, beaten by the merciless mob of his earthling kinsmen. An occasional kick to the sides and a slap to his head, such was the suffering of the youth. He coughed harshly, hacking up bits of grime and spittle.
"How are you going to apologize to us, boy?" questioned the leader quietly as he wiped the sole of his shoes against the muddy face. "You've assaulted and mocked us. Surely you have had enough of playing such antics?"
All he got was a glare of defiance for his pains.
"Very well, if that is your answer, then –" The mob leader paused when something wet and oozing pressed up against the right leg of pants. "What?"
"Say hello to 'Lactic Donuts." Even at the night, anyone could see the smirk lighting up across the youth's face as he furiously rubbed the soggy chunk all over the shins of his attacker. "I hope you like milky deserts."
Disgusted, the mob group matching their kicks and punches with the rhythm of the thundering skies. They slowly beat the struggling youth into something akin a sack of bruised flesh, continuing long past midnight until they exhausted themselves, spent from furious assault.
As dawn broke over a subsided downpour, the men stood over the lonely wreckage that laid on the ground.
"You're finished," heaved out the leader, ragged in breath and appearance. "Aren't you?"
The solitary figure was motionless. Grunts of relief were heard all around the group, and they all started to file out the alleyway. Just as the leader was ready to step out into the exit, a small stir of leaves and mud could be heard from behind them. The sound of a stagger, and the men felt obligated to turn around, if only to witness the end of the occasion.
Leaning against the wall, with a forehead bloodied and familiar sneer on his face, was a battered hero. His lips moving ever so slowly, struggling to regain speech. He gasped soundlessly in pain, and continued onward in his struggle to speak.
Perhaps out of pity, the leader of the group trekked back to the man and leaned in to listen to his final words.
"Eh? What was that you said?"
"...used to this kind of pressure," mumbled the hero, almost as if in a trance. "Destructo Diss."