Hey there! The fuzzy nosed wombat's here just in time for
an author's note to her first fanfic, From Hell, With Love. Required
Synopsis: From the depths of hell, some time after the end of DBZ, Piccolo
writes a few letters to an unknown recipient, detailing his past, his present,
and his thoughts on the future.
I don't own DBZ; if I did, I wouldn't be writing dumb
stories about it. However, there are many original characters in this
narrative. A good rule of thumb is: if you don't recognize it, it's mine.
And, oh yeah, don't bother to point out the huge
discrepancies of this story in relation to the series. I assure you that I'm
already well aware of them. Otherwise, review nicely and as often as possible.
Enjoy!
This story contains scenes of violence, in addition to
coarse language. If this offends you, hit the "back" button now.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________
From Hell, With Love
Dear Person, Recipient, Someone,
Dear
Someone. How disgustingly quaint. Am I reduced to this now? Reduced to
scrawling out prayers to strangers on whatever scraps of paper I can lay my
hands on? Oh how low do the mighty fall. Personally, I'd prefer to think this
an exercise in boredom, but I know better than that. Have fun, dear Someone,
because this is going to be one hell of a ride.
I am Piccolo Daimao, one of the
greatest warriors the world has ever known. I was once feared and hated across
the entire planet. I didn't mind. I enjoyed it even.
Now I'm
dead.
Well,
life's a bitch and then you die. Isn't that what they say? Certainly true in my
case. Life's been a bitch since the day I came into it, and it has not
significantly improved since. I am in Hell, after all, and I'm inclined to
believe that if you find yourself in Hell, your life probably wasn't a party.
People don't do the kinds of things that land you here if they've had a nice
life. They probably don't even need that. A nice childhood is all that's
required to set you straight. If you are not lucky enough to have that, then
you end up here, in the pit, with murderers like me.
Murderers
like me.
Murderers
are not born, they are made. I was made by what was most likely the best school
in the world: the streets of Cairo. It wasn't a good place to be in my time.
Luckily, I suppose, I was picked up by the local drug dealer to be his newest
slave, before I had a chance to expire from lack of water, shelter, or to be
killed by whatever mob that decided they didn't like my face. That would be all
of them. A little green kid doesn't come along very often, and people like to
have "fun" with an oddity in their midst.
His leering face was close enough to mine that our noses almost
touched. His beady eyes widened as he took in my frightened countenance,
blowing a puff of stale smoke into a cloud that enveloped us. "Fucking
Hell," he whispered with awe. "You're green!"
I paused, then nodded my head
mutely, waiting for the blows I knew would come. They didn't. Not yet.
The repulsive man stared a moment
longer, taking a long pull on his cigarette before saying anything. When he
did, the words came out, wreathed in smoke as before. "I think I might
'ave a use fer a little freak like you. How's about you come with me?"
I didn't want to, not that it
mattered much. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he had grabbed my
arm in a bone-crushing grip. I was too small to do anything about it. He hauled
me into a dark, narrow alley and down another, and another before stopping in
front of the squat, ugly building that was to be my home for the next six
years. He practically threw me in the door.
The building was as ugly inside as
it was outside. Piles of dirt and filth rested on the floor, apparently lying
undisturbed for years. A battered table with matching chairs stood in a corner
as the only adornment to the one downstairs room. A rickety ladder, its rungs
worn smooth from frequent use, led from the current dank hole up into the next
by way of a roughly hewn opening in the ceiling. The doorway provided the only
light.
"Pretty, isn't it,"
chuckled the skinny man who had brought me here. "You'll learn t'love it,
I promise."
I knew
better than to answer.
After some
time, he turned and looked down at me. "Why the hell are you still
here?" he asked. "Get upstairs with the rest of the kids."
I climbed
the ladder with only minor difficulty, taking into account my tiny stature, and
stepped into the room. I had a few minutes to take in all the small, pinched
faces surrounding me as they all stared at my abnormalities. Shyly, I moved to
an unoccupied corner of the room, sat down, and tried my best to avoid their
eyes.
A few
minutes later, the man, Jim, barked an order. All the children got up quickly and
scrambled down the ladder. It was easy to notice how pitifully thin they all
were. They did not get much food.
Taking my
cue from them, I dashed down the ladder as quickly as I could. He looked at the
assembled group of street trash for a long time before finally pointing at one.
The young boy trembled as he stepped forward.
Jim asked,
"What happened to yer last shipment, boy?"
The boy
looked down, a shock of brown hair falling into his eyes. "I... I lost it,
sir."
"Aww, you
lost it. What are we gonna do about this?"
"Find
it, sir?"
"No, I
don't think so." Jim turned and picked up a large steel bar that was
sitting in the corner. He swung it easily, almost casually, into the boy's leg.
There was an audible snap. The bar continued on its deadly arc and came lashing
down across the boy's thin back, smashing him to the ground. Jim swung the bar
a few more times until the boy was still.
There was
silence in the room. Jim pointed a finger at me. "You," he said,
"go take him out back and get rid of him."
I was too
numb with shock to move.
"NOW!"
he roared.
Jumping
slightly, I darted forward into the center of the room, took the still-warm
body and dragged it outside with some trouble. It was dumped unceremoniously
into the dumpster among the other discarded trash. This is what happened to you
if you screwed up. I looked for a moment at the young body, turned away with
revulsion, and vomited onto the corner of the building.
Such was my
life when I was a little kid. Not too pleasant, is it? That would be considered
a good day. I was treated as a sort of under-servant; a slave to the slaves
that were the other children. Accordingly, I was beaten to within an inch of my
life every time I did something wrong, looked at someone funny, or if Jim felt
like it. He kept me around as a sort of novelty, I think, like a pet snake or
rat.
I spent
days under torture in the cramped, stuffy cellar of the home. The darkness was
overwhelming, and the walls would seem to close in on me, leaving me without
air. I was known to faint from the fear alone. The claustrophobia stayed with
me for years after, making me unwilling to enter any small room or home.
Naturally,
I learned to hate my captors. I would wish them dead every time they walked by.
If only looks could kill...
This hate
served me well, however, it was the key to unlocking my power it seemed. Every
ki user has a trigger that releases their power for the first time. For most,
it is a desire to protect, a powerful love, or self-preservation. For me, it
was self-preservation, hate, and a healthy desire for bloodshed. This hate had
its culmination when I was being beaten once when I was about ten. I just
started to concentrate on an image of Jim in my mind: Jim screaming, as I was
then, Jim bleeding, Jim dying. It worked quite effectively, reducing the entire
city block to ash. Jim no longer existed to torment me.
I was
finally able to escape from Cairo and get out on my own in the desert.
You see? Is
it really my fault that I'm here? My mind is filled with such memories of hate
and bloodshed. Pain was, and is all that I've ever known. I hated the human
race because of this. They hurt me, so I would hurt them. It was the way it
worked and seemed completely fair to my mind. What would you have done,
Someone? Would you have lain down and died? Would you have given up and given
in to the pain? Or would you have fought like me; bringing only more pain on
yourself, but becoming stronger and priding yourself on that strength. Becoming
so hardened that nothing could get through your shield, good or bad, so that
you would never be hurt again.
If it were up to you, dear Someone,
what would you choose?
From the pits of
Hell,
Piccolo
Daimao
