Indra Patre (Planet Earth): Year XR737

It was the eyes what scared him. The eyes held him locked in, pulled him in, into the cold abyss below that was the heart of the child. He didn't know that something so small could be so vicious, hadn't know that a single look could freeze the soul. There was something wicked about the child, a violence within. What a brutal, strange existence it had. There was something so alien about it. An oddity. Aberration.

And those eyes that wouldn't let him be.

Son Gohan looked at the child with both fear and admiration. He had so many questions. It looked like a regular baby should look when it was asleep, but when it was awake, it would watch him back with those piercing eyes like ice, like it had tangible thoughts of its own.

It was unnerving.

It never made any noise, as a child this age should, and it never asked for anything. It required very little, as if needing Gohan's assistance was a degrading state. It didn't like to be touched either, but it understood when spoke to for its eyes would grow wider and smarter, listening hard, picking up information and storing somewhere secret.

Oh and it had a tail.

Gohan had decided not to dwell on that.

But it had been quite the shock when he first found the child. The warm winter day. A cloudy blue sky. The clear air of Mount Paozu. A hike, some fishing, maybe a book later paired with a cup of tea.

And then the crater, a big crack on the land, the big kaboom. The child's first act of destruction. Nature broke apart. Birth as a weapon.

Son Gohan had never been curious but neither was he a fool. He knew he had stumbled upon something unheard of, and of value so rare that nobody was privy to knowing its name.

The big… orb. An iron sphere, the size of a small car, idle for all effects. A spaceship. Out of this world. A technology unseen, unknown. And he too old and stupid to understand what it meant or where it had come from.

The world had long changed, that much he knew. He had heard of the creation of the hoi poi capsules, the invention of cars and other vehicles moved by vapor and pressure. He had watched the living world turn into this—this machine—and barely even that, only part of one. Yet, it was only one look, and he knew this thing had not been made by human hands.

Out of this world...

Gohan placed a hand on the white metallic surface and felt that the object was still warm. And then a noise and the thing opened apart revealing what was inside. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. A child. The child.

And odd. So odd.

Very small and very strong. Its hands closed into fists as it slept. So angry. A fighter. But why abandoned? Left behind? Sent away? Why unloved? Why alone?

These questions haunted him, and Gohan thought perhaps it was the meanness of those eyes to blame. Perhaps it had scared its parents and it got sent away. Perhaps that's what Gohan should do as well.

He considered his options, debating how best to handle this. He didn't want the child, he hadn't asked for it. He knew what Master Roshi would say, Greatness is thrust upon, not asked for. And that was true. And it had nothing to do with want or need. Many are called but very few are chosen.

But that had been exactly what had drove him away from his old master. All this talk about how great Gohan was, the things he could accomplish, the wondrous he could be. Gohan had never wanted greatness. Wondrous was the world he lived in. You enjoy looking at greatness and yet you shy away from it. Well, yes. Because pride had once been his misfortune. And he wouldn't let that happen again.

Gratification bothered him, pulled at his strings. Vainglory walked hand in hand with arrogance and that was the death of all fools. When Gohan had first pursuit the martial arts, it had been with the intent for awareness. He didn't want to make the world a better place, the world needed to be a better place for itself. He didn't understand the faith of many in the hands of one, nor did he ever feel entitled to claim that right.

He had left with no intention of going back. Isolated he fared better.

So there was no scenario in which he kept the child.

Which meant he had to get rid of it.

But how?

He tried to imagine the possibilities. Passing it along. Making it someone else's problem...

You're running away again. Not taking responsibility.

Gohan sighed and shook his head, trying to break free from his master's voice in his head. He could feel the child's eyes set on him. It demanded attention in blatant silence. It mocked him. Dared him to make a decision. Gohan looked into those eyes and he saw with such clarity and terror that it was waiting in expectation for something horrible to happen.

It wished for it. Craved it. Welcomed it, even.

If this was a test, Gohan had certainly failed it. It wouldn't keep. He couldn't. Shouldn't. There was no way.

Frightened and impulsed by the child's daunting nature, Son Gohan took him away that same night, venturing the dangerous paths of Mount Paozu, which had taken him years to learn, and now he took it recklessly in his desperation. The full moon, the only thing lighting his path.

And then something happened to the child. It seemed to grow even more still than usual. It went rigid. The seconds flew by. Gohan hasted his steps and then felt it move. The child moved with such brusqueness, with such force that Gohan slipped and they both felt down the ravine.

Gasp. Woosh. Crack. Darkness.

Gohan opened his eyes and was greeted by the stars. He was lying on his back. There was a split second of absolute bliss in which he just stared off into the sky. Clarity. And then a sharp pain on his shoulder brought him back to the present. He sat up. Groaned. Checked on it. Dislocated. He would have to set it right before he took the child—the child!

Gohan looked around in a panic, forcing his eyes to see, and, to his dismay, found the child a little further down into the ravine, unconscious, limp.

And Gohan felt the nauseating weight of failure. He was sorry. So sorry. This was not what he had wanted. Roshi had warned him about this before Gohan left. The blood of the innocent gets spilled when the ones with the power to prevent it turn away.

Coward. Again, he heard the voice of his master. Coward.

Gohan reached for the child. He thought about the harsh words he had exchanged with Muten Roshi that day, the accusations on both sides, stubbornness and selfishness colliding, and for the first time since leaving he asked Kamisama for a chance to make things right. To fix it. It… It… It...

It was alive.

He felt it. The heartbeat.

It was still alive!

Son Gohan held the boy and cried, relieved, the pain on his shoulder forgotten. He had never felt so humbled. He asked God what am I supposed to do?, asked him for a sign. If the boy had not been taken, it was because he was meant to be in this world. Like all things, he had a part to play. And perhaps Gohan did too.

He felt the boy's tiny hand move over his and hold on to his thumb, a grip still marvelously strong for a baby that size. It was coming around. The eyes opened, those eyes before so cruel, now wonderfully soft, like he was awakening for the first time, seeing for the first time. Blue eyes found the brown ones and held them in place.

Hello, it seemed to say.

He was different. So different. As if something had awakened or something had died. Gohan didn't know which. The boy's expression was blissful, almost invisible in the night, and he let out a coo. Gohan simply stared. He had never witnessed something like this before.

Such change. Ovid's metamorphosis.

With that, Gohan knew. He was here to affirm. He would affirm all that is God, and all that is not God would be automatically denied. Gohan had been given the sign he had called for and taken it to heart. The boy was important. The boy was salvation.

And if he was to be cared for, well, then first things first, he would need a name.

A warrior's name.

A name of legend.

The name of the skyborn.

And in naming, he was keeping. Claiming. He felt a mild panic rise in his throat. He had never cared for a child before – let alone a baby. He was a martial artist, mind you, a retired one, and now a farmer. The lone wolf. Not a father.

Gohan guessed that for now, he could settle for friend.

Eleven years later…

West City

Year XR748

There was something she didn't quite like about a full moon. She remembered being very little and Patty, her mother, had put her to bed and inquired if she should leave the light on. She wanted to know if Bulma was scared of the dark. Bless her heart. Bulma had never been scared of the dark – it was the things she could see and not understand that frightened her.

Patty tried to say some comforting things to her daughter, reminding her that while the moon shone in the sky, it was never truly dark. And then she said There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls. Every now and again, Patty lets out pearls like this one.

Bulma wasn't sure why, but she found those words completely unnerving. She didn't like the thought of the moon howling. She didn't like how demanding it was, even in silence. She didn't like its mystical powers. The fickleness. The lunacy.

And tonight, of all nights, was a full moon. Tonight – when she needed her wits about her.

She thought it might be a sign. She was twelve years old, but since even younger she had always looked for signs where she could find them. People said fate was set in stone and could never be changed, but Bulma believed her bright intellect could perhaps, on the very least, temper with it, maybe even improve it.

The wind came howling and blew the hair from her face. She inhaled, trying to calm her nerves. Then she brought up the orange sphere in her hand. Two tiny red stars floated in its depths. She didn't yet know what it was and the darkness was threatening to drive her nuts.

She had to know.

She just had to.

With the decision being made, Bulma Brief pulled a rubber band from her left wrist and wrapped her hair in a tight ponytail as she found the gesture helped her think. She glanced at the moon again before marching back inside the manor. She descended a hundred and eleven steps into the darkest, dustiest attic and started roaming around boxes trying to find what she needed to set her dreams straight.

Could be the periodic insanity of the moon, but Bulma had a damn strong feeling that, depending on what she should find tonight, destinies were about to change.

And the moon, the inconstant moon, would be forced to share a bit of its power so that she could rise in its stead and men should look upon her in awe but not understand her at all.