Gohan collapsed on the great expanse of marble floor, his knees giving way to his aching legs. It had been four months now—four grueling months—and the training had not been easy.
Today had been a mixture of martial arts and energy training deep within the darkest part of the chamber. The farther out into the nothingness, it became more oppressive: the gravity, the pressure, the temperature. Cold air pierced Gohan's skin and filled up his lungs with shards of ice that hit him in waves.
Somewhere in the distance was his father, but he couldn't see him. He could only feel him-his ki going rapidly up and down. Energy training looked like that most of the time: Intense periods of focus followed by a wildfire of power that burst at the seams. Another ki blast wailed past Gohan, buzzing like electricity as it split the thick fog that coated the chamber's floor. A few minutes passed and Gohan could see Goku emerging from the smoke.
"You okay?" He asked his son, wiping away sweat from his brow.
"Yeah," Gohan lied, getting back onto his feet. "It's intense out here."
"It sure is." Training ignited a spark in Goku that Gohan was envious of. Fighting was a natural extension of Goku, and his focus was unrivaled. Even without knowing his Saiyan heritage wired him that way, anyone could see that battle was in his DNA and that his strength was a natural wonder that many wanted to possess.
Goku wrapped his arm around his son's shoulder and the two made their way closer to the platform where the living quarters stood. But before they crested the thickest part of the fog, Goku stopped his son.
"Let's spar here, okay?" His hand fell from Gohan's shoulder.
"Okay," Gohan said reluctantly.
The two got into a fighting stance and bowed to one another, signaling the start of their match. Goku struck first, his fist swinging at his son's head. But Gohan was ready: He ducked his head moving at lightning speed, shifting his body away and then back again, winding up his own punch.
The air swirled around them. Gohan could tell his father was holding back for his sake and a pit of shame bloomed in his stomach, but he tried to remind himself that his father's skill was far superior to his own. To make the match even remotely fair Goku had to relent just a little. Disappearing suddenly, Goku came behind his son and swept his leg underneath him. Gohan crashed to the ground, but only for a second, popping back up high into the arm and immediately back down again in an attempt to kick his father in the face.
Shifting his head, he sidestepped the attack and countered by grabbing Gohan's leg and tossing him onto the marble floor. Gohan somersaulted over himself, rolling onto his knees and popping back up.
Together they fought like that for a good while, exchanging kick after kick and punch after punch. Finally it ended after Goku managed to deliver a debilitating blow to Gohan's core, sending him skidding across the now-scuffed floors of the chamber. Sputtering, Gohan rose once more and steadied himself.
"You're getting stronger," Goku said. "I'm impressed."
"Thanks Dad." Gohan wiped away a bit of saliva and blood from his mouth. "I don't know if I feel any stronger."
"Well I can feel it," Goku smiled. "Now come on, let's get something to eat."
Goku and Gohan had almost immediately entered the chamber as soon as Cell had left the Lookout. The sight of the monster had instilled a sense of drive in Goku that Gohan had never seen before. Training was a way of life for Goku, but the fire Cell had ignited was all encompassing. For weeks on end they fought one another, trying new techniques and mastering old ones. Every time Gohan felt like he couldn't go on, his father was there pushing him to go just a little farther beyond his breaking point.
All Gohan could think about, though, was getting out. It's not that he didn't want to help the Z Fighters in this battle. As a Saiyan warrior, he, like his father, felt drawn to the cry of combat. Nervousness consumed him, though—a fear that even if they were able to train and somehow overcome their foe it would come at a great cost.
What's more is that Gohan really didn't like to fight. He didn't mind training because it took focus and discipline and he was full of that. But it didn't fulfill him the way his studies did. And more so lately—the older he was getting—he liked exercising his mind over exercising his body. As his mind continued to expand, Gohan found himself feeling unsettled. A sense of bitterness formed in him that he was being subjected to the whims of homicidal monsters when he should've just been a regular boy. Yes, he was called to fight, but he was angry at the world, and—as he begrudgingly admitted only in the deepest parts of his mind—angry at his father.
He watched as Goku paced toward the platform and a low grumble swirled in his stomach. Neither Gohan or Goku really knew how to cook, so preparing meals quickly turned into a comedy of errors. They emerged from the fog to the platform, Gohan rubbing at his aching muscles. Atop the table, the fruit bowl was magically filled again with bright red apples.
Goku wasted no time in stripping off his sweaty training gi and walked directly into the bathroom. A haze emerged from the room and the sound of running water filled the entirety of the platform, swirling intermittently with the dense air that brushed up against the chamber's living quarters. Gohan began prepping the stove and rummaged through the refrigerator. Over the past few weeks he had developed some remedial cooking skills, and his father was more than happy to leave it up to him.
He wondered what system Vegeta and Bulla had when they were in here. Did Bulla cook? Was it wrong to think she was reduced to that gender stereotype? Using the faucet he poured water into a pot—maybe he would make a ramen tonight—and placed it gently on the stovetop. Flames flicked out from below it as he turned the knob, and he went back to the fridge to examine what ingredients he had for their meal.
A smattering of vegetables lined the countertop and Gohan got to work. Each was cut into small pieces and thrown into the water, which was now bubbling. Seasoning went in next, along with some chicken and finally noodles. A delicious, savory smell filled the air.
While he waited for it to cook, he thumbed through one of the books left in the chamber. He found Bulla's notes in a few of the ones left behind. She sure was an interesting person. It was hard to believe that she was Vegeta's daughter. Laughter came easy to her, smiles too, and she liked to discuss intellectual things. She was soft-hearted and kind. Part of him wished she could stay here forever.
Goku emerged from the bathroom, a plume of steam escaping from beyond the door, and stretched his arms high above his head.
"What a great bath!" Goku said, wrapping a towel around his waist. He made his way over to the small table and plucked an apple from a bowl. "I'm feeling much more relaxed. Tomorrow I'm going to push it extra hard."
Looking from behind his book, Gohan gave a reassuring smile to his father.
The ramen was good—though not as good as Chi-Chi's-and the two ate with vigor. The broth barely had a chance to cool before they were digging in. The smell of garlic and herbs was intoxicating, and the two helped themselves to several portions before pulling themselves back up for air.
Goku rubbed his belly and sank back in his chair, a contented smile forming across his face.
"You're getting good at cooking," Goku said to his son. "Your mother would be proud."
Thoughts of Chi-Chi filled Gohan's head. Despite the fact that she could be downright oppressive sometimes, he missed his mom and he could tell his dad missed her, too. In a few months they would be able to see her again, but that felt like a lifetime away.
"You seem awfully quiet tonight," Goku said. Gohan looked up at him over his empty bowl.
"Just thinking about a lot, that's all," Gohan sheepishly replied. Collecting the empty dishes, Gohan tried to change the subject. "Training today was good, don't you think?"
"For sure!" Goku beamed. "It's always great when we're training together."
Gohan went to the sink and turned the knob. Hot water splashed over the myriad of plates, bowls and silverware. Washing dishes wasn't so bad when you had Saiyan speed, but today Gohan felt like taking his time. Running a rag over a bowl, he unintentionally let out a deep sigh.
"Gohan," his father said, his voice laced in concern. "Are you alright?"
There was no good way to tell his father about the war waging inside of his heart, and there was never going to be. He swallowed down his sadness and focused on the circles he made against the bowl's bottom.
"Nothing," he lied. "I'm just tired, that's all."
For several nights, Gohan was haunted by a recurring dream. It always ended the same, but the beginning was always different. Sometimes he was in his house, or sometimes he was in the chamber.
On this particular night, Gohan dreamed he was standing in the middle of the Lookout on a crystal clear day. The sun was beaming up ahead, the clouds drifting aimlessly as a gentle wind hugged Gohan's entire body.
A low rumble sounded from under the Lookout. With an unnatural groan, the Lookout shifted up and then from side to side. The solid floor beneath him began to morph, liquifying into a white river that bucked Gohan off his balance.
A figure floated above him while he tried to regain his footing against the shifting surface. Eclipsing the sun was Cell, his arms crossed and pressed against his broad chest. Gohan reached to steady himself among the ebbing and flowing of the tile, but found his fingers slipping with each attempt.
"Cell!" he yelled, and the monster smiled.
Liquid coated Gohan's throat, dripping down into his lungs. Doused in invisible water, Gohan struggled to push back and couldn't breath. His lips parted, desperate for air, but nothing managed to pass through. Above him Cell extended an arm, an energy blast forming in his palm, and Gohan watched in horror as his face shifted into that of his father's.
The moment the blast released, Gohan awoke, writhing in a cold sweat.
In the bed next to him, he could hear his father's heavy breath gently rising and falling in a soft rhythm. He was still asleep. The digital clock Gohan had brought with him glowed 4 a.m.. Pressing his eyes together, he tried to lull himself back to bed, but he knew sleep would not find him again. A nervous energy thrummed through him, and Gohan forced himself to get up.
He quickly put on his training gi, trying to remain quiet so his father wouldn't hear, and made his way out to the smooth tile floor. More sleep wouldn't ease his mind, nor would doing a meaningless task like preparing breakfast. His muscles ached, begging Gohan to use them and burn off the wave of anxiety he was currently drowning under.
This was the dichotomy Gohan hated: the desire to train despite the aversion to fighting. If he was the warrior his father wanted him to be—that part of him wanted to be—why was he trapped by the agonizing desire to flee the fight? A warrior is only as good as his bravery, and Gohan had never felt smaller in his life.
Out in the coldness of the chamber, Gohan's wrestled with himself internally. Ever since he showed promise against Raditz, he was made to believe that he had a natural gift that others vied for, and he felt stupid for rejecting destiny. But what if he didn't want it? What if he chose something else?
Despite his best efforts, Gohan couldn't help but feel worried about what he might become if he were a fighter. Brutality was a hell of a thing and it twisted men like Gero and monsters like Cell to become mindless and cold.
Goku was loving and kind and good—and those things didn't preclude him from being a great warrior, Gohan reasoned with himself. He could be a warrior and whatever else he wanted to be. But what if one was called over the other? What path would he choose? Would he even get to choose if push came to shove?
His heart slammed against his chest and tears formed in his eyes. Wandering farther and farther back, he wished the chamber would just consume him, swallow him whole and never spit him back out. Then he could awash himself of this shame—this guilt—that he wanted to reject a fundamental piece of himself.
The air seemed to twist around his indecision and it became thicker. Dark clouds roared ahead and a thunderstorm began to brew. This happened sometimes during particularly brutal training sessions, as if the room was inhaling the emotion of the fighter inside, mimicking it like a cruel joke. Lightning struck on the floor, kissing the marble's perfect surface and leaving an ugly crack that weaved around Gohan.
His chest swelled. It was just like the dream: He tried to scream, he tried to yell, but he was choking under an individual pressure that left him in a vise grip. He was drowning again, but not from something physical, rather from the emotional burden he had been placing on himself. The pressure was agonizing and immeasurable—spikes driving through a soul that tethered him to a life of constantly wanting one thing to give.
He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. How can a person be two things at once? How can a pacifist understand the taste of war and want more? What one part of Gohan craved, the other refused, and the two puzzle pieces just wouldn't fit together. Not now, at least.
He loved his father, he really did. He admired him in such a fierceness it left him reeling in Goku's aura. But a legend is just a legend. No man is beyond admonishment, no father too perfect to give and receive unconditional love without a price. His father was his hero, yes, but his father was also the villain; not to Gohan, but to those who came to challenge him, those who inserted themselves in Goku's life, and thus Gohan's.
Wherever he went, evil would follow. And Goku would choose the warrior's path every single time. Gohan wasn't confident he could.
A scream finally ripped through him, electricity jolted down his fingertips and his body pulsated. Energy was spinning around him, twisting from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head, and Gohan's vision went white. Suddenly, he could feel it—he could feel the change. A gold aura poured out of him and his yell became more coarse. Pulsating from his body, the power danced around him, shooting outward as far as the eye could see. Tears poured out from his eyes and Gohan snapped them shut, a pitiful attempt to conceal his anguish.
Thunder clapped up above like a warning bell and Gohan finally took a deep breath.
He had transformed into a Super Saiyan.
When he opened up his eyes he saw his father standing there, his mouth slack and his eyes wide.