Disclaimer: Duh. It ain't ours.
Authors' notes: First chapter of what is shaping up to be a looooong series. Set post- DBZ but pre-GT. Tell us if it sucks.
Dragonball Omega Chapter One:
In Which Gohan Experiences
One of Those Days
"Ow," Gohan groaned as he met the pavement on intimate terms. Why me? All I wanted was some soup . . .
**********
#Fifteen minutes earlier #
"Baa-chan! Baa-chan!"
ChiChi turned just in time to intercept her six-year-old granddaughter. "Pan, what's the rule about running in the house?" she asked with mock-severity while swinging the girl into her arms.
Pan giggled impishly. "I wasn't running."
"No flying, either," her father said as he and his wife walked more sedately into the kitchen. "Hello, Kaa-san," Son Gohan said, kissing his mother's cheek and tousling his daughter's hair. "Food smells great. Let see," he closed his eyes, "dumplings, lamb, potatos, and soup?"
"Mmm-hmm," ChiChi agreed as she settled Pan on her left hip and turned to stir her pots. "Guess what's in it." She lifted the pot lid, just enough for her son to get a good whiff.
"Makbar!" he exclaimed with pleasure.
ChiChi's eyes twinkled in the light. Cooking was her love, and she enjoyed seeing it appreciated. "Of course. I know it's your favorite. I put ground root in the base, now I just have to add the chopped." She reached into an overhead cabinet.
As her mother-in-law rummaged, Videl asked in an aside to her husband "Makbar?"
"It's a root. Doesn't grow around here, it's native to the area Kaa-san grew up in and some other places in the foothill forests. I can't believe you've never had any; it's terrific!"
"Oh, ku--" ChiChi looked at her granddaughter, still clinging to her side, and modified her exclamation. "Oh, darn. I can't believe I didn't check my supplies. I'm out of fresh makbar!"
"I can go get you some, Kaa-san."
"Oh, would you, Gohan-chan? You remember the closest place I buy it, don't you?"
"Hai. That little village by Mount Driskol." That 'closest place' was actually about a day away by car. Gohan could get there in five minutes without trying. He set out the door at a trot. It might not take him long, but this was dinner. Any wait was too long when he had his mother's food to look forward to.
Levitating, he headed out. Once away from habitation, he sped up and broke a couple of sound barriers. Through long training, he was still able to take in the scenery along the way. It really was lovely territory, all woods and rivers, with the land gently sloping upwards towards the foothills and then the mountains. The mountains . . .
Gohan looked up just in time to see Mount Driskol getting very close very fast. "Aah! Kuso!" He couldn't stop in midair with that little warning, so he dropped straight down to kill speed. The impact wouldn't have hurt him, but the locals would doubtless not appreciate having their mountain disintegrated by a super-powered tourist.
He landed in an undignified sprawl atop a simple merchant's display cart. The resultant sounds of breaking crockery and splintering wood were not encouraging. He picked himself up and attempted to take stock of the damage done.
Whoever owned this was going to be ma-
*Wham*
Suddenly, he found his vision dominated by a rough substance. Tarry black and very hard, it seemed to have numerous craters and boulders in its surface. He pondered this for a moment, until the brain that was his greatest asset abruptly kicked back into gear.
Asphalt.
He was seeing asphalt at extremely close range. That was interesting.
Gohan levered himself off the rough ground, again thanking his Saiyajin heritage for saving his hide from a bruising.
Or to be more precise, he tried to get up. There was a weight sitting between his shoulder blades. The way the weight -- or, rather, the person- sat on him would have easily pinned any normal man. And the grumbling coming from above him would likely have convinced a weaker man that he did not want to move, lest his attacker take the expressed aggressions out on his head. "Mrs. Suhore is gonna KILL me . .. . and how the hell did this guy land on THIS cart of all the gods-damned-mother . . ."
Gohan had thought that his long association with decidedly colorful warriors would have inured him to such language, but this man could add new curses to Vegeta's dictionary. Ears blushing at the more impractical suggestions his de facto opponent leveled at him, Gohan shifted his hands under him and pushed off the ground.
He caught a glimpse of short-shorn black hair and tanned skin before the slender young man changed tactics. "Oh no you don't, you stay RIGHT there until I figure out exactly what to do about this mess." With little effort, the boy pulled Gohan's arm around to his back and held it there. Gohan had to commend the fellow, it was a very effective hold . . . against a human. Holding a half-Saiyajin, on the other hand . . .
Sighing, he gave his arm a jerk and sent the young man on his back flying.
That hurt. Gohan massaged his arm.
Hang on.
That actually HURT. Just a little twinge, but still, that was impressive.
*WHAM*
More asphalt. That wouldn't soon be on his list of fun things to feel. Weird.
A human had hurt him. Either he was so out of shape that a normal human could hurt him . . . or this human knew what he was doing. Gohan leapt up, displacing the man on his back once again. Taking the opportunity to catch him off balance, the half-Saiyajin tripped the human and knelt beside him, one hand on a shoulder, one on his chest, and a foot hooked over the man's leg to prevent a reversal.
Something odd about that chest . . . it felt strangely soft . . . sort of squishy . . . Men don't have squishy chests . . .
Oh no. Ohnoohnoohno.
Gohan looked down into the smoldering dark eyes of a very annoyed WOMAN.
I need a Kleenex.
*******
Flowers always smell nice in Heaven. Well, everything smells nice in Heaven, when you get right down to it. That's one of the advantages of living there. However, Mr. Popo was of the opinion that his flowers smelled the best of all. Not that there was any conceit in that-- indeed, it was not in his nature to be conceited. Taking pride in his work was certainly acceptable.
On this day he knelt in his garden, smelling the flowers and generally being as happen as he was able to be. A breeze whirred gently by, carrying with it cooling freshness . . . and something else. Popo felt it.
Mmm? the rotund being thought, caught momentarily off-guard. It had been so long since these particular senses had been triggered that he had almost forgotten that they existed-- or, at least, had been able to pretend he did not have them and had never needed them.
In his haste, every garden tool was knocked over. Popo did not realize, nor would he have cared. Perching on the edge of the platform, he peered at a very specific spot on the earth below. Behind him, the sproutlings he had been so proud of moment before lay withering, crushed beneath his foot.
*******
"It's fine, really. Wasn't your fault. I just tend to jump to conclusions. SOME people around here . . . " she shot a venomous look over her shoulder at a small group of people loitering on the edge of the otherwise empty marketplace. Seeing her glare, they quickly made it a completely empty place. "Never mind. Like I said, sorry for jumping you."
Gohan managed to curtail his stammering. "At least let me help you clean up." He followed her example, carefully removing the unbroken pieces from the mess. "Did you make all these? "
"Uh-huh."
"They're very good."
"Mmm."
What a wonderful conversationalist you are, Gohan. You break her things, and now you try to make small talk! Gohan often talked to himself when embarrassed. Some days, he feared he was developing multiple personalities. Humph. Maybe I should talk to Piccolo-san about that; he's certainly experienced with the subject. He winced in automatic anticipation of the swat his teacher would give him for thinking that.
"What I want to know," said the woman, yanking Gohan back to reality, "is how you did this much damage by just running into it. I heard the crash from inside," she gestured to a building across the square, "and when I came out, you were standing over it. Thought you were one of Kori's buddies, which is why I jumped you. But you say it was an accident, and I believe you."
She looked directly at him, politeness compelling him to face her. "So, want to tell me how you accidentally smashed this? If I didn't know better, I'd say you dropped out of the sky." She gave a rueful grin for her own fancy.
"I. . . uh . . . I . . . well, that is to say . . . " aaaarrghhh! I've never been a good liar! What am I supposed to say? "I did fall out of the sky. I was flying here because my mother wanted some makbar root to go in soup, and I got distracted and nearly hit the mountain but I probably would have vaporized it so I dropped down and landed on your stuff and I am so sorry!" Yeah, that'll work. I can imagine saying that to her. She'd think I'm . . . wait a minute. Why is she looking at me like that? She looks like I just told her . . . oh no.
"I said that out loud, didn't I."
The woman nodded confirmation, not taking her eyes off him.
Ah, kuso.
"You . . . can . . . fly . . . " she mumbled, seeming a bit awed.
"H-hai. It's just a. . . . Well, it's something that . . . you see . . . " Way to go, Gohan-my-boy. You've probably given her a complex! Remember how long it to Videl to accept it all, and she's the most stable woman you ever--
He never finished the thought. Being pounced had that effect on him. Gohan looked, once again, into bright black eyes, but this time he looked up; the woman perched gracefully on his chest. "You can FLY?! Really? How do you do it? How long did it take you to learn can anyone do it canyouteachme?!" She finally seemed to realize that her heels were digging into his ribs. Jumping up, she exclaimed "Oh! Gomen! Gomen nasai! I
just got so excited and I can get a bit unpredictable and you can really FLY!"
Gohan waved aside her proffered hand and picked himself off the ground. No use pulling her arm off trying to help him up. The way this is going, I might wish I had stayed down. "Ye-eessss," he said cautiously. "Look, I haven't even introduced myself yet. My name is Son Gohan."
Regaining her composure, the woman bowed greeting. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Son Gohan-san. My name is Daia."
"Please, just call me Gohan." Looking her over, now that he was on steady footing and she was calm, Gohan realized that Daia was quite a bit older than he had first thought. She looked to be a few years his junior-- maybe twenty-two, twenty-three. Her height had fooled him into thinking her a teen; she stood almost a foot shorter than he and slender, though strongly built. Thick black hair, cut as short as a man's, crowned a face sporting wide black eyes and lips that were actually pert. Coarse, practical work clothes obscured her body's femininity, but Gohan knew it was there-- in the most embarrassing way possible. He had no doubt that there were muscles under those clothes, in addition to . . . other features. Callused, scarred hands testified that she was no stranger to hard work, and the way she had tossed him around assured that Daia was perfectly capable of defending herself.
"Gohan-san. How do you do . . . "
"Bukujutsu. It's a way of using ki, and it's really not that complicated. My teacher Piccolo-san taught me. Listen, I owe you. Why don't you come to dinner with me, and I'll try to explain it."
Her gaze turned suspicious. Gohan's blush came back in full force. "No! Not like that, I swear! I'm married, see?!" He held up his left hand with his wedding ring on it as proof. "My wife will be there, and my daughter, my brother, and my parents. Kaa-san's a wonderful cook. In fact, I--" he slapped his forehead. "Oh no, I forgot! I came here to buy some makbar root for Kaa-san. She'll wonder where I am."
"Makbar root? Mrs. Suhore has some in her store, but it's closed by now, so-"
Gohan looked at the horizon where the sun sat as a fat red tear, signaling the coming of evening. "It's late! Is there another place I can find some?"
"Not that I know of, unless you plan to dig it yourself." Daia couldn't help but giggle at the forlorn expression on Gohan's face. "So, as I was saying, " she reached into a hidden pocket and pulled out a key-ring, "I'll just have to let you in." Taking the basket of salvaged items on her hip, she set off across the square. Gohan paused for a moment to let his brain catch up, then retrieved the burlap sack of shards and trotted after her.
He entered the storefront the woman had disappeared into. Dark and dry, the room smelled of growing thing and pungent dried herbs. A light burned through a door set behind the register counter. Daia poked her head out. "There's a phone right over there," she gestured to the end of the counter.
"Do you live here?" he asked as he made his way to the telephone.
A muffled voice came through the still-open door. "Not if I can help it. I've a room back here, behind the storeroom, but I prefer spending as much time away from the village as possible. Mrs. Suhore, the shop owner, lives above. Don't worry, she's out playing cards with her gossip circle at this time of evening."
Gohan's ears picked up the sliding of a closet door and the rustle of fabric. He dialed home, giving her time to dress. "It's me, Kaa-san. No, I'm fine, I just had a little accident . . . " he explained the recent happenings to his mother. "So, you don't mind feeding one more? You're fantastic, Kaa-san. I'll be home in a little bit." He made the appropriate good-byes and hung up. Just then, Daia came to the door that he assumed led into the storeroom.
Gohan had really stopped looking at other women when he started dating Videl (why bother, when you're dating the prettiest, bravest, smartest, most wonderful woman in the world, was his line of reasoning), but he had to admit that Daia did not look half bad when she was cleaned up and dressed well. She still wore trousers and boots, but of a finer make, better looking and less rough than her work clothes. Her pants, cloth dyed a deep forest green, came down over the tops of her black leather boots. A tunic of a lighter green fell to mid-thigh, gathered at the waist by a plain leather belt that matched her boots.
Her hair was brushed and lustrous, but still not falling in any particular order. The tussled look Gohan had thought was merely the result of a day's work seemed to be its natural state, flying in short, thick locks about the top of her head. Running a hand through his own cropped mane, the half-Saiyajin sympathized with unmanageable hair victims everywhere.
Daia smiled self-consciously. "I hope this is appropriate. I really don't have much occasion to dress for dinner; generally I eat alone."
"You're fine, it's just a family thing. Be thankful that Okaa-san makes sure Otou-san puts on clothes. He's been known to forget." That was not something he would generally say to a near stranger. Odd how this woman was so easy to speak around. From the slightly confused tone to her words, he surmised that she, too, was saying things to him she did not normally bother to discuss.
"It's funny, I don't know why I'm telling you this. I'm not big on people, but I feel like I can say things to you." She snorted. "Guess it's the married thing. I don't have to worry about you trying anything." She said it as a joke, but a flash of pain crossed her eyes, quickly suppressed. Gohan would likely not even have noticed if it was not so at odds with the cheerful way she had acted after deciding not to pound on him. He wondered what the story behind that was, who had caused her such pain, such avoidance of people. Even more, he wondered why this raised such protective instincts in him, a feeling that he should hunt down whoever had hurt her and make sure it never happened again.
Flashes from his Saiyajin side were nothing new to Gohan; he had learned to channel the occasional surges of kill-kill-kill aggression into more constructive, serve-and-protect paths. His side-job as the Great Saiyaman gave him ample opportunity to help and protect others, but what he was currently feeling was different. This was something akin to when his family was threatened, the only thing in his life that had ever truly enraged him. He was reacting as if someone had harmed his little brother or his daughter.
Daia was speaking again; he shrugged off the emotions from his weird alien half, deciding to contemplate them another time. He turned his attention to what his new dinner guest said.
"There's ten pounds here," she said, nodding at the paper container in her hands. "Is that enough root for your mother?'
Oh, yes, that's fine. More than she asked for, really. How much does it cost?"
"One meal of your mother's cooking."
"I couldn't take it without paying. Won't your Mrs. Suhore be upset?"
She snorted in derision. "It matters very little if she is. Look around. All these herbs? I gathered them, I dried them, I even made most of the containers. Mrs. Suhore just keeps the books and the credit."
"Oh." That was all Gohan could think of to say. The tinge of bitterness in the lady's voice made him think that she had issues with many more people than he had first thought. A quick exit seemed in order. "Shall
we?" he nodded toward the outer door.
Her smile was back. "We shall." She turned out the lights on the way out, closing and locking the door behind her. "But, how are we going to get to your home?"
"You're not afraid of heights, are you?" he asked as he scanned the marketplace, making certain that there was no one watching.
"No. Why do you as-OH!" she squealed sharply as he scooped her up and lifted off. Her startlement turned to wonder as she realized what was happening. Looping her arms around his neck, she looked quizzically at him. "You can carry someone, too?'
"Hai. Such small amounts of weight as a single person don't really make much difference, as long the aerodynamics aren't altered." He half-expected her to bombard him with questions, but she seemed content to enjoy the rare view. Gohan was perfectly content with the opportunity to contemplate this compelling stranger.
Perhaps if he had been a mind reader -- or a stronger one than he was, at any rate-- he would have known that Daia's thoughts paralleled his.
********
Kami-sama, that smells great! I'll have to pace myself, or I'll starve them out. Gohan-san didn't intend to torture me by bringing me here, but that's what it amounts to. I could probably eat enough for five people if ChiChi-san's cooking tastes anywhere near as good as it smells. People who wish for a fast metabolism should be forced to live with one for a while.
Daia's mouth watered as plates of chicken, vegetables, and god-knew-what-else-but-damn-it-smelled-good were set under her nose. Tearing her eyes away from the culinary treasures before her, she glanced over the family seated with her around the large table. Strange how they all looked so normal. Perhaps Gohan was the only one able to fly? But he looked just like his relatives . . .
At least in this family, it's the MEN who need moose. I thought mine was untamable. Though it's nice not to stand out with dark-dark hair among browns; most of theirs' is as black as mine is.
Even the incredible strength Gohan had displayed was not visually evident. Only Goku-san could truly be called "built," and even he was less muscular than many of the village men who lifted for a living. Does that mean he's that much stronger than his son? The others were very trim and lined, but an aura of strength surrounded all of them.
Chi-Chi poked her head out of the kitchen door and smiled apologetically. "Gomen minna-san. Seems the soup is taking longer than I thought it would. Another 30 minutes or so, and it'll be done. Run along till I call you, ne?"
The youngest man--teenager, really--stood quickly and attempted to slip away unnoticed, likely so that he could use the cell-phone already in his hand. Not looking back, Chi-Chi called "Goten-chan, please bring the dishes back into the kitchen so they'll stay warm."
"But Kaa-san. . ." He glanced over his shoulder at the guest--the definitely young and female guest--and re-considered the benefits of whining. Obedient, whether to his mother or his hormones, he began to stack the hot plates and carry them into the kitchen.
Through the now-closed door, Chi-Chi's voice came, as if spurred by some psychic flash, "And no going off to spar with Vegeta or any of the others. I don't feel like washing you up again, Goku-saa."
The big man stopped his progressed toward the door, sighing. "Yes, dear."
Then again, maybe the lady just knew her husband.
Videl followed Goten through the door, presumably to help her mother-in-law. Daia wished she could--it made her uncomfortable to not help, but Chi-Chi had nearly chased her out of the kitchen with a wooden spoon when she offered.
Left with nothing much to do and an hatred of twiddling her thumbs while there were explorations to make, Daia walked down the nearest hallway where she had seen little Pan disappear. She walked by what looked like the little girl's playroom, and stopped dead.
********
Six-year-old Pan held four wooden blocks above her head, no physical contact involved.
"Wow."
Pan dropped the blocks to the floor and gave a mistrustful glance at the woman outside her door. Adults, 'specially adult ladies, always wanted to tell her how adorable she was and make her play with her equally adorable dolls. They never wanted to do fun stuff like fight--young ladies shouldn't! -- or tell scary stories-such things are bad for children!--or play with animals--nasty, smelly creatures!--and they never believed her when she told them about Uncle Piccolo and Uncle Vegeta and Mommy and Daddy saving the world and making bad guys blow up. Ah, well. There went her fun for the evening.
"Oops," Daia murmured, genuinely chagrined. "Didn't mean to break your concentration or anything. How'd ya learn that, anyway?"
Pan cocked her head, her expression turning from one of bored acceptance to confused curiosity. "Piccolo-ojisan taught me," she said guardedly.
Daia walked into the room, planting herself next to Pan with a hopeful gleam in her eye. "Can you teach me?"
Well, this was certainly a pleasant change. This lady spoke like she would to a grown-up. She even asked Pan for help! There was no way the little girl would pass this up.
********
Gohan just managed to stop himself from tapping on the playroom door as he entered. He raised his eyebrows in surprise--mild surprise, to be true -- at the spectacle of his daughter showing his guest how to levitate objects. Daia was just managing to jerkily move them in place. Not bad for a beginner. He didn't want to interrupt, but if he didn't he couldn't eat. That wouldn't do.
Regretfully, he cleared his throat. "Dinner's ready."
Concentration broken, Daia lost control of her blocks. She mock-glared at Gohan, but not too harshly. After all, he was feeding her. As she followed the man and his skipping daughter down the hall, her thoughts turned to this "Piccolo." He must be a friend of the family. If he could teach Pan that, then maybe . . .
Her thoughts jumbled together as dinner began.
Quickly, Daia's discomfort at being the guest of another's table vanished. These people didn't eat as much as her . . . they ate more. Plates, utensils, and hands were flung across the table at speeds she hadn't thought possible in nature. When in Osaka . . . Grinning easily, she snatched the bowel of mashed potatoes out from under Goku's nose and helped herself.
Commotion at the table stopped. Several pairs of eyes blinked as their guest proceeded dig in, Son-style. Clearing her plate, of the first helpings, Daia wiped her mouth daintily with a napkin and smiled. "So? Any of you boys wanna race?"
*****
He blinked slowly as the young woman fell out of her chair giggling. A drained sake cup rolled out of her hand. She had just "raced" both Son and the other one . . . G . . . Go . . . Goten. Yes, Goten.
//You remember his name perfectly well. You just pretend to not notice. //
The observer did not reply to the mental chastisement. Even he sometimes tired of saying, "shut up" to the chorus in his mind.
The girl had, of course, lost her contest, but had in the process consumed enough food and liquor to not care at all. Humans did, at times, manage to amuse him. However, he had more concerns than watching a fool comport herself.
Piccolo allowed a portion of his ever-present cape to flicker in the window most directly in Gohan's line of sight. That was enough; the boy knew to come when his teacher summoned. Not a question was raised when Gohan rose and left his parent's house. Daia, who might have wondered, was too busy finding things highly giggle-worthy to ask.
******
Gohan seated himself neatly at the base of a stately oak, a woodland cathedral showcasing nature's strength and blatant stubbornness. Even floating as he was, a few feet above the ground, the ancient giant still towered over him. Speaking of stubbornness . . .
Piccolo sat cross-legged a few feet away. He had been there seemingly since the oak was an acorn, and gave the impression he would still be there after it was ash. Gohan did not speak. His mentor knew he was there, and would come to the point sooner or later. The boy-- he always felt like a boy when Piccolo was around, rather than the grown man he was-- instead concentrated on not appearing impatient.
After an unmeasured time, Piccolo raised his head and looked directly at the half-Saiyajin. He uttered only one word.
"'Ow'?"
And Gohan knew he was in trouble.
*********
An hour later, a much battered and wearied Gohan had managed to convince Piccolo that he was still in fighting form. He sat gratefully on the cool ground and considered his next words carefully. Daia had made an impact on him, that much was plain. She had spoken very little of her life on the trip from her village, but it was so much that she hadn't said which worried him. Her life was not the happiest, he would wager. If he could help her, somehow, he would sleep better at night. Between sessions of digging furrows in the barren plain with his face-- Piccolo would not damage the forest by throwing anyone around in it unless he was truly angered-- and actually delivering solid hits through his teacher's defense, Gohan had developed a plan. The hard part would be getting Piccolo to go along with it.
"Piccolo-san. . ."
The Namekseijin looked at him.
"Daia, the woman who . . ." How to say it without provoking another "sparring" session? "The woman who surprised me. She's good."
Piccolo did not comment.
"She has a lot of potential. I don't think she could have done as much as she did without some rudimentary ki control. Pan had her pushing blocks after a few minutes." Likely none but Son Gohan would have noticed the lightening of Piccolo's features at the mention of the little girl's name. He'll never admit it, but he's almost sweet around her. She's certainly fond of her Uncle Piccolo.
Now for the important part. "With some training, she could probably become very strong. Strong enough to fight in the next Budoukai, certainly. Of course, that's only six months from now. I don't think I can get her ready in time, though. I'm just not an experienced sensei." Please please please please please.
Piccolo seemed to mull over this information. "What of your idiot father?"
Gohan had long given up defending his father's name to Piccolo. The other warrior didn't mean it; even if he did, there was not that Gohan could do about it. "I don't think Kaa-san would let him, not after Ubuu. She was almost happy when that runaway snowblower ran off the cliff he was under."
"The old one who trained Son?"
"I'm afraid she'd kill him the first time he tried anything."
"It would not be a great loss," Piccolo remarked coldly. "Nevertheless, that would accomplish nothing but freeing this world of one more piece of baggage. I suppose I am the only one left."
Mentioning Vegeta as a option was not a possibility; Piccolo would do him no such courtesy and Gohan did not want to distract from his objectives. "I-- I guess so, Piccolo-san." Gohan managed to sound genuinely surprised at that revelation. "So . . . you'll volunteer?"
"Not without testing her, first. Dragging a coward around is not worth my time."
"Of course, Piccolo-san. When do you want to see her?"
"Now."
"Oh. Um, alright."
They returned to the Son house. Gohan poked his head around the living room door and saw Daia, looking almost sober, talking to his parents while studiously ignoring his brother. He stepped fully into the room and cleared his throat. "Um, Daia-san, there's, um, someone, he, um."
"I wish to see her," said a deep voice from the shadows behind Gohan.
His father was not surprised, of course. Piccolo always hid his power, but at this range no one could hide from Goku. Goten didn't worry; Piccolo usually pretended he didn't exist, anyway. His mother . . . ChiChi's mouth tightened as Piccolo stepped around the door, but she was determined not to say anything waspish until Piccolo well and truly deserved it. As for Daia. . .
"CHIKUSHO!!" She leapt up from her seat, eyes wide. All together, a normal reaction for one's first encounter with the ex-Demon King.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Daia-san, it's okay. This is Piccolo," Gohan hastened to reassure her.
She glanced between Gohan and Piccolo, finally settling on a point halfway between. Slowly, as if having to command every mucle individually, she relaxed her stance until it was almost a normal posture. Clinched fists belied that impression, but she deliberately folded her arms, hiding them from sight. "That," she gestured to the Namekseijin with her chin, a very little unsteadiness in her voice, "is your sensei?" Pausing for a moment to receive Gohan's affirmation, she would have continued if not for the blur that shot past her
from out of a bedroom.
"Uncle Piccolo!" Pan, fully awake, called as she jumped at Piccolo. Never mind that he seemed to pay no attention to her, or that his arms were crossed, not open to catch her. Pan knew as only a child can know that Piccolo would not let her fall.
To the naked eye, Piccolo did not move. Nevertheless, in the next moment the little girl was held securely in his now uncrossed arms. His face remained impassive, a silent challenge to anyone to comment. No one did.
"Um, ha-hai."
She absorbed this information, then looked directly at Piccolo. "Nice cape. Make it yourself?"
A rush of air, and Pan sat in her father's arms, Piccolo stood on the other side of the room, and Daia
dangled, evidently unconscious, by the back of her shirt grasped in his left hand. He glared impartially at everyone in the room, then slung the girl over his shoulder and strode towards the door. Pausing on the threshold, he turned slightly to address Gohan. "She has potential. If she survives, she will fight in the Budoukai." He began to walk out, then turned again to catch his student's eyes. "You are not deceitful enough to manipulate. Next time, don't try."
Then he was gone, and Daia with him.
*****
Mr. Popo stared over the edge of the Tenkai, not allowing the darkness and distance to impede his vision of events below. He sat back on his haunches, going over and over what had just happened. Events were in motion . . . that much was obvious. What was he to do about it? What could he do about it without making things worse?
Dende, taking a short stroll around his domain, paused when he saw his assistant in such an odd posture. "Mr. Popo?" he queried softly. "Is anything wrong?"
It was an indicator of how deep Popo had been in thought that he had not know the Kami was so near. Composing his face-- easy enough, as his face was made specifically to appear always composed and slightly stupid-- he turned around casually. "Oh, nothing's wrong, Kami-sama."
Dende winced at that. He hated being sama-ed, and Mr. Popo hated causing him the discomfort. Unfortunately it was sometimes necessary.
"I just saw that Piccolo-sama has found a new student. I hope they have fun."
"Fun . . . " Dende echoed. That was not the term he would use. More like I hope he doesn't kill her right away. This should be interesting. Shaking his head slightly, he walked away, his servant's strangeness already faded from his mind.
That was another thing Popo hated doing. It went against not only his conscience but also his duty. Interference like that was what had caused . . . no. He would not think of that right now. It was too early for all concerned to think on such things.
The little Djinn glanced once more out onto the world, then turned and walked in his special, unprepossessing manner back to the Palace, where he could think without having to guard against curious younglings.