Sand swirled in the evening air as the sun slowly sank into the horizon. A single green jeep pulled off of the desolate road with a screeching halt as the brakes found their mark. As the jeep jerked rapidly to a halt, the engine sputtered and finally died. A thin line of smoke rippled out just past the hood. "Oh great, I guess this means we'll have to walk, right Puar?" said the man in the driver's seat. The jeep itself was a dark green, almost black against the oncoming nightfall. There was a small, but noticeable dent on the left front fender from a rock that hard been thrown from a passing semi that had caused it. The canvas top was not attached which left the roll bars and the front and back seats open to the elements. The door of the jeep flew open and the foot of the driver swung out and onto the ground. Sand surged around his boot as he placed his left foot on the ground. He reached over to the passenger's side and softly wrapped his hands around the straps of an old backpack. Carefully, he placed the bag over his right shoulder, being careful not to jar the contents. Inside the bag lay his blue and white cat, Puar, who was sleeping soundly until the driver had stopped the jeep. The driver had at one time been called the Desert Bandit, but now, he was known as Yamcha. The only thing he thought about was finding some place to eat, hopefully a small cafe or maybe just a small restaurant and a place to hole up during the cold desert nights. With his cargo secured on his back, the Desert Bandit began his long walk towards the small town that lay two and a half miles down the lonely desert road. * * * The diner was a little over fifty feet in length and the floor stood a little over three feet off the ground. There were four steps in sections of two that were separated by a short walkway. The door was glass and had a metal bar for a handle. The place reeked of cigar smoke and pork. Yamcha looked around slowly and found a booth by one of the many windows. He sat next to the window and ever so gently laid the backpack down in the seat next to himself. He looked hard at the table's surface as if trying to stare through the top of it. He seemed slightly hunched over in the booth, considering his height compared to the height of the table. Yamcha was never REALLY tall, he stood about six foot two, with a decently built body and mid-back length jet black hair. He carried two scars on his face, one a cut long and deep that traveled from about the center of his forehead down over his right eye and onto his cheek. The other had taken the form of a slanted cross on his left cheek. But now all they are, are just scars, they used to mean something to him, but now, just burdens as a reminder of his past. "Can I take you order?" asked the waitress. She was what looked like to be in her mid-thirties, with dark brown hair that hung just below her shoulders. She wore a yellow dress that had little white flowers that looked like daisies, but Yamcha couldn't tell, for he lacked the green thumb knowledge. Her complexion was slightly tan, if not at all, and her green eyes shown like emeralds between the hair that hung down in her face. The name tag was a little crooked, but the letters on it were clear, it read "Suzie." "Yeah, you can," replied the dark haired man. "I'll have a cup of coffee and a chicken sandwich with nothing on it except lettuce. To go please." "I'll be right back with your order." Yamcha squirmed a little bit in the seat, reaching for his wallet, but made no attempt to stand up. He glanced down at the bag at his side once again, only this time he reached for the opening in the top of it. Once open he carefully looked inside, just to check on his sleeping friend. This time when Puar came into view, Yamcha took his hand and softly scratched the top of the cat's head, but not enough to stir him from his sleep. "Here's your order," the waitress said, as she approached the table. With a thud, she set the food onto the table, almost spilling the coffee. "Sorry 'bout that, I'm new at this," she explained. "That's ok," the man insisted, not showing any kind of harassment, or sarcasm, what so ever. "That'll be $4.83," she said. Yamcha quickly handed her a five dollar bill and two ones. "Thank you," she said graciously, and turned and headed on to another couple that had just sat down. Yamcha quickly stuffed the black leather wallet back into his pants' pocket and carefully picked up the old backpack and set it on the table. Then, he slid across the seat and proceeded to stand up. Once having done so, he reached for the bag again this time putting it over his right shoulder with his right and reaching for the food with the left. Once the bag was secured, he reached for the coffee cup that was still on the table. He cautiously wrapped his hands around the Styrofoam goblet, trying not to spill it's contents. Once his friend and his food were secured, he made his way to the door, not even bothering to look back. With great care, he pushed open the glass door and stepped outside into the cool night air. He inhaled deeply, remembering how dry and cool the air was here. He filled his lungs two or three times before proceeding beyond the steps of the diner. Next was to find a place to sleep, now that the food was taken care of. Yamcha continued his slow paced walk along the edge of the deserted highway. After only a few minutes of walking, he stumbled onto a small but formidable motel. The neon sign in the front bore the name, "The Evergreen Inn." No second thoughts went through Yamcha's mind as he strode across the highway and towards the office of the motel. The small building was about one third the length of the diner, and nearly as deep. The front was all done in brick and there were two windows, one on the left side of the door and one on the right. The door itself looked precisely cared for. It looked smooth and hard from a distance, but as the distance was eliminated by Yamcha's steps, he realized that the door wasn't even wood. It was made of fiber glass that had been broken and patched from what looks like several times. The inside of the office wasn't that much of a surprise as the door had been. There was a mid-stomach high counter with a black rotary phone on one end along with a stained and ragged looking phone book. Just beyond the counter the glow from a small television set was the only source of light in the room, other than the moonlight coming in the filthy windows. In front of the TV, sat a pudgy little man who look about forty years older than he should be. When he caught sight of the man walking in the door, he had jumped out of his seat and scurried up to the opposite side of the counter. "Would you like a room," the pudgy man asked. "Just one, for one night only," replied the man wearing the dusty black leather jacket. "We don't allow pets or parties," said the little man. "No problem," said the Desert Bandit. To Yamcha, Puar wasn't a pet, he was a friend. "Okay, you have room number seven, it's the seventh door on your right as you leave here," the man uttered as he handed the key to Yamcha. The key was just like any other key, except it had a red oval shaped tag attached to it, with the number seven imprinted on it in gold. Yamcha slowly ran his thumb over the indent of the number, as he turned and walked out of the room. The room was exactly seven doors down, just like the man had said. Once inside, Yamcha set his pack on the bed and the food and coffee on the night stand. He then headed over to the big window, next to the door and closed it tightly, making sure no sunlight would come in, in the morning. He then turned and went back over to the nightstand. Yamcha sat heavily on the bed, making the springs squeal under the pressure. He reached over to the nightstand and flipped on the lamp that was there. Then he made his way for the bag which held the chicken and lettuce sandwich. Taking the sandwich out, he opened the wrapper, and held it for a moment feeling the heat still radiating from the meat inside. Once the sandwich had been removed from the wrapper, he then, proceeded to take the chicken fillet out and set it on the wrapper, for Puar when he wakes up. Having that done, he pushed the sandwich back together and began eating the snack in quick big bites. When the sandwich was finished, he reached for the backpack that was still laying on the squeaking bed. He carefully dragged it over next to him, and reached inside to wake the small cat. Yamcha gently wrapped his fingers around the cat's midsection and pulled the sleeping cat out from the darkness. "Puar wake up," Yamcha said softly to the sleeping feline. With a great yawn, Puar opened his eyes and looked around. "Where are we, Yamcha?" asked the confused cat. "We are in a motel for tonight, but look I got you something to eat," Yamcha said as he reached for the chicken that still lay in the wrapper. He then set Puar down on the bed as he opened the wrapper to reveal the sweet white meat that Puar had always loved. "Thanks, Yamcha!" exclaimed the small feline. Puar then walked over to the chicken fillet and proceeded in taking the food into his mouth and tearing little pieces off with his front incisors. When the meal was over and the coffee had been drunk, Yamcha set Puar down on the bed and covered his friend up with the blanket from the bed and whispered, "Good night old friend." The Desert Bandit then turned and walked back to the window, and sat down in the lone chair in the room. He propped his feet on the heater and closed his eyes to begin a night of peace and quiet. * * * KA-BOOM! The ground shook with magnificent vibrations and unearthly sound as Yamcha was thrown back into the ground and twitched slightly via the immense pain that was now fresh once again. The right side of Yamcha's upper torso, face, and neck were now starting to swell and heat could be felt emanating from the wounded area. With great effort, he was able to slowly regain his footing and eventually able to stand. Now on his feet, the wounded Yamcha had another fear to worry about and it was headed straight for him, knowing what he must do and that he didn't want to do. Heading in Yamcha's direction was one of the most tremendous Ki blast anyone had ever seen, was now on a collision corse with the wounded combatant. With his hands at his side, Yamcha braced for impact, but thought better of it and decided to give Gokou a taste of his own medicine. Just before the great ball of energy collided with him, he reached out with unfeeling hands, commenced plucking the energy out of the air, and just as fast as it had come, it was hurled in the opposite direction, sending fear through the other titan's veins. Using his lightening quick reflexes, Gokou was able to dodge the oncoming blast with ease. Once again drawing energy into his body, Gokou's rage built and erupted in one enormous change. The jet black hair that had once covered his head was now transformed into a brilliant shade of gold. The ruby colored fur that had once covered parts of his chest were now receeding leaving the skin rugged and red. The Saiyan's tail had at once double in length and instantly metamorphosed into the exact color of his glistening hair. When the sun glinted off the fur, it send streams of light scattering across the ground and nearby objects, like some great prism. *** It was all Yamcha could do to open his eyes, for the light was blinding. When he was able to partially open his eyes, he watched closely as Gokou changed into something that was almost unreal, almost mythological.. As he changed, Yamcha stepped back, almost stumbling over a mound of sand that had built itself up around the small crater where Yamcha had crawled out of. At last Yamcha realized that he was doomed, unless Gokou decided to have a little mercy on his soul. If he did not, then this was the last time that he would ever glimpse at the brilliance of the sun, or smell a rose, or even feel the wind blowing through his hair. Ultimately, he had accepted that he would probably die. With his recognition of his approaching demise, a new sense of pride washed over the ragged warrior. This pride was comforting, yet, illusive. Then, as quick as he had felt these emotions, they were gone. Leaving Yamcha a desolate and barren shell of a Saiyan, or half-Saiyan. *** Since the transformation, Gokou had been able to sense Yamcha's emotions, even experience them, but now, there was nothing, just emptiness that had filled the Desert Bandit's mind. No feelings of remorse, or quilt, not even fear. This was almost enough to send Gokou into a state of shock, but did not. It only encouraged him to fight, and fight he will. Sensing his opportunity, Gokou charged at him with every ounce of strength, pulsing through his blood. "But, what's this?" Gokou thought as Yamcha side- stepped the charging Saiyan. *** "Now's my chance," Yamcha said to himself as if trying to encourage himself to attack. Extending his arms, he caught Gokou's right arm in his own and began to bring his left arm around to complete the old wrestling maneuver. With both warriors arms entwined, Gokou lept into the air with such force that the sound barrier was shattered in an instant. Bringing blood from Yamcha's ears, which flowed down his jaw line and created a red stain on Gokou's back that dripped freely down to the disappearing Earth below. *** When Gokou reached part of the atmosphere where the air was just getting thin, he flipped his back completely parallel to the Earth, and began an almost light speed fall, causing Yamcha to release and to try to leap clear of the all too soon impact. Sensing Yamcha's sudden movements, Gokou reached out and snared Yamcha about the elbow and flung his body to the waiting ground below, like a child would do to a hated toy. The ground shook and the sands shifted under the tremendous weight that was thrust upon them. A cloud of dust formed and momentarily blocked out the sun, but soon began to dissipate. When the dust could be seen through with little effort, did Gokou strike, like a rattlesnake to it's prey. Although on foot, he moved as fast as lightning and was now heading again in Yamcha's direction. *** "Gokou, NO!!" Yamcha screamed as the chair fell backwards. The chair and occupant careened towards the ground and collided with an earsplitting thud. Yamcha grimaced in pain as the chair broke into several wooden slivers as it collided with the floor. One of these slivers flew back towards the bed and nearly missed Puar who had just awoken but was still on the bed. Yamcha was now getting to his feet while clinging onto the edge of the bed with one hand and holding his back with the other. Small rivulets of blood had now formed on his back and were soaking through his white t-shirt, where the chair had splintered and broke. He now removed the blood soaked shirt and went into the bathroom to get a towel, to soak up the blood. Gently hanging the towel across his back he held it there and could feel the heat from the blood that now lay on the towel. Without even looking Yamcha tossed the towel back into the bathroom, in no definate direction. He walked calmly back to the backpack that now lay on the floor next to the bed. He took hold of the straps and set it on the bed and unzipped the front outer pocket and removed a black shirt that bore that "oh, so familiar," symbol of Capsule Corp, on the back. Three white C's one placed inside the other, progessively getting smaller make up the symbol of Yamcha's former work place. But that was behind him now and it brought him to tears everytime he remember what had happened back then. "Come'n Puar," Yamcha said as he put his slid his leather jacket over his shoulders. Puar quietly hopped off the bed and climbed into the pack that now lay against the side of the bed. Carefully Yamcha picked up the pack and slowly slid it onto his right shoulder. He turned slowly, trying not to hurt Puar had headed silently twoards the door. His hand reached for the doorknob and felt the cold brass under his fingers for just a moment, then turned the knob, pushed, and stepped out into the blinding light of the early morning horizon. As he headed for the office of the motel, his feet scuffed the ground as he walked which stirred up little dust clouds around his feet. Even thought the air was dry and hot, the bar that was supposed to be a handle was cold and clamy. Yamcha soon found out why. The inside of the office was air conditioned and the setting was cold, not any type of cold either ARTIC cold. Chills swept across the small office in tiny waves. Yamcha shivered as he walked up to the desk. He stood there awkwardly as he waited for the little man to come and tell him the price for the room. Yamcha would've placed his hands upon the counter, but for fear of frostbite, he kept them at his sides. "That'll be forty-five sixty-three," said the aging man. "Here ya go." Yamcha handed the small man a ten dollar bill underneath a fifty. When the man noticed, Yamcha was already outside on his way back to the diner. "That'll cover your stay too," Yamcha said as he scratched Puar's head. While they walked across the dusty road towards the diner.