Chapter 9
A FEW YEARS LATER (four days before the Cell Games)
Tuning out the animated chatter of Gohan and Dende, Piccolo stared pointedly down as he stood at the edge of the Lookout. A scattering of white, feathery clouds blotched the sky below, casting livened shadows that caressed his planet's surface like a feline licking its fur. Another day, just as beautiful as the one before, and no doubt as beautiful as the one to come - the weather having no regards whatsoever for the monster that threatened earth's very existence.
Dr. Gero's brainchild. Cell. No, worse, Piccolo thought morbidly.
Perfect Cell. And Goku was down there with Chi Chi, spending quite possibly the last days of his life - not training.
What the hell is he thinking? Piccolo thought reflexively, recalling the stupidly cheerful manner in which the hero had left. But even as the words formed in his mind, he knew. He'd spent the past three years at the Son household, training, noticing…things…
Like how Chi Chi's every breath was spent in the service of the males in her life. How Gohan's smile was all the broader having both parents around, despite the grim circumstance of their necessity to train. Then there was the occasional moments when Goku would step out of his childish nature and discreetly lock stares with his worrying wife, portraying emotions that Piccolo had no words for, they were that strong.
And that foreign…
Not much escaped his observant eye, though he often wished it had. Piccolo grunted inwardly at a small ache that formed in his chest. It was the same one that had been needling at him since his exposure to Goku and Gohan's 'family life', and he wasn't about to analyze why. Really, he wasn't.
But...… He dug his talons into the palms of his hands, unable to stop his own dissection of his personal motives. Who am I fighting for? He wondered crazily. A planet full of people who remember nothing but the demon king? The vast majority who would sleep better at night if I were dead? A darker, more specific memory flitted across Piccolo's mind, and he winced internally. Blood thirsty, grinning butchers who would hack the life out of a young green scrub, all because the child looked different?
Goku had his family, but Piccolo had no one. But then delighted, husky laughter resonated across the tiles and Piccolo looked back to see a golden-haired boy whose eyes had disappeared in his smile as he chatted with Dende.
No, he reminded himself forcefully. Gohan. I have Gohan. He forced himself to continue. And the thin layer of camaraderie from the human fighters, and Goku.
He would fight for them, and because it was the right thing to do.
I don't need more.
But exactly when had he admitted that he needed anything? Or anyone? It had snuck up on him somehow, after he'd already consigned his life to solitude. As unwelcome and addictive as that disgusting smoking vice that so many earthlings had. And now he was stuck wondering if that tinge he felt was a reflection of his soul - still empty in places despite the friendships he'd reluctantly gained.
He snorted at his own ridiculous self-analysis. This is stupid. You should be meditating, Piccolo...preparing yourself for the fight with Cell. But unfortunately that turn of focus touched on another subject he wasn't so sure about. His own dwindling significance in light of the awesome power of the Saiyans. Would his efforts against Cell be laughable?
Was he fooling himself? But I know nothing else, he thought in rising anxiety. I am nothing, if not a fighter.
"Stop it, Piccolo," he berated himself quietly. "Your life is not missing anything, and you're still strong enough to make a difference." Yeah. That's right. But the tinge was still there. Frustrated, Piccolo took a step back and began to focus his ki.
Meditation obviously wasn't working, so maybe it was time to go multi-form and kick his own ass. He began to power up when a twinkle on the horizon caught his eye. Intrigued, he peered across the distance, homing in on the object.
Little Dende came running up next to him, having noticed it as well. His Kami skills were already developing. "What is it?"
"Hmm…" Piccolo squinted, and reached out with his vision. "A spaceship."
"Really?"
Piccolo nodded. "They picked a hell of a time to visit this planet."
"I wonder if we should tell them to leave. Since they have the means."
Piccolo watched the vessel as it hovered close to the ground and landed not too far off. "I'll do it." Secretly grateful for the distraction, he lifted off the platform and dropped down to the planet below to inform these strangers of the imminent holocaust.
.
They were an odd-looking bunch. Piccolo hung back behind a tree, and observed in reserved curiosity. A pink, rubber-skinned individual was barking at a humanoid insect, and a visually disturbing creature that looked for all the world like a fur-covered octopus, was ambulating about with purpose. Between them hummed a handful of blue-skinned halflings, all decked out in gaudy attire and ornate jewelry. They seemed bewildered…perhaps nervous, clutching their belongings to their chests in visible paranoia, as though afraid the nearby sparrows were going to swoop down and snatch them away.
He didn't understand their guttural, clicking language, which didn't surprise him, as he didn't recognize a single one of the species. What did surprise him, however, was that the three taller beings seemed vaguely familiar…
Before he had time to ponder which of his alter egos' memories they came from, a fourth creature stomped down the metal ramp of the ship. And his reaction to her was more than just vague.
Piccolo's heart damn near stopped.
Her gray skin, though littered with a handful of scars, shone in the sun, like …polished stone…which contrasted strikingly with a…brilliant yellow, star-shaped birthmark…around her left eye. Her hair, the…color of oil and blood…was braided behind her pointed, gold-hooped ears, and she was dressed in the rugged, sleeveless, black attire of hired muscle.
But despite her tall, sturdy build, she was unexpectedly…pleasant…to look at? He shook himself. Huh? Then Piccolo suddenly experienced a key physiological reaction her presence, and he choked.
His body apparently recognized her too.
A hot flush heated his face. Whose memory was this?
He could feel an elusive, but frantic activity ping-ponging about in his subconscious as one of his fused personalities grasped for purchase…awareness… control. Whoever it was, was being alarmingly aggressive, and the distraction caused him to unwittingly reveal his location by stumbling.
Her vibrant green eyes found him in his hiding spot, and all other conscious thoughts took a back step as their eyes met. There was such a connection between them, that Piccolo could do nothing but stand there, stupefied, as she hesitantly approached.
Of their own accord, his legs moved him out of the shadows, and a small cry escaped the female's lips. She blinked, and Piccolo had thought he'd never seen someone's eyes water up so fast.
She said something in a different language, and then brought a hand up to her mouth. "Nail?"
He would have said something, but his tongue seemed incapable of being articulate. Besides, no sooner had she said the namekian's name than she closed the distance between them and sprung at him.
Wondering why he didn't get out of the way, Piccolo caught her mid lunge, and stiffened as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her face against his chest.
"They said Namek was destroyed. I was sure you were dead," she gibbered in the namekian tongue. Then she pulled back and clasped his face in both her hands, her wet, captivating eyes fraught with elated disbelief. "How the hell did you escape?"
The memories finally caught up with him, and he was floored. Axle. That was her name. Piccolo just opened his mouth and closed it in a futile effort to be responsive when all he could think about was how confusing and…heart achingly painful…it was to have someone care about him so much.
But it was a case of mistaken identity.
"Listen-" he began, but was abruptly cut off as she suddenly latched her face on to his. He grunted against the warm wetness of her mouth; shocked, overwhelmed, terrified…
Then she took the gesture a step further, and Piccolo gasped audibly through his nose as the kiss became invasive, teasing, slippery…and…and…
And he liked it.
PICCOLO!
He flinched. Suddenly his dispersed alter ego gathered his wits enough to be heard, and the fused warrior's pitch was near hysterical.
Let me surface!
He grunted in unease. Nail?
LET ME SURFACE, DAMMIT! He screamed, and the sound scorched through Piccolo's consciousness like a ki blast. He grunted, and collapsed to his knees, breaking the hold she had on him.
"Nail?" she asked, hovering over him.
He held his aching head in his hands. "Not…Nail…" he managed, trying to control the chaos in his mind.
NOW, Piccolo!
"Alright!" he roared.
She leaned back, startled. "Alright, what…?"
But don't think you can stay in control for very long, got it? He snapped at Nail bitterly. This is MY body, not yours. That was the deal-
Just do it!
With a muttered curse, and great reluctance, Piccolo released his mind for Nail to take over. He tempered the growing unease and discomfort as he was swallowed back in the recesses of his own persona, struggling to maintain an awareness of what Nail was doing and saying…with his body.
For the first time in his life, Piccolo had willingly given someone else control of his being. And he didn't like it.
Not one bit.
