The Road Less Traveled II
Disclaimer: Dragon Ball Z does not belong to me, and I am making no money from this at all.
"My name is Cell," the man said, trying the sound out in the empty room. "I am dead."
His only answer was a vague echo.
The person named Piccolo had led him to this giant room, its walls lined with books, scrolls, maps, paper, ink... It could have been a library of some kind. However, like the rest of his knowledge, it wasn't his truly. The answer to his question had just popped up, quietly from his subconscious.
Cell looked around, then stared at his pale fleshed hand. He was dead? How could he be dead? He didn't really have a good concept of death, because he couldn't remember anything of what happened... What was death? The dry answer was that he had stopped breathing, his heart had stopped pumping blood, and that he had ceased to live. He could feel his heart beating, though. He could feel the thin air rush in and out of his lungs. He'd been returned to life so that he could be judged later, or so the green person had said.
How was he supposed to deal with this?
Fear rattled like a cold wind through his soul. Fear of the unknown. Fear of dying again... and fear of living, too.
The young man hadn't noticed that he was pacing around, disturbing dust and making stacked scrolls rustle with his movements. He nearly knocked over a pile of books. What was he going to do, what, what what?
He'd fought down panic in the bathroom, but that was before- now he couldn't stop the choking terror from closing his throat.
~*~*~*~*~
"What do I do with him? I'm a fighter, not a philosopher," Piccolo said quietly, watching Cell from a scrying pool that Dende had.
Dende shrugged. "He's a blank slate right now. He needs to learn to love living."
"Pretty pointless if you ask me," Piccolo snorted. "He's going back to Hell when this is over, right?"
Dende nodded. Frankly, this whole exercise seemed pointless to him too- Cell wasn't going to get to stay no matter what he did. The sin he'd had was erased. What was the point of it? No one had died, except for Goku, and it was his choice to remain dead. Cell could have gone to heaven. However, this didn't change what he had done, so he could just go to hell.
"How can I change what someone is, or what they did?" Piccolo asked, still watching Cell. "What makes one good, or evil?"
Dende sighed. These were hard questions to answer. No one ever answered them fully.
"He needs to be able to make his OWN decisions. To be free of Dr. Gero's influence. Like you had to be freed from your father's."
Piccolo bared his teeth. That was not something he wanted to be reminded of.
"Show him why he was wrong."
Piccolo frowned. How to do this? What made humanity worth sparing?
~*~*~*~*~
"Who am I? I am Cell- no, Cell was someone else. Someone who remembered. I am I. I am me. I am the person I am now. I am alive, but-" Cell shuddered. His pacing had increased until he felt like he was going to go nuts from the fidgets.
There was a creak from the door, and Cell nearly jumped out of his robe. Turning he saw light flow throw the growing crack in the door. It was then blocked by a giant silhouette.
"Why is this happened?" Cell asked softly, his voice trembling. The green from paused.
"I know you have no reason to trust me, but... this is because of a lot of things. You were never given a chance to live and to make your own decisions. You wouldn't have listened had you retained your memories of yourself. You will get them back," he tried to reassure the shaking construct. It felt foreign to be doing this for Cell of all people.
Cell shuddered. Reality... what was that?
"Come with me," Piccolo said softly, reaching a hand out to the shaken man. Cell stood there for a moment, thinking. Timidly he reached out to take Piccolo's hand, and held it loosely. Piccolo paused, surprised that the hand was warm. There was innocence in that gaze, along with the fear, that stirred a queer feeling in Piccolo's gut. He'd felt it for the child Gohan, he remembered.
"We are going to sit outside, in the sunlight," Piccolo said slowly, calmly. "I am going to meditate, and you are going to read. Here," he picked up a book. It was a poetry collection. They walked over the bright Lookout, Cell squinting and nearly shouting when he saw the edge. Piccolo paused before it, standing in midair, and folded his legs in a lotus. Cell just gaped.
"What are you?"
Piccolo cracked a bleak smile. "You used to know. I am a Namek. I am also capable of using the energy of my fighting spirit to do things, like this. You might be able to do it eventually. For now, just read."
Cell felt his knees go weak and he slowly sank to the white tiles, shaking his head. Taking a deep breath, he opened the book to a random page.
"To see the world in a grain of sand, and heaven in a wild flower. To hold infinity in the palm of your hand, and eternity in an hour," the newborn innocent murmured, and blinked in thought. This bit of verse was not something he had known before. Nothing in his mind came forward to confirm, deny, or even comment. It was new, falling into his mind like stones thrown into a pond, and the ripples touched the farthest shores. He... learned.
Almost eagerly, he dived back in to the pages.
~*~*~*~*~
Piccolo watched his new pupil through almost closed eyes, feeling the surprise then pleasure that filled him at something new. Cell was treating the poetry book like a child with a new toy. Considering his deprived mind, Piccolo realized, he shouldn't be so shocked. Anything was better than not knowing who you were.
How to make someone appreciate being good... That was hard. If Goku was still alive, he'd have asked him, because no one loved living and life more than he did. Piccolo though... he cared about the Earth, but it had been his slowly caring for Gohan that had made him good.
Hell, did he even want to?
He hadn't noticed he was staring at Cell's face until he realized those odd shifting eyes were looking back at him, and Piccolo frowned hard. Cell swallowed.
"What did I do?"
Piccolo didn't answer. The Cell that Piccolo had known wouldn't have asked, but part of him felt he could see that calculating mind working. The former god knew that Cell couldn't remember...
"You tried to destroy this world. You nearly killed me. You did kill a good friend of mine. You did kill a lot of people, absorbed them."
Cell stared at him. How... how could he have done that? He didn't remember that at all.
"Then why aren't I going to Hell? Why was I given the chance to change?"
Piccolo opened his mouth to answer about the sadistic bastard Judge of the Dead- but stopped.
"The Judge of the Dead needs more than what you had in your file to send you either to Heaven or Hell. You were, are, whatever, a construct. You were created by a scientist who wanted my friend dead. He died before you were finished. Apparently, two of his earlier creations were needed to be absorbed by you so that you could become 'perfect'. Perfect what, I don't know. They had been destroyed in that time line. So, you stole a time machine and came here, to this time and universe started randomly absorbing people. Then you found the Androids and absorbed them. My friends and I tried to stop you..."
Cell felt a morbid fascination with the story as it unfolded. He didn't remember it- but it felt familiar. As he'd read the poems he'd come to the conclusion he had to deal with the here and now- and he didn't have any power over this situation to change it. The story was bizarre- WHY had he done those things? Why did he want to become Perfect?
"How did I die?"
Piccolo grimaced. "Gohan, my pupil, killed you after my friend, his father, died trying to stop you." The tale of the tournament followed, and Cell felt sick. He didn't understand anything. Without his memory, he hated himself, he didn't understand- He just didn't understand. Plainly, Piccolo, the only person he had met, hated him. This left a painful gap in his mind. He needed something. He needed...
Kindness, affection. He needed affirmation. Self loathing filled him to the brim, and he wanted nothing more to do with the monster of which Piccolo spoke. He clumsily got to his feet, the beautiful poem book falling from his numb fingers. What was the damned point now? Did he deserve hell? Why then was he here? In the short period of time he could remember, he hadn't hurt anyone. He hadn't wanted to. He couldn't imagine why he ever would. Maybe... Maybe he could end this farce now.
The amnesiac stumbled to the edge of the Lookout, ignoring the questioning look from his guide. That was a lot of emptiness, part of him noted. Only the emptiness inside him was worse.
"Fuck it," he commented without emotion, and jumped off.
To be continued!