Disclaimer: I don't own it okay! Do you have to go and rub it in?!



Angel of Music . . . er, Fighting . . . and a Midnight Escapade



Where in the world have you been hiding?

Really, you were perfect

I only wish I knew your secret

Who is this new tutor?





"And just where are you going?" Eighteen asked calmly, also effectively sealing off the exit for the rushing Bulma. Her feet skidded on the floor for a bit before the blue-haired rookie was able to bring herself to a stop, fortunately before she barreled into the impassive Eighteen. The blonde's arm crossed over her chest, impatiently awaiting an answer.

"Come on, Eighteen," Bulma panted, "I'm going to be late."

The android's eyes narrowed. "Late for what?"

"Eighteen, this isn't funny," Bulma tried to find away around the blonde fighter, but the entrance was too small for her to escape, and it did not look like Eighteen was going to move anytime soon. "I really have to go," she pleaded.

"Where," Eighteen demanded. When Bulma refused to give up the struggle, she barked out, "I'm not moving until you answer a few questions."

"Please," Bulma implored, "just let me go."

"No," she said like a command that could not be refused.

Bulma gave a resigned sigh and slumped against the wall. "Fine. Ask away."

"Where are you going in such a hurry?"

Bulma put her hand over her eyes exasperatedly. "I can't tell you."

"You'd better tell me," Eighteen said in a deceivingly calm voice, "or you'll not only be late, but physically incapable of going."

Bulma's head snapped up. "You wouldn't," she challenged.

Eighteen did not respond, but her frown increased as her sculpted brows drew together over her icy eyes.

Bulma shook her head despairingly. "I can't believe I'm doing this," she muttered. Suddenly, her eyes narrowed and she matched Eighteen glare for glare. "You must promise not to tell anyone, or so help me, I'll deactivate you."

Taken aback by her harsh statement, and even more by the realization that Bulma was perfectly capable of doing so, Eighteen reluctantly nodded an affirmative.

Bulma took a deep breath and paused for a moment before saying, "I'm going to see my trainer."

Eighteen hmphed. "So? Why should that be kept a secret?" her eyes glinted mischievously. "Are you having an affair with him or something?"

Bulma blushed beat-red at her suggestion. "No! Of course not! How could you even think that?"

Eighteen ignored her question and smirked impishly. "So, is he cute?"

"I am not having an affair with my trainer!" Bulma got considerably flustered at Eighteen's roguish persistence. "I've never even seen him!"

The android's blue eyes blinked in a confused manner. "You've never seen him? Then . . . then how . . . how does he train you?"

"Verbally," Bulma said, annoyed.

Eighteen looked at her incredulously. "How does that work?"

"I'm not really sure," Bulma looked at the floor.

"What do you mean, you're not sure?" Eighteen demanded, impatient with her cryptic answers and her evasive attitude. "I just saw Krillin get carried to the med. lab thanks to you! Obviously his training works, because two months ago when I came for repairs on my arm, you couldn't swat a fly! How is it that the girliest girl in town can turn into Miss Rookie- of-the-Year in just two months? What the heck kind of training are you getting? What goes on at those little sessions of yours?"

Bulma lifted her head from the floor and rested her gaze just past Eighteen, who stood tapping her foot, her cobalt eyes becoming unfocused, as if she were in her own world. "It's . . . strange," she searched for the word, though seemingly unsatisfied, continued, "I fight, and he directs me. I feel him . . .all around me, guiding me. Every time I fight, it feels like he's always there with me . . . like he's here with me now."

Eighteen cocked an eyebrow. "So you are having an affair with him."

"No!" Bulma denied vehemently.

"So then what's with the touchy-feely stuff?" Eighteen put her hands on her hips suspiciously.

"I can't really explain it," Bulma said, closing her eyes as if to place the feeling. "It's almost as if he's a ghost or . . . or an angel or something. But," she let out a small laugh, "if he's an angel, I wouldn't be surprised if the reason he's here on Earth is because he got kicked out. He has to be the most arrogant piece of work I've ever met . . ."

"Ghost? Angel? Aren't you a little old for fairytales like that?" Eighteen belittled her friend.

"Maybe," Bulma said, "but that doesn't change the fact that I'm late for my session." Before Eighteen could get in another word on the subject, Bulma shoved past her friend, taking full advantage of the time it took Eighteen to digest all the information she had just received. She ran towards the parking lot on swift feet, but stopped to wave to Eighteen, just to show that there were no hard feelings. "I'll see you later, Eighteen!" she called to her.

As Eighteen opened her mouth to give an indignant reply for being blown off, something stopped her short. Looking at her blue-haired friend, a strange vision came upon her, and she saw the bright blue eyes she was so familiar with darken to sunken, black pits of despair. The warm radiance that Bulma so easily cast about her with her friendly manner suddenly grew frigid and stagnant, and the amiable smile on her rosy face abruptly took the likeness of a horrified scream upon a dead skull.

"Are you sure you don't have any more, Chichi?"

Eighteen snapped out of her daze at the sound of Goku's whining. She blinked and looked where she had seen Bulma last before that strange vision had appeared, but the rookie was gone. Not one to trust something she could not prove had happened, Eighteen did not dwell on it. A light mist was beginning to settle in as the sun set and could easily have been the reason for such a bizarre hallucination. She turned her blonde head toward the sniveling of her rival team's coach.

"Yes I'm sure, Goku," Chichi said to her husband exasperatedly waving her hands for emphasis. "You've eaten all the food I had in my capsules. You'll just have to wait until we get home after we pick up Gohan from his lessons."

"But I'm hungry now!" he complained.

"Quit your whining!" both Eighteen and Chichi reprimanded simultaneously. Chichi suddenly turned to the owner of the new voice and, upon seeing Eighteen standing at the open entrance with the cold wind teasing her flaxen locks, suddenly went matronly on her.

"Eighteen! What are you doing out by the door like that without a sweater? Here, you can ride home with us," Chichi said, dragging the android to her car with Goku in tow. "You're going to catch a cold if you stay out here!"

" . . . Androids don't catch colds . . ." Eighteen tried to protest, but even she was no match for Chichi's strong, motherly grip.





Piccolo cracked a reluctant smile at his young pupil as he dodged another attack, landing on both feet and skidding his hand across the ground as he forced himself to become airborne once more. Now regaining his composure, the tall Namek swiveled his head, searching for his charge. Sweat dripped down he green forehead when his pupil refused to be seen.

He knew that Gohan was out there. The air within the training room stirred with the sounds that could only be created by sudden movements, movements so fast they were practically undetectable, even for him. His large, pointed ears twitched as what sounded very much like his pint-sized opponent was received, and he managed to duck right before the youngster attempted a blow to his head with his tiny foot. Piccolo spun and caught the offending member, spinning little Gohan by his leg into the south wall of the room. Gohan hit the centre of the wall upside-down and slid the rest of the way down to the floor, stopping with a mumbled "ouch."

"Get up," Piccolo grumbled as he drifted down towards the red-tiled floor, the domed ceiling around him making him look even taller than his seven-foot height dictated.

Gohan rolled over and rubbed his aching head. "Mister Piccolo, can't we have a bre—"

A swift kick to his stomach sent the little warrior upward, effectively cutting off his sentence and his air-stream. Gohan only had a few seconds to release a slight cough as the form of his mentor appeared above him, waiting to give him a sharp elbow to his back. Gohan phased out just before Piccolo had a chance to physically reprimand his student for such weakness as a request for a reprieve.

The small fighter phased back in behind Piccolo, though the Namek mimicked his action before Gohan could try anything. Caught off-guard, Gohan searched for his teacher as he drifted about fifteen feet above the floor of the training room. No windows graced the smooth, sloping walls of the domed room, leaving Gohan at yet another disadvantage in this fight against his mentor, since many times he had been known to judge the location of a fighter by their reflection off the glass. Windows probably would not have helped him much right now however, since the setting sun would have directly faced the building in which they were located. Gohan's attention, however, was soon distracted from windows.

"Pay attention," Piccolo admonished his student as he appeared behind him and caught him in a full nelson. Gohan struggled, kicking and flailing his limbs as his teacher tightened his hold. Gohan's vision began to blur as the pain centering in his arms and upper back increased with every insignificant pull of Piccolo's grip. His struggles slackened as he began to lose consciousness.

"Don't tell me that's all the fight you have in you, kid," the Namek taunted.

Gohan's head snapped up. "No, I'm not giving up!" he yelled, his energy suddenly gyrating around him in a flame-like pattern. "I won't give up!" he forced his arms free from his teacher with a sharp jerking motion.

Piccolo smothered another commendatory smile that dared to emerge on his stony, emerald features, further concealing his approval with an energy blast at his young pupil. It made contact with the child's backside, sending him to the floor before he even had a chance to turn and face the attack head-on. The attack ricocheted off his posterior and exploded into one of the sloping walls, sending fragments to the floor where Gohan landed with a thud. Piccolo floated down closer to assess the damage.

Gohan whirled and shot out a masenko powerful enough to demolish most of the city at his teacher, but Piccolo batted it away as though it were only mildly irritating. Then a scream came from the other side of the room.

Chichi ducked down in panic and covered her eyes as the beam suddenly came barreling toward her. Gohan looked on in horror as his own energy blast approached his mother, while Piccolo sported a look of undisguised shock. Chichi's eyes widened through her fingers in horror as the blast came closer and closer . . . and suddenly stopped.

Goku held the blast in his hands, struggling a little to keep it at bay. With one sharp thrust, he sent the energy away from his wife, and through the domed ceiling.

Chichi screamed again.

"Goku! We still haven't finished our payments for renting out this room and you're already destroying it!"

Goku put his hand behind his head and laughed a little. "Sorry, Chichi," he said, abashed.

"And you, Gohan!" Chichi glared at student and pupil, her dark eyes narrowing at them with a wrath unprecedented: the wrath of the mother. "What have I told you about using energy beams inside?!"

Gohan averted his eyes from her penetrating gaze and kept them fixated on the floor. "Sorry, Mom."

There were no apologies, as usual, from Piccolo to the over-bearing wife of Goku. He just preferred not to be involved in domestic scruples.

"How do you two," she scolded both her husband and her son's master, "expect Gohan to be a successful fighter when you destroy the only places we can afford to let him train in?! Because of all our losses, we're up to our ears in debt, not to mention that we just signed on a new member, which means we'll have another salary to pay for! These are the last training rooms in town that will let us use them after what happened at the Nimbus Training Centre! How many training places do you think will allow people who blow everything sky high to train there?! None! That's how many! And if you blow up these rooms, there will be no place for Gohan to train for his future! We will have no money to live off of and you," she pointed to Piccolo, "will be out on the street without a job. Gohan will be the laughing stock of the entire city, and I, for one, refuse to let that happen! No son of mine will be a laughing stock! My son is a born champion, destined to win! He's going to be the greatest fighter that ever was, starting with this year's tour. I want to make him the team captain, and destroying every training room in the entire city isn't helping! Why can't you ever think of the consequences before you do something? I swear if I see so much as one kamehameha wave, I'll . . ."

And this continued for quite some time.





Rain began to splatter against the windshield of the aircar as Yamcha huddled over the steering wheel, his form more tense than a tightly wound spring. He peered through the mess of precipitation on the glass, just barely making out the car in front of him. The car Bulma was in. The car he was following.

*I can't believe she's back!* he thought. *I didn't even recognize her without that perm she had before. She's changed so much! And where's she off to in such a hurry?* Yamcha swallowed nervously. *What if she's found another man? I know we didn't officially break up, but still . . . what if . . .* Yamcha shook his head doubtfully. *No . . .Bulma would never do that. She's the one who didn't want me to leave. I'm just being stupid. But where *is* she off to at this hour?*

A flash of lightning announced its presence to the east as Bulma's car made a sharp right turn, kicking up a sheet of runoff water and nearly throwing Yamcha off track. Thinking more clearly on the matter, it seemed that following Bulma was probably not the best way to reintroduce himself to her now, but he had already come so far, in his opinion. Why stop now? Besides, this road they were taking seemed vaguely familiar to him . . .





Bulma rounded the corner quickly, covering the wall of the deserted arena in a solid sheet of grey, murky water. Abruptly she parked the car behind the stadium, dashing out with a loose jacket over her head to block out the steady downpour and her light bag of training equipment. She sloshed her way to the front doors of the old arena, nearly managing to step in every puddle along the way.

She approached the door, grateful for the slight protection the tiny overhang offered her as she fumbled for her keys. Regrettably, she realized that she had left them at home. As she leaned against the door in defeat, she was caught unaware as her weight forced it open.

She fell gracelessly on her rump.

Hefting herself up, she rubbed her behind gingerly before making her way to the indoor draining rooms. She did not even flinch when the door slammed shut by its own accord after she had taken a few steps. It always did that. Despite the darkness from the lack of windows, Bulma stepped quickly down the long corridor, sensing her direction purely by memory. The pitter-patter of the rain droned on, heard even through the thick walls of the ancient coliseum, interjecting between her footsteps with their lilting subdivisions and continuing the soft percussion symphony long after the footfalls had ceased. Bulma stopped at the fourth door, took a deep breath, and knocked seven times in a slow, precise manner. The door obligingly creaked open.

"You're late."





"Man, there's got to be another way into this place," Yamcha grumbled as he yanked on the locked doorknob and received only the same adamant response from it. He considered just blasting the cumbersome obstacle out of his way, but decided against it. Breaking into the stadium with energy beams flying every which way probably would not be the best way to impress Bulma. Moreover, he refused to let himself be outsmarted by an inanimate object.

It was not until after the fifth time he circled the arena that he remembered that the old stadium had no windows or unlocked side doors whatsoever. He sank down beside the wall and ran his fingers through his hair in defeat as the rain droned on. The slight lip of the domed roof overhead protected him from the wet onslaught, but Yamcha still felt a drop land on his shoulder. He looked up irritably to find the remnants of a ladder, fallen into disrepair over the past years, swinging brokenly on its last hinge and dripping water on his person in a steady rhythm. Despite the fresh assault of water now fixating itself on his upturned face, Yamcha's eyes brightened. Words lay etched upon the wall in chipping blue paint, reading: LADDER TO SKYLIGHT.

Without hesitation, Yamcha levitated himself to the roof of the old building, pointedly ignoring the annoying saturation the ceaseless rain caused his clothing. The water pounded on the glass residing at the height of the dome encircled by a small observation deck, which now overflowed with the rain's steady downpour. The clear panes of the skylight reflected the ominous clouds overhead that pelted their surface with clear, hard beads of precipitation, though surprisingly, they did not break, and seemed to be the only thing Yamcha had seen so far at the old stadium that had not fallen into dilapidation. He set his feet on the drenched observation deck and knelt down by the skylight, looking for the latch of one of the panes that might be unlocked, if he was lucky.

Whomever had locked the place up when it closed must have been preoccupied with something else, for when Yamcha's had found the latch, he was able to lift the pane clear open without any effort. He leapt inside, pulling the pane closed and mercifully blocking out the pounding storm. Looking down, he could see the entire arena, or what was left of it. Directly below him the chipped and broken tiles of the ring inexorably progressed in their decay, and the thousands of seats encompassing it did little to lift the mood with their empty echoes of cheers long since dead. Drifting toward the closest solid ground, Yamcha set his feet on the catwalk that circled the arena near the very top of the dome.

The first thing he noticed that unnerved was the atmosphere. He walked a bit on the catwalk, still unsure as to where he was going, before the hollowness of his steps on the cold metal made him edgy and he floated down to the last row of seats. Now farther from the skylight, the area around Yamcha darkened, and the lack of sight made his hearing more acute. He went down each stair cautiously, uncertain of his footing in the darkened coliseum. The air entering his lungs seemed stagnant and the only noise more upsetting that his footsteps was the sound of his breath cutting through the dead space. He hopped over the wall that separated the stands from the fighting area, kicking up a bit of dust on impact and creating an unsettling echo that resonated throughout the room in an eerie manner.

As he moved out of the fighting area and into main corridor, his footsteps were joined by another pair. He paused, trying to place the location where sound originated. Upon finding it, he bolted forward and turned right when he reached the junction of the three main halls. He did not know why he suddenly felt an urgency to run and find out where that sound was emanating from, but something drove him onward. Maybe it was the dead feeling in the air that seemed to suspend everything in place. Maybe it was the way every sound in the place was magnified as it echoed against the high, cavernous walls until the only sound that returned was a shrill, haunted scream. Maybe it was the fact that though he had known this place all his young adult life, he no longer was able to see any resemblance between his childhood dream palace and this lifeless, empty tomb. He kept running.

It was not until he passed the third door that he made visual contact. In the darkened hall, he could see a faint sliver of light coming from the fourth training room down, and a familiar silhouette outlined in its glow.

"Bulma!" he called out.

As if the sound had dissipated before it reached her, her blue eyes paid him no heed as she stared into the tenebrously lit room, seemingly focused on one thing and one alone. She shifted her bag slung on her shoulder and smirked roguishly.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," she said to the empty training room.

She stepped inside the room without a second glance to her old love, or even a first glance, for that matter, the door slamming pointedly shut behind her. Yamcha looked at the door with a befuddled blink of his eyes.

" . . . Bulma?"





"What kept you," the room demanded impatiently.

There was nothing special about the fourth training room of the old stadium. The typical elevated, white-tiled miniature version of the stadium ring sat in the far corner, content just to be surrounded by the empty, unadorned walls while the area around it housed the necessary warm-up and warm-down facilities. A black punching bag hung suspended over the lower part of the room to the left near, but not too close to, a plain, leaden mirror reflecting the dull decor. Lastly, a white sink lay to the right in the place that was unspokenly the warming-down area for fighters to go refresh themselves after a match, along with a screen used to change clothing. Bulma immediately headed in the sink's direction to dry her rain dampened self on the towel provided.

"Rain made the traffic terrible," she half-lied as smoothly as she slipped behind the folding screen, discarding her damp garments and replacing them with a white shirt reading "Bulma" and loose workout pants. She walked over to the ring and sat down, peeling off her wet socks and substituting her boots with light sneakers. "Did you miss me?"

The room answered with what could only be described as a dignified "hmph" as Bulma finished tying her shoes and stood up to stretch. "What's the matter, Grumpy? Wake up on the wrong side of the grave today, Dead boy?" she teased.

"My grave is none of your concern."

"Still griping about the privacy issue, huh?" Bulma brushed aside the room's harsh tone. "How come you never complain about the whole dead thing I tease you with then?"

"I *am* dead."

Bulma blinked confusedly before perking up again. "Fair enough. Whatever floats your boat." She looked thoughtful once again, then questioned, "If you're dead, should I call you Ghost?"

"Call me what you wish. It makes no difference."

She smiled with a glint in her eye. "I think I'll just call you Grumpy. It suits you."

There was an irritated silence after this, indicating that the voice did *not* like its new name, but decided to ignore it for the time being. "How did the tryouts go?" the voice inquired, changing the subject.

"Passed the test with flying colours," Bulma grinned.

"As it should be."

Bulma put her hands on her hips indignantly and glowered. "Easy for you to say. That little bald guy almost kicked me out of the ring at the first attack!"

The room sneered at her. "You were overconfident."

"Me?!" Bulma shouted back, offended. "*I'm* overconfident?! If anyone's overconfident here, Grumpy, it's you!"

"Don't call me that, Woman."

"I'll call you whatever I want, Grumpy."

The room seemed to growl in annoyance. "Enough of this idle talk. We're wasting valuable time here. If Krillin could come close to beating you, you have a long way to go, and we had better get started."

Once again, Bulma was caught off guard by what the voice had said. "You know him?"

"I know everyone who has entered this stadium."

"Then you knew me before I even met you," Bulma stated. "How long have you been here?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Why not?" Bulma asked angrily to his evasive answer.

"Because I am eternal."

Bulma laughed. "E-eternal?" she forced out between chuckles. "You think you're eternal? You really are a nutcase, Grumpy," she teased.

"I am the Tournament Ghost."





Yamcha fell to the floor and backed away on his hands and knees from the door he had been leaning against to eavesdrop on his old love. He had been fairly sure that there were no others besides himself and Bulma in the entire stadium, so when she had spoken to the empty room, he had become more than a little curious. Maybe she had gone insane from missing him so much? She seemed sane enough when she was at the tryouts. He had peeked through the keyhole in the door to see who this mystery conversationalist happened to be, but strangely, he had seen no one, and even stranger, he still did not sense anyone but himself and Bulma present. That last comment made by this strange speaker had explained everything and made his face blanch as he backed up into the other side of the corridor, but, even though curiosity killed the cat, it did not stop the dog from sniffing its carcass. He summoned up his strength and looked through the keyhole once more.





Those five words shut Bulma up quick. She had long heard legends of the infamous Tournament Ghost, who had been the reason for the stadium's desertion. The place no longer held tournaments because of all the strange happenings that had started before even she and Yamcha had said their last farewells that one bleak night five years ago. Tales of the lethal ghost who carried death's head upon its shoulders had spread throughout the city when the old managers of the stadium had found corpses laid across their ring one night, each a new member of their team. Fighters had also complained about hearing screams within the walls of the coliseum, each reverberation sounding like a soul that was being torn from the body of a living person, and of strange, unnaturally flashing lights emanating from the premises. Most had labeled the phenomena as a malfunction in plumbing or lighting equipment, though those that had claimed to have caught a glimpse or heard a word from the elusive ghost would have told otherwise. To them the Tournament Ghost was real. Very real.

Bulma backed away in fear until she bumped into the wall. "Y- you're not going to k-kill me now, are you?"

She felt the room grin evilly. "Not unless you want me to."

"I-I'd rather you didn't," she quivered.

An exasperated fluctuation crossed the room. "Woman," the voice circled around her in an almost comforting manner, "if I had wanted to kill you, I would have done it a long time ago."

Bulma closed her eyes and sighed, though whether it was to calm herself or to revel in the embrace of that rough, yet calming voice could not be discerned. Finally, her eyes snapped open with her classic ability to take things in stride and she stated firmly, "Well, then let's get to training. The tour is getting closer and closer and we're wasting time talking about the past."

The walls echoed with what could pass for laughter. "Now there's the woman I agreed to train. Let's begin with . . ." the voice suddenly dropped into silence.

"Grumpy?" Bulma called out to the room.

No response.

"Grumpy what's wrong?" she beseeched him with the name that made him so easily irritated in hopes to spark an argument, an insult, anything but this silence that now engulfed her.

"We are not alone."





Yamcha flew away from the door so quickly his head smacked into the wall of the corridor, nearly giving him a concussion. Whether the ghost had merely been teasing before or not, that evil mockery of homicide had sent shivers up and down his spine. That scraping, yet soothing voice had echoed throughout the empty room, engulfing him with its icy grip. His breathing quickened and slick sweat slid down his face as he tried to calm himself. *He knows I'm here,* he thought in terror, gripping the wall behind him as though it would protect him from the wrath of this immortal spectre. He gulped as he tried to clear his wildly pulsating heart from his throat and did what any self-respecting person would have done in his place.

He panicked.

He bolted down the corridor, stumbling and shoving against walls in his clumsy flight. He could almost hear the slight displacement of the air behind him, as though something were following him. He did not want to find out what it was. With the super-human speed that had set him apart from other fighters in the tournaments he raced down the long hall, not really knowing how he would be able to outrun this creature of the night. His quick footsteps echoed down the passage, striking the floor so quickly it could have passed for a drum roll until a stray step struck upon a piece of ancient debris directly in his path. He fell to the floor, skidding his hands along the rough surface and feeling a sharp pain rush through his leg. He pushed himself from the ground, despite his injured hands, tried to pull up quickly, but something caught his eye, freezing him in place.

A puddle, most likely formed by a leak in the old roof and the storm outside, rippled to life with the horrific image of darkness. Cimmerian eyes smoldered within the recesses of an emotionless skull, cloaked in the blackness of night, approaching him at a frightening rate, closer and closer . . .

"GET. OUT."

The words rolled slowly and articulately off the dead tongue of the ghost behind him, resonating through the hallway with an alarming sense of sempiternity. Yamcha could almost feel the chilling breath of the monster upon his skin, as though it was right behind him. His skin crawled at the mere vibration of that voice echoing throughout the air around him. As the sound dissipated, he wondered if this was all some horrific nightmare, the terror being too much to be real for him. He wished he would wake up.

"NOW."

This was no dream.

With the sheer intensity that his fear created, he practically flew down the hall, only to be stopped by the locked door at the entranceway. Not trusting himself to look behind him in hopes of finding another exit, he could only think of one way out.

Yellow fire escaped from his outstretched hand, incinerating the entrance on contact with its virulent energy. The charred remains of the solid, double-door crumbled away within a matter of seconds, falling into the smoking puddle of the melted locks and door handles. Not wasting any time, Yamcha bolted out of his makeshift exit, not even flinching when he ran too close to the edge, scraping his side and tearing part of his clothes on a jagged piece of the leftover stadium. Thee sound of an aircar's engines sprang to life from the parking lot and Yamcha sped through the rain to get away from the stadium as fast as he could, at around thirty over the limit.

All activity in the stadium came to complete halt, filling the halls with only the dying resonation of the ghost's warning. The rain and wind flew in through the new opening with a chill and a monotonous pattering of rain against the floor. The voice was quiet.

"Grumpy?" Bulma called out in the training room, "what was that sound?"

The voice seemed to be everywhere at once when he said:

"It was not worth your concern."





" . . .and do you even know how much repairs to these training rooms cost?!" Chichi continued her rant. "We're already in the red! We can't afford to pay for these rooms as it is! The only money we have left is in our savings account! Do you want to end up spending that?! Do you?!"

Goku put his hand behind his head and laughed sheepishly. "Well, I guess not."

"Darn right you don't!" Chichi persisted. "We're saving that money for emergencies. I don't need you guys to make me spend it on training room repairs! And another thi—"

At that moment, the door burst open, allowing an extremely distraught man, and about five gallons of water, passage through. Heads turned as the man bolted in, shouting, "Coach Goku! Coach Goku!"

"Yamcha?" Goku inquired to the dripping mass that rushed toward him and tripped, falling at his feet. The man lifted his scarred face to the benevolent coach who immediately saw is inquiry to be true, though the man he called Yamcha was almost unrecognizable through the lack of colour in his face. Goku lifted him up gently. "You look like you've just seen a ghost!" he tried to lighten the mood with a laugh.

Yamcha supported himself on one of the slanted walls, trying to get his shivering convulsions under control. Piccolo, sensing trouble in that quintessential mystic way of his, spoke up.

"What happened," he said bluntly as more of a statement than a question.

Yamcha turned to face the crowd of people now staring at him for an answer. "I-I was following B-Bulma so I could talk to her . . . and she . . . she went to the abandoned stadium . . ." he trailed off.

"And then what happened?" Goku asked in a calm voice while the rest of the group remained silent, even notoriously noisy Chichi, surprisingly.

Yamcha leaned his back against the wall, taking in deep breaths to calm himself. His eyes looked up as began to recite his story, growing more and more distant with every word.

"I she went inside the stadium through the front door, but when I tried it, it was locked. I went up to the skylight and got in that way, but I couldn't find Bulma anywhere near the arena. I kept hearing noises, like echoes or something, and I followed them. When I got to the hall that had the training rooms in it, I saw Bulma. She was talking to the empty room . . . something about waiting . . . and then she went inside. The door locked behind her, so I listened against the door. I heard her talking and someone talking back, but when I looked through the keyhole, I didn't see anybody. Then they started talking about the tryouts, I think, and he said that he knew Krillin. She asked him how, and he said he was . . . was the Tournament Ghost."

"Tournament Ghost?" little Gohan asked innocently.

"It's just a myth, Gohan," Goku said smoothly, "made up by some people to explain things that they couldn't understand."

"No!" Yamcha shouted to Goku, his eyes wild. "I saw him! I saw the Tournament Ghost! He's real, Coach! I saw him with my own eyes!"

"Yamcha," Goku tried to pacify the distraught fighter, "you've had a long day. Why don't we get you ho—"

"I saw him!" Yamcha protested. "He moved like a shadow and had a face that looked like death! He came after me! I saw his burning eyes and felt his cold breath over my shoulder!"

"Come on Yamcha," Goku carried him towards the door, but the scarred man struggled in his grip savagely.

"No! I saw him! I saw him! I don't need to go home! I need to save Bulma! We need to save her! The ghost has her prisoner in the stadium! If you're not going to help me save her, then I'll just have to save her myself!"

Yamcha managed to break free of Goku's hold, bolting away from Goku in a blind flight that led him straight to Piccolo, who promptly knocked the crazed man unconscious. He picked Yamcha up by the collar of his shirt and dumped him at Goku's feet. "You suppose it's just something he ate?" Piccolo asked seriously.

"I don't know," Goku scratched his head. "He sounded like he was telling the truth, but we both know that that Tournament Ghost thing is just a legend."

Piccolo said nothing, but rather, closed his eyes in contemplative silence. Goku turned his attention away from the Namek to look at his son, who happened to be nudging Yamcha's unconscious form with his toe. "Will he be all right, Daddy?" the little seven-year old asked with worry in his wide eyes.

Goku tousled his son's hair affectionately saying, "I'm sure he will, Gohan. We just need to get him home now."

Gohan's face brightened with his father's confidence in regards to Yamcha's well-being. "Okay."

"Coming, Chichi?" Goku called over his shoulder to his wife, satisfied with his son's improved attitude. He received no reply.

"Chichi?" he turned around fully. She did not answer still, her face turned away from him and her tiny frame shivering. "Chichi, are you okay?" Goku asked, getting worried.

"D-do you think h-he was telling the truth?" she quivered.

Goku put a consoling hand on her shoulder and massaged it gently. "I don't know," he whispered calmly into her ear, "but we'll find out."

"Do you know w-what this m-means?" her shaking intensified.

"What?" Goku tried to calm her with his words, holding her tight from behind. Her quaking did not stop, but increased instead. "Tell me, Chichi," he breathed soothingly.

Chichi abruptly spun in his grip and shook him by the shoulders in emphasis to her words.

"WE'RE GOING TO BE RICH!"

"Huh?" Goku questioned articulately, completely in shock to her statement. Piccolo and Gohan blinked just as eloquently.

"We'll buy the abandoned stadium, host the tour there, sell my cooking in the concession stands, and make a fortune!" Chichi practically danced up the walls.

"But Chichi," Goku tried to calm down his hyperactive wife, "you don't even know where this stadium is, let alone if Yamcha even knows what he's talking about."

"We'll ask him when he wakes up," Chichi said off-handedly. "Oh, I just can't wait! We'll finally be able to get Gohan a private tutor that will come with us on the tours! This is so wonderful!"

"Uh, Chichi?" Goku interrupted her private celebration, "assuming this abandoned stadium exists, how are we going to pay for it?"

Chichi refused to stop smiling. "With our savings account money, silly!"

Goku scratched his head. "I thought that was for an emergency."

Chichi practically skipped toward the open door, despite the gloomy weather outside and sprawled out body of Yamcha. Goku had never seen her so happy in his life. He practically expected her to break into song.

"Consider this our emergency," she grinned back at him before beckoning him to follow.





AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry for the delay. I got writer's block in the middle. Seriously, Chichi's just a hard character for me to write. I don't know why. THANK YOU TO THOSE WHO REVIEWED! It gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside. If anyone has suggestions for where you want the story to go, I will appreciatively read them, though most of the storyline is pretty adamant. But that doesn't mean I can't squeeze in a few things here and there, right? I love getting suggestions! Sometimes it's the suggestions that I don't use that give me creative bursts, so if you do give me a suggestion and I don't use it, don't worry. It was probably responsible for a big part of the story. Heh . . . now I'm talking as if *my* opinion matters to *you.* I'll try to be a little bit quicker with the next chapter. Oh, and in case you're wondering, the little sections at the top of the chapters are lyrics from the musical THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA (I don't own that either) and each title of the story is the name of the song that's written there. After that, I write the word "and" followed by whatever I feel like adding (as long as it has something to do with the chapter). Just thought I'd clear that up.

~Chunks

And yes, Borego, you are the zippiest dragon that likes flamingos. You've got all the other flamingo-liking dragons beat on the zippiness factor.