Disclaimer: I don't own DBZ. Hmm . . . who *does* own DBZ? Hmm . . . own
. . . own . . . Well, the gerund form of own is owning, and owning sounds
like homing, and homing is like housing because both house and home are a
building where people live in . . . and housing is similar to mousing, and
that's what cats do. Cat sounds like bat, and bats are associated with
Batman, and Batman's alter ego is Bruce Wayne, and he's a rich playboy.
Playboys have models around and models come from foreign places a lot.
Okayama is a foreign place, and Okayama is a seaport and textile-
manufacturing city of Japan and Japan has lots of Shinto temples. Shinto
temples have torii gateways and the word torii is a lot like the beginning
of Toriyama and, therefore, the owner of DBZ must be Akira Toriyama. My,
wasn't that informative?
Also: Read ZippyDragon*43's 'Romance Idiots With High Ki.' It is *very* funny and she is cool and stuff.
The Mirror and A Run of Bad Luck
Angel of Music, guide and guardian
Grant to me your glory!
Angel of Music, hide no longer
Come to me, strange Angel!
Red and black. Hearts and clubs. Gilded faces staring back.
The boy across from him smirks in triumph, laying his cards down with a note of finality. A royal flush brandishes its splendour with each pointed spade, signifying yet another win for him. Goku's eyes gleam, youthful, naïve and expectant to see if he has won or not, but the boy shakes his head with a smile and confiscates all the goods in the pot. Despite Goku's attempts to play another round, the boy stubbornly refuses and continues counting and re-counting his newfound winnings, completely engrossed in the process.
Seeing the boy otherwise occupied and not about to move any time soon, Goku turns his attention back to the cards. Rather than ponder their worth or importance in the game, he spreads them out and, picking them up one by one, admires the beautiful ornamentation on every one of them, only stopping to gaze into the single eye of the jack of spades. The jack does not to look at him, but continues to stare off into the distance. He continues to pick up cards and look at them.
Red and black. Hearts and clubs. Gilded faces staring back.
Except for the jack.
He has found the black jack yet again, for his shuffling is poor. He picks it up and stares at it even more intently, holding it up right in front of his face. Lowering the card, he sees the boy in the background, staring off in the same direction and the profile nearly matching. Goku giggles at his new discovery and looks at the jack once more to confirm it. He smiles yet again upon the validation of his observation, but quickly frowns. He sees the jack alone, staring off to where none of the other cards look to, silent and resigned to eternally turn away from the others.
It is unfortunate that he does not realize that the jack of hearts does the same, and, when placed side by side, stares at the other.
Now bored of his card-gazing, Goku steps away from his table and searches for big brother Raditz, his form easy to spot with his long black hair. Upon reaching him, Goku pulls sharply on the spiky locks, and is greeted with a quick turn and a growl-turned-smile. Goku, still too young to form many coherent words yet, simply raises his arms in a pleading gesture. Raditz takes the hint and lifts his pint-sized body onto his shoulder. Goku laughs at the sudden change in altitude, snuggling into his brother's rough hair and enjoying the funny, prickly feeling it gives him.
A feeling of panic suddenly invades the scene as a wall crumbles to the ground, revealing several shadowed forms.
Chaos.
People run from place to place, panic in their eyes and disturbingly muted screams coming from their terrified lips. Goku clings to his brother's hair for support, only to find the teenager withering beneath him as an energy blast pierces Raditz's chest and exits through the other side, carrying blood and burnt bits of flesh with it. Goku cannot hear his brother's last few gurgling breaths as they both fall to the floor. He cannot hear anything around him. The horrifying, yet strangely familiar sequence of events plays before him in a hauntingly echoing silence.
He is shaking Raditz forcefully, willing him to wake up. Father comes, pulling Goku away from his brother's smoking corpse and hands him urgently into Mother's quivering arms. He shouts something to her over the turmoil and she argues. His eyes look stony and resolute as he looks off to where the figures are fighting with the others. He speaks and Mother tries to interject again, but he pushes her out the back door and into the cold night.
Mother is crying.
She holds Goku closer to her body, her still quivering arms and cascading black hair offering little warmth against the chilling night wind. She looks into the windows of the house they have just left her eyes reflect the flashes of gold and red seen through the window. Through the empty silence, Goku can hear one thing cutting though it.
Laughter. Malicious, abhorrent laughter piercing the night air with its icy chill.
Mother runs.
Goku presses closer to Mother, seeking warmth from the biting wind that whips across their bodies as she rushes over the cool grass of the countryside close-by. Time seems immeasurable as Mother races over hills and weaves between the trees, her pounding feet against the ground making a rapid, but steady, rhythm. The moon shines down on them, not quite full, but just enough to feel oppressing, like it is an enemy searchlight spotting them out. Goku bounces and jostles along as Mother runs, his wide, black eyes just able to peer over her shoulder.
There is something behind them.
Looming shadows close in on them as Mother reaches a ravine. She slides down the side, careful to protect her charge, but unfortunately leaving an even more noticeable trail of dust behind her. She refuses to look back and starts climbing the other side of the ravine, but the shadows catch her before she can finish the trek. They swoop down upon her, their fingers glowing with deadly light.
Goku feels himself flying through the night air and landing on a hard surface, hitting his head and looking upward into the faraway branches of a tall tree above him, his last conscious thought of how nice the stars look when they peer from behind the dark leaves. The struggle between Mother and the shadows continues, but he is not awake to see it.
The infinite expanse of time continues its progress, though Goku remains unaware of how much of it has passed. He looks up and still sees the stars winking at him from behind the rustling boughs of the tall tree, still smells the scent of sweet, countryside grass, still feels the wind caressing his face like a mother's touch, though Mother is not with him.
Or is she?
Goku looks to his side, some unknown feeling dictating his actions now. A body lies beside him, one arm clasped around his tiny waist. The wind brushes across the long, raven locks of hair, silken tendrils trailing behind the thin, zephyr's threads in the night, though most are matted down by a thick, pungent substance.
Blood.
All he can see is red. Blood is everywhere; he is surrounded by it, breathing it in. The stench makes it hard for him to breathe as he lies there, listening as screams resonate through the air. He has the distinct feeling that most of them are his. The dead do not scream.
"!!GOKU!!"
Goku's eyes snapped open and he immediately became aware of the change of surroundings. He sat up in his bed slowly, his sweat making the sheets stick to him despite his ascent and the law of gravity. The moonlight filtering through the billowing sheers illuminated the soft bedding, making the face of his worried wife clearly visible and her concerned eyes seem even wider.
"Goku? Goku, are you all right?" she put her hand on his shoulder to steady him.
He put a hand over his eyes, willing himself to wake completely from the nightmare. His breath still coming out in short gasps, he finally managed to calm himself enough to look at her and answer.
"Y-yeah. I'm fine."
Chichi breathed a sigh of relief at his words, but frowned as she took in his pale face and sweating form, feeling his forehead for his temperature. "Are you sure, you're not getting sick or something? You feel a little warm."
"No . . . n-not sick," he murmured through his heaving.
"Okay, then," Chichi said to him, unconvinced. "I just don't want you getting sick before tomorrow, Goku," she rushed out quickly, "because you know we have to show the guys the stadium since it's all finished, and I know you've been looking forward to it. I wouldn't want you to miss it."
Goku smiled to his wife. She was always trying to look out for her family's interests. He forced his breath to come out evenly as he mentally erased the dream from his mind, though he had a sinking feeling it would not be suppressed so easily.
"It was nothing really."
"You're sure? I could get you some medicine if you want me t—"
"Yeah, I'm sure," he interrupted her. "Go back to sleep."
The grandeur of the transformed stadium could be described with one word in Tien's opinion: excessive. He preferred a more practical view on things, and the elaborate ornamentation around the door did not sit well with him. The renovation of the walls, he knew, were necessary; the installation of a stronger door was good foresight to prevent future problems with it; the large, added windows allowed for more light to enter the normally caliginous coliseum; but the two gilded dragons curling around the corners at the top of the door were completely unnecessary. No one could see them, really. Their emerald-tipped tails wound behind the outer- border of the entrance, unable to be seen or noticed by the general public. Their golden scales gleamed to the sky, above anyone's eye level. Their ruby eyes were placed at such an angle that one was required to be at least ten feet tall to have a chance of viewing them. The only way Tien had been able to see any of this was because he had flown in and landed in front of the stadium. Tien snorted. This was obviously Chichi's work. First of all, Goku could not design anything if you gave him a lobotomy with an architect, and second, only a woman could spend that much money on something so pointless.
And he hated pointless things.
He also hated waiting for late arrivals.
Chaozu floated up to eye-level with him, the wide whites of his eyes contrasting very little against the pallor of his skin. "What's the matter, Tien?"
"They're late," he ground out, kicking a bit of dust with his booted toe.
"Well, don't worry, I'm sure they'll get here soon," his alabaster ears perked up when he heard the low rumble of an aircar. "In fact, some of them are coming right now."
Tien's three eyes darted quickly to the direction of Chaozu's attention and saw the tell-tale stream of dust trailing behind a white aircar, the most obvious clue of its ownership being the bright orange clothing one of the passengers was wearing.
"It's about time," Tien grumbled.
The car parked itself neatly into the allotted space for the managers, its occupants stepping out of it and heading toward the two awaiting fighters. Upon their approach, Chaozu, his smile never wavering, chirruped, "Good morning Miss Chichi! Hi Coach Goku! And you too, Gohan!"
"Hello Chaozu," Chichi said pleasantly while holding on to little Gohan's hand, "but I believe it's around noon by now."
"Yeah, and I've been waiting for about a half an hour," Tien muttered under his breath just too soft for Chichi's volatile temper to hear.
"It was a rough night," Chichi glossed over the details of the previous night's happenings.
Before either Tien or Chaozu could ask for an elaboration, Gohan suddenly exclaimed, "Look! It's Mr. Piccolo!" and happily skipped off to greet his tutor who had just floated down to ground level.
The Namekian sneered at the reconstructed stadium. "It's a bit gaudy for my tastes, but I suppose it'll do."
Chichi hmphed at him. "Well, you're not going to be fighting in it, so I suggest you keep your criticism to yourself."
*That's probably the wisest choice for survival,* Tien thought, shutting his mouth tightly so that his not-so-ecstatic comments could be kept in check.
"Hey guys!" Krillin shouted, walking toward the group while tucking in his slightly rumpled shirt. As he passed by Piccolo, the Namek's eyes focused on a rosy spot at the end of the bald man's collar, but decided to keep silent about the matter. It appeared that Chichi's notorious temper was in an extremely pouncy mood today.
"Where's the rest of the gang?" he cocked his head curiously to the side.
Goku looked around quizzically. "It looks like everyone except Yamcha and Bulma are here. Should we start without them, Chichi?"
"You can't start without me!" Bulma shouted to them, running to the newly congregated crowed from her apparently hastily parked aircar, if the skid-marks were any sign.
"Well I guess that only leaves Yamcha out," Chichi said. "But he's always late for everything, so I guess we can start without him."
"All right! I can't wait to see what this place looks like!" Krillin said excitedly, unaware of the suspicious looks he got from Tien, Chaozu, and Chichi.
Shaking her head quickly, Chichi regained her sense of what she was supposed to be doing at that moment. She pulled out her master key and clicked the lock open, the great doors slowly opening and the crowd around her all curiously poking their heads to get a better view, except for Piccolo, who, as always, felt he had better things he could be doing, and Bulma, who happened to be picking at her nails.
"Welcome to Dragon Stadium," Chichi smiled brilliantly while positioning her arms like a game-show hostess. "Let's start the tour, then. Follow me."
"I'm late, I'm late, I'm late!" Yamcha hurriedly pulled shirt over his head, almost falling over in the process. "Puar," he yelled into the next room, "why didn't you wake me up?!"
Puar stopped flipping her pancakes just long enough to answer from the kitchen. "Well, you came home so late and you were sleeping so peacefully, I just couldn't wake you up. I'm sorry," her little chef's hat drooped with her apology.
"You knew I had to be at the stadium at eleven-thirty!" he skidded into the kitchen, still pulling his shirt over his head while trying to locate the table through the fabric covering his eyes. "You should have gotten me up!"
"Sorry," she said sincerely as she set his breakfast on the table.
Yamcha's head finally popped through his shirt when he looked at his oldest friend and said, "Don't worry, Puar. I'm not mad at you. I'm just a little upset about being late, that's all."
"But Yamcha," she clasped her paws over her "kiss the cook" apron, "you're always late. What's so upsetting about this time?"
Yamcha stuffed a convenient pancake into his mouth.
"Were you going to meet someone?" the little cat persisted.
Yamcha downed a glass of orange juice.
Puar sighed a little at his evasiveness. Sitting down for some breakfast herself, she discarded her cooking attire and looked up at Yamcha for one last question.
"This wouldn't be about Bul—"
"Bye Puar! Gotta go!" Yamcha called from outside the door, the sound of his hurrying footsteps clearly audible as he rushed away.
Sighing again, Puar continued to eat her breakfast in solitude, muttering something along the lines of, "one of these days I'm going to nail his feet to the floor."
"And this is the arena where you'll be fighting," Chichi nonchalantly waved her arm at the enormous room before them. All eyes widened in pure shock of the size of the place, most craning their necks to the point of idiocy to be able to see the highest point of the ceiling that held the skylight. The fluorescent lights encompassing the rest of the domed roof surrounded the glass panels of the skylight, showing that the stadium could be used at any time, day or night, rain or shine. Rows upon rows of seats extended from ground level to the beginning of the dome, a judge's box sitting sedately at the bottom and an extremely luxurious level of seating around the very top edge near the elevated catwalk, the most opulent of the lavish tiers being the northern. The ring where they would actually be doing the fighting shined with its white marble splendour, the tiles extending to cover an incredible amount of area. Extra seating graced the lower level for the fighters awaiting their next battle, close, but not too close, to ringside while concession stands scattered themselves about, some being found near the ring, others miscellaneously placed about the aisle- ways for the audience, and still others placed near the entrance for new arrivals. The grandest and most astounding item in the arena, however, happened to be the enormous jade statue of a dragon entwining itself around a topaz dragonball, part of a legend as old and widespread as the tale of the Tournament Ghost. Each scale gleamed its perfection, the four stars in the dragonball glistening in their ruby brilliance, as did the eyes of the great mythical beast. Claws gripping protectively around the ball, spiked tail shining in the fluorescent lighting, and its overall sculptural magnitude made it a sight to behold.
" . . ." the group said collectively, except for Bulma, who was still picking at her nails.
"I knew I should have used the 'Cute Coral Crush'," she muttered while plucking an offensive chunk of polish off her thumb. "This 'Passion Pink' doesn't match my lipstick . . ."
Krillin was the first to snap out of his shock as he rolled his eyes at Bulma's reaction (or lack thereof) to the evident grandeur of the arena. 'Women," he huffed with a note of disdain and sarcasm. "Always thinking about the most important things in life . . ."
"Uh . . .Chichi," Goku tried to put it nicely, "don't you think that all this is . . . is a bit much?"
"Well, that's what the workers said too," Chichi said, admiring her handiwork, "but how else do you expect to get a female audience to come to the games?"
"Get better-looking fighters?" Bulma suggested brightly, receiving glares from all the fighters except Piccolo, who could care less, Goku, who actually thought it was a serious suggestion due to his naiveté, and Gohan, who was too busy examining the dragon statue.
The son of Goku poked the priceless sculpture with his finger, as all children are inclined to want to touch something that is easily broken. He stepped back and looked at with a scrutinous eye before eliciting a happy, "Well, I like it!"
"And we're happy for you, kid," Tien grumbled out sarcastically, still just out of Chichi's range of hearing.
"Well, I think it's kind of pretty too," Bulma said, giving the statue another glance-over.
"Yeah, Tien," Chaozu looked to the triclops, "it's not *that* bad."
Tien just crossed his arms in a surly way and impatiently tapped his foot. "Are we done here yet? I'm itching for a good spar."
Krillin clasped his hands behind him and cracked his back. "Yeah, It's been a while."
"I think I'll join you," Bulma chimed happily.
"Aren't you worried about breaking a nail or something?" Krillin said disdainfully.
"Very funny."
"Chaozu, why don't you fight too?" Tien suggested. "Then we'd have even teams."
"But I thought Coach Goku would want to," Chaozu looked puzzled. He turned his head in Goku's direction. "Don't you?"
Goku shook his head with a sad little smile. "Thanks Chaozu, but you know I don't. I gave up fighting in tournaments a long time ago."
Krillin laughed. "Yeah, it kind of looses its excitement when you win all of them."
"Not even just a little spar?" Chaozu pleaded.
"Not today. Sorry."
Chaozu sighed. "All right, but it's my funeral."
"I'll fight in your place, Chaozu!" Gohan leapt at the opportunity.
"Really? You will?" the little porcelain fighter brightened. "Great! I really like to referee more anyway . . ."
Gohan eagerly jumped up onto the elevated ring. "Well, I'm ready!"
"Me too," Tien removed his white shirt, revealing his toned muscles and a few battle scars.
"Don't forget me!" Krillin landed himself in the centre of the arena.
"Oh, shoot!" Bulma snapped her fingers angrily. "I left my fighting clothes in my car. I'll be right back," she rushed out and down the hall.
Krillin snorted. "Typical."
"I heard that!"
"Oh?" Krillin said uninterestedly. "And what are you going to do about it? Poke me with your mascara?"
"Krillin, you're really pushing it," Chaozu whispered to the ex-monk.
"Krillin, you're really pushing it!" Bulma yelled from the hall. "Don't forget, I beat you once and I'll do it again!"
"You were lucky!" his shiny head turned an indignant shade of scarlet.
"Lucky my foot! That was pure ski—crap! You made me mess up my hair!" There was shuffling and the sound of the door being slammed in a hurry.
" . . . she has issues," Gohan said, now sitting Indian-style and rocking himself back and forth.
"No, she just needs to get her priorities in order," Tien said sagely.
"She's an arrogant little b—"
"KRILLIN!" Chichi shouted. "Don't even THINK about using that word in my presence!"
"Sorry," the bald man said meekly.
"Well, no use waiting around for her," Tien said. "We all know how long this could take . . . so let's get started then."
"Right!" Gohan cheered excitedly.
"Fine with me," Krillin said.
"All right," Tien smirked, positioning himself in a fighting stance. "Who wants to be the first to go down?"
"I'll take you up on that," Krillin challenged.
"Okay," Chaozu affirmed. "The first fight is Tien versus Krillin."
"Aww, man . . ." Gohan sat down again. "I wanted to fight . . ."
"Get set . . ." Chaozu raised his arm in the air to signal the beginning of the fight. "And . . . G—"
CRASH!
The doors leading into the arena burst open, revealing a very disheveled and . . . face-planted . . . Yamcha.
"Hehe . . ." he said from his position on the ground. "Sorry I'm late."
" . . ."
"What kept you?" Krillin was the first to recover. "Did you have a little rendezvous with Bulma on the way? Eh? Eh?" he winked suggestively.
Yamcha's face went beet-red. "B-Bulma? N-no . . . haven't seen her . . ."
"Yeah, uh huh," Krillin looked at him in a sly sidelong glance. "And I suppose that's just a sunburn on your face and not a blush?"
Yamcha shot up and dusted himself off, trying to maintain a sense of dignity while covering a fake cough with his hand, which also happened to effectively cover the flush in his cheeks.
"Well, are you going to spar with us, Yamcha?" Tien put his hands on his hips impatiently. "Or are you just going to embarrass yourself more?"
"I think I'll take the sparring option," Yamcha chose wisely.
"Yeah," Krillin snickered. "It'd be pretty hard to embarrass yourself anymore than you already have."
Laughter broke out around the room and even Piccolo, who was meditating in the corner, cracked a smile.
"That's it, Chrome Dome," Yamcha growled. "You're going down."
"I'd like to see you try." Krillin leaned on one side cockily and beckoned the scarred ex-desert bandit with his hand. "Bring it on."
Without another word, Yamcha leapt into the air, heading straight for the contemptuous form of Krillin, who had already put up his defenses. The head wind generated from his abrupt ascent ruffled his cropped black hair and rippled his orange fighting uniform. Krillin deepened his stance, ready for the full-on attack, but soon found it totally unnecessary when something unexpected happened.
From up above, there came a distinct sound of something whizzing through the air at a very high speed. All in the room glanced up sharply; even Yamcha stopped himself in mid-air to snap his head in that direction. They could see a flash from the ceiling and something hurtling towards them. In an incredible feat of acceleration, the flash sped downward to the group of waiting fighters in the ring. Suddenly, it swooped and made an abrupt left in its course, coming straight for Yamcha and Gohan. Out of quick reflexes as an experienced fighter, Yamcha was able to jump out of the way in just the nick of time. Unfortunately, Gohan was not so lucky.
He froze.
The fear planted his legs firmly in place, and he was intensely aware of his quickly beating heart. His eyes wide as saucers, he could only watch as the flash raced straight for him, his legs quivering in their adamantine position. In his trembling, frozen form, he could just barely make out two words.
"Oh no."
There was a loud crash and the flash embedded itself into the turf around the ring. Smoke rose from its form, the bright flash flickering dimly. A path of newly dug up dirt lay behind the dulling flash, the trail of destruction obvious in its wake.
Gohan clutched with shivering hands to the form of his father, who held him tightly back, both of them just out of the fallen object's path. No sound remained in the room but the heavy breathing from those frightened nearly to death in the room. Which happened to be everyone.
"What on Earth was that?!" Chichi finally regained her senses as she rushed over to her husband and son. "Oh my gosh, are you two okay? You two could've been killed! What happened?! What was that?! Oh my g—" Goku shushed her by putting his finger on her lips.
"It's all right now, Chichi," he said soothingly. "We're fine."
Gohan quivered a bit more and ran to his mother's side, clutching her leg like any frightened child. Chichi lovingly stroked his wild black hair as she regained her composure. "Yes, it's okay, Sweetie. Mommy's here."
Goku gave his son and wife a once over to ensure they were safe before he turned his attention to the offending object that had nearly cost them their lives. Piccolo was there beside him, his protective glare still centred on Gohan. Goku nodded to the Namek and by some unspoken agreement, they both lifted the object out of the ground and set it on the elevated ring for examination.
"Looks like a light fixture," Goku said, studying it.
Piccolo ran his green hand across the heavy fluorescent light, noting the excess heat coming from it and the distinct smell of something burning or melting. "This light didn't fall on it's own."
"What do you mean?" Tien said from the ring, helping up Chaozu.
"This light was infused with energy," Piccolo stated bluntly. "It was meant to kill someone."
General unease swept across the room, each person looking to each other as if to gauge by their reaction to their stares who was meant to receive the fatal blow. Suddenly, a shift in the air occurred, swirling around them maliciously and silencing all sounds in the room but for the collective hammering of all their hearts in a cacophonous, frantic rhythm.
"DID I NOT INSTRUCT YOU TO LEAVE THIS STADIUM?!"
A shiver ran down each of their spines, though some more noticeable than others. Yamcha backed away from the group slightly, his eyes alight with fear. Gohan snuggled closer to Chichi, who hugged him
firmly back. Tien drew himself up into a fighting stance, standing protectively over Chaozu. Goku and Piccolo both readied themselves as well, their eyes keeping Chichi and Gohan within their range of defense.
"Who are you?!" Tien shouted, summoning up his courage. "Why did you try to kill us?!"
"Tien," Chaozu whispered worriedly, "don't . . ."
The voice spoke with such a harsh, bitter laughter, it made the entire group jump.
"THAT WAS JUST A WARNING. IF ALL MY DEMANDS ARE NOT FOLLOWED THROUGH, THEN MANY MORE DISASTERS WILL OCCUR."
"What demands?" Goku shouted to the room. The rest of the group tensed up, waiting for a fight, though unawares, they lacked one. Yamcha had already made it out the back door.
"What did we do?" Goku continued. "Who were you instructing to leave? Why are you doing this?"
"HEED MY WARNING. THE NEXT TIME NONE OF YOU WILL BE SO FORTUNATE," and the voice disappeared into the abyss from whence it came.
Silence has a strange way of returning to a room when odd or unexpected events happen.
"W-what do you think we should do now?" Chaozu breathed uneasily.
"I think we might want to reread that letter we got," Chichi said, still shocked.
The front door into the arena opened abruptly, jolting the group's already shot nerves and causing them to jump. Bulma sauntered in, her fighting clothes on, hair newly arranged, and a look on her face that read, "I'm ready to kick butt."
"What did I miss?" she said.
A newspaper rustled in the dim light of the training room. Long after the stadium had closed and the very frightened and little more than confused fighters and managers had left the premises, Bulma sat at the edge of the miniature ring in her training room, waiting.
And she did *not* like waiting.
Most of the time, Bulma would be the one to arrive tardy to her lessons, though Grumpy had his fair share of late arrivals. This happened to be one of them. It annoyed Bulma to no end that while he had often arrived long after the lesson was scheduled to begin he still berated *her* for her tardiness. And her she was waiting again, and she knew just how their dialogue would go when he finally did arrive:
Bulma: You're late.
Grumpy: A true warrior has patience enough to wait for their instructor.
Bulma: Oh yeah? Then why do you get so mad when *I'm* late, Mister I'm-the-greatest-warrior-in-the-universe?
Grumpy: You will not speak to your teacher so! Now begin the training!
Bulma: Hypocrite.
Grumpy: NOW!
*Hypocrite,* Bulma thought. She ruffled her newspaper again with one hand so she could read it better, the other hand stuffing a bagel into her mouth. She read with only half-interest.
*"RETURN OF THE DARKSIDE?
Newest information on the possible return of those responsible for the 'Kold Mafia' Murders
Recent police investigations have discovered a few survivors of those who have witnessed the tragic day eight years ago when a group of unknown men led an assault in unarmed residential area named Arlia. Witnesses say these men were ten in number and were not carrying any visible weapons, though what is left of the area would disagree. The area within a ten mile radius now lies in ruin even to this day, though the smoke and screams from eight years ago has long since died. No one knows why the KM decided to attack this city, but police investigators believe there may have been some information within the city's hall of records regarding the Mafia's whereabouts and inner workings, though this widespread destruction encompasses the entire town. Most of the survivors have either moved to another city or out of the country, though some brave souls still remain in the devastated city, living off what little they have through this nightmare. Though, some do not believe that the nightmare is over yet.
'I've seen one of the murderers just the other day,' Lenlia Acridid says. 'Those monsters killed my Ackla. Now I have nothing left to remember him by but this bakery and the name he gave me.'
When asked about her mysterious sighting, Mrs. Acridid says:
'I didn't see a lot of him, but I just knew it was one of *them.* He swooped down on my shop all bat-like and dropped some money. Then he took his purchase and flew off. I couldn't see any of him because it was very dark and he was wearing dark clothes too, but just the way he seemed to fly like some alien or demon reminded me of the way those *awful* murderers did the [day of the massacre].'
Many other sightings have been noted, though they are no more enlightening than this one. Most of the activity of the Kold Mafia has ceased since the demise of the old leader Frieza, though perhaps this mysterious customer may be the leader of a neo-KM. Police are still unsure as to the validation of these sightings, but those who have claimed to witness this posthumous pariah will tell you this: the Kold Mafia's reign of terror has not yet ended.
In fact, it may just be beginning."*
Bulma looked at the captioned picture next to the article with a lackluster eye. Almost a dozen men of every shape and size seemed to be firing lasers out of their hands, incinerating the helpless city around them. One seemed to be very pudgy with spikes all over his body and very puffy, fat lips that smiled as he blasted a mother and child. Another looked dark and brooding, his face set in a permanent scowl and seemed to be robotically going through the motions of the annihilation, not putting any thought or emotion into it whatsoever. There were many others, all of them sending shivers down Bulma's spine just by seeing their images immortalized in black and white, though the most terrifying of all seemed to be a white creature that floated in a little hovering chair, his smile sadistic and his eyes gleaming mirthfully at the scene of devastation below him as he extended his index finger and a pinpoint of light flickered on the end of it.
Bulma shivered but quickly got over the feeling as she set down the paper, finished off the last piece of her bagel, and checked her watch. *Darn it, when is he going to show up?*
"Bulma?"
Her head snapped up immediately and she looked with a surprised expression at the intruder of her training room. "Who . . ."
The figure walked in, his orange outfit rustling and his short black hair waving a little with the movement. "It's me . . . Yamcha."
"Yamcha?" she said with a note of both surprise and wonder. "But . . . but your hair . . ."
Yamcha laughed and put his hand behind his head. "Yeah . . . I had to cut the long hair off after an opponent grabbed it and used it to throw me out of the ring," he reminisced. "It's been a long time, hasn't it?"
"Yeah," Bulma smiled and patted part of the elevated ring beside her, instructing him to sit down. he did as he was told and clasped his hands in his lap, looking at her in a way that said, 'I'm not really sure how to begin . . .'
"So, how have you been?" Bulma asked cheerily, lightening the mood.
"Pretty good I guess," he looked down at his feet, then suddenly lifted up his eyes to gaze into hers. "But not half as good as I feel now."
Bulma blushed and laughed, clasping her arms around the scarred fighter in a big hug. "Oh Yamcha! I've missed you!"
Yamcha stuttered and gasped within her tight embrace and barely managed out a half-strangled, "Me too."
"Oh, it's been so long since I heard you say such cute things like that! I knew you'd come back to me! I just knew it!" Bulma squeezed even tighter.
"Ack!!" Yamcha choked. "Uh, Bulma," he said in a hoarse, constricted voice, "I can't breathe here . . ."
"Oops! Sorry," Bulma released him sheepishly. He rubbed his neck as if to check if it were still there before he smiled.
"Does this mean you're happy to see me?"
"Of course, you goof!" Bulma playfully slapped his shoulder. "Honestly, you can be so dense sometimes."
"Hehe . . . yeah," Yamcha laughed with an embarrassed flush across his cheeks. "I can remember a couple of times where that got out of hand . . ."
"Like the time you locked your keys in the car when we were out on a date and we were waiting in the parking lot for two hours while you tried to stick a coat hanger through the window to get them, but only managed to set off the car alarm?"
"Yeah, that was pretty dumb of me," he laughed.
"Or the time you took me to that expensive night club and you wore that hideous plaid shirt and the bouncer wouldn't let you in with me?" Bulma smirked at him.
"Hey, it was laundry day!"
"Or the time—"
"Bulma, are all the memories you have of our relationship just me being stupid?" Yamcha chuckled in a teasing way.
"No silly! I always remember the good times," Bulma looked at him, her eyes glittering. "I just consider those good times funnier."
"Oh? Then I guess you would remember the time I took you to that amusement park on your birthday . . ."
" . . . and we held hands in the tunnel of love . . ." Bulma snuggled in closer to him.
"Or when it was raining how we would run inside my house all dripping wet . . ." he stretched his arm around her shoulder.
" . . . and we would snuggle up to the fire with hot cocoa . . ."
"Or those sunsets on the beach . . ."
" . . . where we'd just walk on the water's edge and talk . . ." she gently leaned her head on him and he took her hand in his. They sat like that for a while, just taking in each other's presence and feeling the other's warmth, no words but the beating of their hearts, no feelings but the feeling of comfort they found within each other.
"This is just so perfect, Yamcha," Bulma finally spoke, though her tone refused to break the warm bond the shared at the moment.
"You know what would make it more perfect?" Yamcha smiled down at her through his closed eyes.
"Hmm?" Bulma murmured, cuddling closer to him.
"If we went out to dinner right now."
Bulma's eyes shot open. "B-but I can't."
"You can't?" Yamcha asked her, moving her so that he could look directly into her eyes. "What do you mean you can't?"
"I have to have my lessons . . . my teacher will be here any minute."
A cold knot of worry settled in Yamcha's stomach. "Your teacher?"
Bulma suddenly covered her mouth as if she had just let something slip that should not have slipped. "Yes," she danced around an explanation, "he's very strict. He doesn't let me miss practices."
Yamcha looked at her skeptically, remembering the night he had been there previously and had heard her talking to someone who had called himself the Tournament Ghost. Of course, with all that had happened during that week, and all that he could remember, it very could have been a dream. He *had* been out for five days, after all. He smiled coquettishly at her and stood both of themselves up.
"I won't keep you up late then."
"But—"
"You get changed here," Yamcha started for the door happily. "I want to take you out on the town. Five minutes, Bulma, and I'll be back to whisk you away!" he practically skipped out.
"Yamcha!" she called after him, but he was long gone. Resigned, she sat back down next to her back and put her head in her hands.
"Things have changed, Yamcha . . ." she sighed as she closed her eyes.
"Idiot."
"Huh?" Bulma looked up sharply, recognizing that voice. "Grumpy?"
"Hmph. Who does he think he is, trying to steal my protégé?" the room echoed disdainfully.
"Well," Bulma said, her surprise giving way to her irritation, "maybe if you weren't so late, you might have been able to tell him that yourself."
"What have I told you about patience?" the voice barked at her.
"What have I told you about being a hypocrite?" she barked back.
The voice slipped into a surly silence.
Bulma's face wore a triumphant grin when, suddenly, the cogs in her head started to go into overdrive. She had always resented the fact that she had never spoken to her teacher face to face and now, with a little trick of persuasion, she could have exactly what she wanted . . .
A chance to see his face.
"Well Grumpy," she put an emphasis on the nickname, "If you really want people to listen to you, why don't you talk to them in person? I'm sure you're just *radiating* masculine intimidation . . ."
"Hmph . . . you think so?" Grumpy said sarcastically.
Bulma winked slyly. "I *know* so."
"Really," she could almost feel the room smirk. "And how would you know about something you haven't seen?"
"Well," Bulma put on the coyest smile in her repertoire, "With a voice like that and all the things you've taught me, I can't help but think you have good looks to match . . ."
"Hn," the voice seemed amused but unbelieving of that excuse.
"Please?" Bulma batted her eyelashes.
"So, this is for *your* benefit now, and not mine?"
Bulma stammered. "I-I uh . . . well . . . uh . . ."
"Nevermind," the voice began exasperatedly and Bulma's shoulder slumped in defeat. She started packing up her bag.
"I'll let you see me then," the room said huffily. "You'll just keep pestering me until I do anyway."
Bulma blinked. "Really?" she said excitedly.
"Yes. Now look in the mirror."
"The mirror?" she questioned, turning her head to look at the narrow, full-length looking glass on the other side of the room. "But it's so small . . . and I don't see anythi—"
Suddenly the silvery sheen of the mirror dissipated into a cloudy mist, separating around a dark figure standing within. As the clouds parted, the figures full detail became visible. Dark hair, rising up like the flames of Hades, seemed to ignite the very air around him while his clothes, a body suit that clung to him and a cape that flowed around him, darkened it like the dead of night. The most contrasting feature in this creature of darkness, however, was the white mask shielding his face from the onslaught of another's stare, while his own dark, obsidian gaze focused intensely.
Something in the atmosphere seemed to call to Bulma, pulling her closer and closer to that porthole into the underworld. As though in a trance, she could not break that almost hypnotic stare of the creature before her, walking without any thoughts within her head but thoughts of dreams, and no dreams within her heart but this, her own beautiful nightmare. Coming closer, her reached out her hand to touch the glass, but found her fingertips passing through it as though it were a warm, silver liquid. Never breaking eye contact with her, the creature retreated into the darkness behind it, almost disappearing from sight.
"Bulma?" Yamcha called from the door appearing with his aircar keys and a spiffy new outfit. "Bulma, you ready to go?"
Bulma did not hear him. The only thing she could hear was song of urgency playing in her mind, heard only by her, driving her onward. She took a step forward, pushing herself through the liquid glass, closing her eyes and letting the underworld take her to do as it pleased.
"Bulma!" Yamcha cried out, rushing toward the mirror.
But Bulma had already disappeared.
He tried to put his hand through the mirror, but only found it solid and cold to the touch. He pounded on the glass, but it refused to break, and sent off an electric current, blasting him away. Dazed, he shook his head to look at the mirror to find another way in, but all he saw were the misty clouds covering up the form of an entranced Bulma, retreating into the reaches of darkness known only to the phantasmal Tournament Ghost.
Apparently, the date was off.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hah! I am still alive! THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR ALL THE REVIEWS! Hmm . . . over a dozen more than expected. Nice. Apparently threats work, so that threat will stand if I don't get at least ten reviews a chapter, k? Well then . . . yeah, I took a while, but THAT WAS BECAUSE I HAD TO ACTUALLY WRITE THE FRICKIN' CHAPTER. I do *not* write fast, despite how many words a minute I can type (64), and the fact that my chapters are so long do not help (though I refuse to shorten my chapters, since I have certain key points I want to cover in each one). You must realize that often times, it can take me up to ten minutes to finish a sentence, since I'm so into syntax and detail. Have you noticed? I noticed you noticing . . .
According to some friends of mine, I apparently use too much detail and people are falling asleep in the middle of chapters. If this is the case for you, please tell me, and I shall try to cut down (but I'm not sure if I can guarantee that . . . I just think in detail with big words . . . I'm kooky like that), but if you actually . . .dare I say . . . LIKE the amount of detail I use, please tell me this as well, because it makes me feel good about myself. And please, please, PLEASE don't fall asleep reading my story. It makes me very sad.
If any of you have suggestions as to what you want to happen in the next chapter, or any other future chapters, feel free to leave them in your reviews. I would love to read suggestions from you guys since I *know* you all have some. I am in desperate need of fillers for some of my chapters. Why fillers? Because I need to divert your attention from certain things before they become too obvious, of course. Yes . . . I like hiding things from you. I find it enjoyable in a sadistic sort of way. Please submit your suggestions. They will be greatly appreciated.
Now, I know I left this chapter at a bit of a cliffhanger, and you probably all hate me right now, but it is necessary. This is where the song ends, therefore, where the chapter ends. Yes, I am basing my chapters off of the songs. Just so that you don't hate me too much (but I don't give you too much information on the next chapter) here are the lyrics to the next song/chapter.
THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA:
CHRISTINE (Just try and guess who's playing her role):
In sleep he sang to me
In dreams he came
That voice which calls to me
And speaks my name
And do I dream again?
For now I find . . .
The Phantom of the Opera is there—
Inside my mind . . .
PHANTOM:
Sing once again with me
Our strange duet
My power over you
Grows stronger yet
And though you turn from me,
To glance behind . . .
The Phantom of the Opera is there—
Inside your mind . . .
CHRISTINE:
Those who have seen your face
Draw back in fear . . .
I am the mask you wear . . .
PHANTOM:
. . . it's me they hear . . .
BOTH:
Your/my spirit and your/my voice,
In one combined:
The Phantom of the Opera is there—
Inside your/my mind . . .
OFFSTAGE VOICES:
He's there, the Phantom of the Opera . . .
Beware the Phantom of the Opera . . .
PHANTOM:
In all your fantasies,
You always knew
That man and mystery . . .
CHRISTINE:
. . . were both in you . . .
BOTH:
And in this labyrinth,
Where night is blind,
The Phantom of the Opera is there/here—
Inside your/my mind . . .
PHANTOM:
Sing, my Angel of Music!
CHRISTINE:
He's there, the Phantom of the Opera . . .
PS: I didn't really feel like proofreading this chapter, so there are probably a bunch of typographical errors. Bear with me. Proofreading is the part I HATE. I don't know why, I just do. I hope my spell check on my computer got most of the mistakes so it's still legible. Yeah. Hey, anyone want to be my proofreader? I'll give you a cookie . . .
PPS: Man, that has to be the longest author's note I've ever written o_O
Also: Read ZippyDragon*43's 'Romance Idiots With High Ki.' It is *very* funny and she is cool and stuff.
The Mirror and A Run of Bad Luck
Angel of Music, guide and guardian
Grant to me your glory!
Angel of Music, hide no longer
Come to me, strange Angel!
Red and black. Hearts and clubs. Gilded faces staring back.
The boy across from him smirks in triumph, laying his cards down with a note of finality. A royal flush brandishes its splendour with each pointed spade, signifying yet another win for him. Goku's eyes gleam, youthful, naïve and expectant to see if he has won or not, but the boy shakes his head with a smile and confiscates all the goods in the pot. Despite Goku's attempts to play another round, the boy stubbornly refuses and continues counting and re-counting his newfound winnings, completely engrossed in the process.
Seeing the boy otherwise occupied and not about to move any time soon, Goku turns his attention back to the cards. Rather than ponder their worth or importance in the game, he spreads them out and, picking them up one by one, admires the beautiful ornamentation on every one of them, only stopping to gaze into the single eye of the jack of spades. The jack does not to look at him, but continues to stare off into the distance. He continues to pick up cards and look at them.
Red and black. Hearts and clubs. Gilded faces staring back.
Except for the jack.
He has found the black jack yet again, for his shuffling is poor. He picks it up and stares at it even more intently, holding it up right in front of his face. Lowering the card, he sees the boy in the background, staring off in the same direction and the profile nearly matching. Goku giggles at his new discovery and looks at the jack once more to confirm it. He smiles yet again upon the validation of his observation, but quickly frowns. He sees the jack alone, staring off to where none of the other cards look to, silent and resigned to eternally turn away from the others.
It is unfortunate that he does not realize that the jack of hearts does the same, and, when placed side by side, stares at the other.
Now bored of his card-gazing, Goku steps away from his table and searches for big brother Raditz, his form easy to spot with his long black hair. Upon reaching him, Goku pulls sharply on the spiky locks, and is greeted with a quick turn and a growl-turned-smile. Goku, still too young to form many coherent words yet, simply raises his arms in a pleading gesture. Raditz takes the hint and lifts his pint-sized body onto his shoulder. Goku laughs at the sudden change in altitude, snuggling into his brother's rough hair and enjoying the funny, prickly feeling it gives him.
A feeling of panic suddenly invades the scene as a wall crumbles to the ground, revealing several shadowed forms.
Chaos.
People run from place to place, panic in their eyes and disturbingly muted screams coming from their terrified lips. Goku clings to his brother's hair for support, only to find the teenager withering beneath him as an energy blast pierces Raditz's chest and exits through the other side, carrying blood and burnt bits of flesh with it. Goku cannot hear his brother's last few gurgling breaths as they both fall to the floor. He cannot hear anything around him. The horrifying, yet strangely familiar sequence of events plays before him in a hauntingly echoing silence.
He is shaking Raditz forcefully, willing him to wake up. Father comes, pulling Goku away from his brother's smoking corpse and hands him urgently into Mother's quivering arms. He shouts something to her over the turmoil and she argues. His eyes look stony and resolute as he looks off to where the figures are fighting with the others. He speaks and Mother tries to interject again, but he pushes her out the back door and into the cold night.
Mother is crying.
She holds Goku closer to her body, her still quivering arms and cascading black hair offering little warmth against the chilling night wind. She looks into the windows of the house they have just left her eyes reflect the flashes of gold and red seen through the window. Through the empty silence, Goku can hear one thing cutting though it.
Laughter. Malicious, abhorrent laughter piercing the night air with its icy chill.
Mother runs.
Goku presses closer to Mother, seeking warmth from the biting wind that whips across their bodies as she rushes over the cool grass of the countryside close-by. Time seems immeasurable as Mother races over hills and weaves between the trees, her pounding feet against the ground making a rapid, but steady, rhythm. The moon shines down on them, not quite full, but just enough to feel oppressing, like it is an enemy searchlight spotting them out. Goku bounces and jostles along as Mother runs, his wide, black eyes just able to peer over her shoulder.
There is something behind them.
Looming shadows close in on them as Mother reaches a ravine. She slides down the side, careful to protect her charge, but unfortunately leaving an even more noticeable trail of dust behind her. She refuses to look back and starts climbing the other side of the ravine, but the shadows catch her before she can finish the trek. They swoop down upon her, their fingers glowing with deadly light.
Goku feels himself flying through the night air and landing on a hard surface, hitting his head and looking upward into the faraway branches of a tall tree above him, his last conscious thought of how nice the stars look when they peer from behind the dark leaves. The struggle between Mother and the shadows continues, but he is not awake to see it.
The infinite expanse of time continues its progress, though Goku remains unaware of how much of it has passed. He looks up and still sees the stars winking at him from behind the rustling boughs of the tall tree, still smells the scent of sweet, countryside grass, still feels the wind caressing his face like a mother's touch, though Mother is not with him.
Or is she?
Goku looks to his side, some unknown feeling dictating his actions now. A body lies beside him, one arm clasped around his tiny waist. The wind brushes across the long, raven locks of hair, silken tendrils trailing behind the thin, zephyr's threads in the night, though most are matted down by a thick, pungent substance.
Blood.
All he can see is red. Blood is everywhere; he is surrounded by it, breathing it in. The stench makes it hard for him to breathe as he lies there, listening as screams resonate through the air. He has the distinct feeling that most of them are his. The dead do not scream.
"!!GOKU!!"
Goku's eyes snapped open and he immediately became aware of the change of surroundings. He sat up in his bed slowly, his sweat making the sheets stick to him despite his ascent and the law of gravity. The moonlight filtering through the billowing sheers illuminated the soft bedding, making the face of his worried wife clearly visible and her concerned eyes seem even wider.
"Goku? Goku, are you all right?" she put her hand on his shoulder to steady him.
He put a hand over his eyes, willing himself to wake completely from the nightmare. His breath still coming out in short gasps, he finally managed to calm himself enough to look at her and answer.
"Y-yeah. I'm fine."
Chichi breathed a sigh of relief at his words, but frowned as she took in his pale face and sweating form, feeling his forehead for his temperature. "Are you sure, you're not getting sick or something? You feel a little warm."
"No . . . n-not sick," he murmured through his heaving.
"Okay, then," Chichi said to him, unconvinced. "I just don't want you getting sick before tomorrow, Goku," she rushed out quickly, "because you know we have to show the guys the stadium since it's all finished, and I know you've been looking forward to it. I wouldn't want you to miss it."
Goku smiled to his wife. She was always trying to look out for her family's interests. He forced his breath to come out evenly as he mentally erased the dream from his mind, though he had a sinking feeling it would not be suppressed so easily.
"It was nothing really."
"You're sure? I could get you some medicine if you want me t—"
"Yeah, I'm sure," he interrupted her. "Go back to sleep."
The grandeur of the transformed stadium could be described with one word in Tien's opinion: excessive. He preferred a more practical view on things, and the elaborate ornamentation around the door did not sit well with him. The renovation of the walls, he knew, were necessary; the installation of a stronger door was good foresight to prevent future problems with it; the large, added windows allowed for more light to enter the normally caliginous coliseum; but the two gilded dragons curling around the corners at the top of the door were completely unnecessary. No one could see them, really. Their emerald-tipped tails wound behind the outer- border of the entrance, unable to be seen or noticed by the general public. Their golden scales gleamed to the sky, above anyone's eye level. Their ruby eyes were placed at such an angle that one was required to be at least ten feet tall to have a chance of viewing them. The only way Tien had been able to see any of this was because he had flown in and landed in front of the stadium. Tien snorted. This was obviously Chichi's work. First of all, Goku could not design anything if you gave him a lobotomy with an architect, and second, only a woman could spend that much money on something so pointless.
And he hated pointless things.
He also hated waiting for late arrivals.
Chaozu floated up to eye-level with him, the wide whites of his eyes contrasting very little against the pallor of his skin. "What's the matter, Tien?"
"They're late," he ground out, kicking a bit of dust with his booted toe.
"Well, don't worry, I'm sure they'll get here soon," his alabaster ears perked up when he heard the low rumble of an aircar. "In fact, some of them are coming right now."
Tien's three eyes darted quickly to the direction of Chaozu's attention and saw the tell-tale stream of dust trailing behind a white aircar, the most obvious clue of its ownership being the bright orange clothing one of the passengers was wearing.
"It's about time," Tien grumbled.
The car parked itself neatly into the allotted space for the managers, its occupants stepping out of it and heading toward the two awaiting fighters. Upon their approach, Chaozu, his smile never wavering, chirruped, "Good morning Miss Chichi! Hi Coach Goku! And you too, Gohan!"
"Hello Chaozu," Chichi said pleasantly while holding on to little Gohan's hand, "but I believe it's around noon by now."
"Yeah, and I've been waiting for about a half an hour," Tien muttered under his breath just too soft for Chichi's volatile temper to hear.
"It was a rough night," Chichi glossed over the details of the previous night's happenings.
Before either Tien or Chaozu could ask for an elaboration, Gohan suddenly exclaimed, "Look! It's Mr. Piccolo!" and happily skipped off to greet his tutor who had just floated down to ground level.
The Namekian sneered at the reconstructed stadium. "It's a bit gaudy for my tastes, but I suppose it'll do."
Chichi hmphed at him. "Well, you're not going to be fighting in it, so I suggest you keep your criticism to yourself."
*That's probably the wisest choice for survival,* Tien thought, shutting his mouth tightly so that his not-so-ecstatic comments could be kept in check.
"Hey guys!" Krillin shouted, walking toward the group while tucking in his slightly rumpled shirt. As he passed by Piccolo, the Namek's eyes focused on a rosy spot at the end of the bald man's collar, but decided to keep silent about the matter. It appeared that Chichi's notorious temper was in an extremely pouncy mood today.
"Where's the rest of the gang?" he cocked his head curiously to the side.
Goku looked around quizzically. "It looks like everyone except Yamcha and Bulma are here. Should we start without them, Chichi?"
"You can't start without me!" Bulma shouted to them, running to the newly congregated crowed from her apparently hastily parked aircar, if the skid-marks were any sign.
"Well I guess that only leaves Yamcha out," Chichi said. "But he's always late for everything, so I guess we can start without him."
"All right! I can't wait to see what this place looks like!" Krillin said excitedly, unaware of the suspicious looks he got from Tien, Chaozu, and Chichi.
Shaking her head quickly, Chichi regained her sense of what she was supposed to be doing at that moment. She pulled out her master key and clicked the lock open, the great doors slowly opening and the crowd around her all curiously poking their heads to get a better view, except for Piccolo, who, as always, felt he had better things he could be doing, and Bulma, who happened to be picking at her nails.
"Welcome to Dragon Stadium," Chichi smiled brilliantly while positioning her arms like a game-show hostess. "Let's start the tour, then. Follow me."
"I'm late, I'm late, I'm late!" Yamcha hurriedly pulled shirt over his head, almost falling over in the process. "Puar," he yelled into the next room, "why didn't you wake me up?!"
Puar stopped flipping her pancakes just long enough to answer from the kitchen. "Well, you came home so late and you were sleeping so peacefully, I just couldn't wake you up. I'm sorry," her little chef's hat drooped with her apology.
"You knew I had to be at the stadium at eleven-thirty!" he skidded into the kitchen, still pulling his shirt over his head while trying to locate the table through the fabric covering his eyes. "You should have gotten me up!"
"Sorry," she said sincerely as she set his breakfast on the table.
Yamcha's head finally popped through his shirt when he looked at his oldest friend and said, "Don't worry, Puar. I'm not mad at you. I'm just a little upset about being late, that's all."
"But Yamcha," she clasped her paws over her "kiss the cook" apron, "you're always late. What's so upsetting about this time?"
Yamcha stuffed a convenient pancake into his mouth.
"Were you going to meet someone?" the little cat persisted.
Yamcha downed a glass of orange juice.
Puar sighed a little at his evasiveness. Sitting down for some breakfast herself, she discarded her cooking attire and looked up at Yamcha for one last question.
"This wouldn't be about Bul—"
"Bye Puar! Gotta go!" Yamcha called from outside the door, the sound of his hurrying footsteps clearly audible as he rushed away.
Sighing again, Puar continued to eat her breakfast in solitude, muttering something along the lines of, "one of these days I'm going to nail his feet to the floor."
"And this is the arena where you'll be fighting," Chichi nonchalantly waved her arm at the enormous room before them. All eyes widened in pure shock of the size of the place, most craning their necks to the point of idiocy to be able to see the highest point of the ceiling that held the skylight. The fluorescent lights encompassing the rest of the domed roof surrounded the glass panels of the skylight, showing that the stadium could be used at any time, day or night, rain or shine. Rows upon rows of seats extended from ground level to the beginning of the dome, a judge's box sitting sedately at the bottom and an extremely luxurious level of seating around the very top edge near the elevated catwalk, the most opulent of the lavish tiers being the northern. The ring where they would actually be doing the fighting shined with its white marble splendour, the tiles extending to cover an incredible amount of area. Extra seating graced the lower level for the fighters awaiting their next battle, close, but not too close, to ringside while concession stands scattered themselves about, some being found near the ring, others miscellaneously placed about the aisle- ways for the audience, and still others placed near the entrance for new arrivals. The grandest and most astounding item in the arena, however, happened to be the enormous jade statue of a dragon entwining itself around a topaz dragonball, part of a legend as old and widespread as the tale of the Tournament Ghost. Each scale gleamed its perfection, the four stars in the dragonball glistening in their ruby brilliance, as did the eyes of the great mythical beast. Claws gripping protectively around the ball, spiked tail shining in the fluorescent lighting, and its overall sculptural magnitude made it a sight to behold.
" . . ." the group said collectively, except for Bulma, who was still picking at her nails.
"I knew I should have used the 'Cute Coral Crush'," she muttered while plucking an offensive chunk of polish off her thumb. "This 'Passion Pink' doesn't match my lipstick . . ."
Krillin was the first to snap out of his shock as he rolled his eyes at Bulma's reaction (or lack thereof) to the evident grandeur of the arena. 'Women," he huffed with a note of disdain and sarcasm. "Always thinking about the most important things in life . . ."
"Uh . . .Chichi," Goku tried to put it nicely, "don't you think that all this is . . . is a bit much?"
"Well, that's what the workers said too," Chichi said, admiring her handiwork, "but how else do you expect to get a female audience to come to the games?"
"Get better-looking fighters?" Bulma suggested brightly, receiving glares from all the fighters except Piccolo, who could care less, Goku, who actually thought it was a serious suggestion due to his naiveté, and Gohan, who was too busy examining the dragon statue.
The son of Goku poked the priceless sculpture with his finger, as all children are inclined to want to touch something that is easily broken. He stepped back and looked at with a scrutinous eye before eliciting a happy, "Well, I like it!"
"And we're happy for you, kid," Tien grumbled out sarcastically, still just out of Chichi's range of hearing.
"Well, I think it's kind of pretty too," Bulma said, giving the statue another glance-over.
"Yeah, Tien," Chaozu looked to the triclops, "it's not *that* bad."
Tien just crossed his arms in a surly way and impatiently tapped his foot. "Are we done here yet? I'm itching for a good spar."
Krillin clasped his hands behind him and cracked his back. "Yeah, It's been a while."
"I think I'll join you," Bulma chimed happily.
"Aren't you worried about breaking a nail or something?" Krillin said disdainfully.
"Very funny."
"Chaozu, why don't you fight too?" Tien suggested. "Then we'd have even teams."
"But I thought Coach Goku would want to," Chaozu looked puzzled. He turned his head in Goku's direction. "Don't you?"
Goku shook his head with a sad little smile. "Thanks Chaozu, but you know I don't. I gave up fighting in tournaments a long time ago."
Krillin laughed. "Yeah, it kind of looses its excitement when you win all of them."
"Not even just a little spar?" Chaozu pleaded.
"Not today. Sorry."
Chaozu sighed. "All right, but it's my funeral."
"I'll fight in your place, Chaozu!" Gohan leapt at the opportunity.
"Really? You will?" the little porcelain fighter brightened. "Great! I really like to referee more anyway . . ."
Gohan eagerly jumped up onto the elevated ring. "Well, I'm ready!"
"Me too," Tien removed his white shirt, revealing his toned muscles and a few battle scars.
"Don't forget me!" Krillin landed himself in the centre of the arena.
"Oh, shoot!" Bulma snapped her fingers angrily. "I left my fighting clothes in my car. I'll be right back," she rushed out and down the hall.
Krillin snorted. "Typical."
"I heard that!"
"Oh?" Krillin said uninterestedly. "And what are you going to do about it? Poke me with your mascara?"
"Krillin, you're really pushing it," Chaozu whispered to the ex-monk.
"Krillin, you're really pushing it!" Bulma yelled from the hall. "Don't forget, I beat you once and I'll do it again!"
"You were lucky!" his shiny head turned an indignant shade of scarlet.
"Lucky my foot! That was pure ski—crap! You made me mess up my hair!" There was shuffling and the sound of the door being slammed in a hurry.
" . . . she has issues," Gohan said, now sitting Indian-style and rocking himself back and forth.
"No, she just needs to get her priorities in order," Tien said sagely.
"She's an arrogant little b—"
"KRILLIN!" Chichi shouted. "Don't even THINK about using that word in my presence!"
"Sorry," the bald man said meekly.
"Well, no use waiting around for her," Tien said. "We all know how long this could take . . . so let's get started then."
"Right!" Gohan cheered excitedly.
"Fine with me," Krillin said.
"All right," Tien smirked, positioning himself in a fighting stance. "Who wants to be the first to go down?"
"I'll take you up on that," Krillin challenged.
"Okay," Chaozu affirmed. "The first fight is Tien versus Krillin."
"Aww, man . . ." Gohan sat down again. "I wanted to fight . . ."
"Get set . . ." Chaozu raised his arm in the air to signal the beginning of the fight. "And . . . G—"
CRASH!
The doors leading into the arena burst open, revealing a very disheveled and . . . face-planted . . . Yamcha.
"Hehe . . ." he said from his position on the ground. "Sorry I'm late."
" . . ."
"What kept you?" Krillin was the first to recover. "Did you have a little rendezvous with Bulma on the way? Eh? Eh?" he winked suggestively.
Yamcha's face went beet-red. "B-Bulma? N-no . . . haven't seen her . . ."
"Yeah, uh huh," Krillin looked at him in a sly sidelong glance. "And I suppose that's just a sunburn on your face and not a blush?"
Yamcha shot up and dusted himself off, trying to maintain a sense of dignity while covering a fake cough with his hand, which also happened to effectively cover the flush in his cheeks.
"Well, are you going to spar with us, Yamcha?" Tien put his hands on his hips impatiently. "Or are you just going to embarrass yourself more?"
"I think I'll take the sparring option," Yamcha chose wisely.
"Yeah," Krillin snickered. "It'd be pretty hard to embarrass yourself anymore than you already have."
Laughter broke out around the room and even Piccolo, who was meditating in the corner, cracked a smile.
"That's it, Chrome Dome," Yamcha growled. "You're going down."
"I'd like to see you try." Krillin leaned on one side cockily and beckoned the scarred ex-desert bandit with his hand. "Bring it on."
Without another word, Yamcha leapt into the air, heading straight for the contemptuous form of Krillin, who had already put up his defenses. The head wind generated from his abrupt ascent ruffled his cropped black hair and rippled his orange fighting uniform. Krillin deepened his stance, ready for the full-on attack, but soon found it totally unnecessary when something unexpected happened.
From up above, there came a distinct sound of something whizzing through the air at a very high speed. All in the room glanced up sharply; even Yamcha stopped himself in mid-air to snap his head in that direction. They could see a flash from the ceiling and something hurtling towards them. In an incredible feat of acceleration, the flash sped downward to the group of waiting fighters in the ring. Suddenly, it swooped and made an abrupt left in its course, coming straight for Yamcha and Gohan. Out of quick reflexes as an experienced fighter, Yamcha was able to jump out of the way in just the nick of time. Unfortunately, Gohan was not so lucky.
He froze.
The fear planted his legs firmly in place, and he was intensely aware of his quickly beating heart. His eyes wide as saucers, he could only watch as the flash raced straight for him, his legs quivering in their adamantine position. In his trembling, frozen form, he could just barely make out two words.
"Oh no."
There was a loud crash and the flash embedded itself into the turf around the ring. Smoke rose from its form, the bright flash flickering dimly. A path of newly dug up dirt lay behind the dulling flash, the trail of destruction obvious in its wake.
Gohan clutched with shivering hands to the form of his father, who held him tightly back, both of them just out of the fallen object's path. No sound remained in the room but the heavy breathing from those frightened nearly to death in the room. Which happened to be everyone.
"What on Earth was that?!" Chichi finally regained her senses as she rushed over to her husband and son. "Oh my gosh, are you two okay? You two could've been killed! What happened?! What was that?! Oh my g—" Goku shushed her by putting his finger on her lips.
"It's all right now, Chichi," he said soothingly. "We're fine."
Gohan quivered a bit more and ran to his mother's side, clutching her leg like any frightened child. Chichi lovingly stroked his wild black hair as she regained her composure. "Yes, it's okay, Sweetie. Mommy's here."
Goku gave his son and wife a once over to ensure they were safe before he turned his attention to the offending object that had nearly cost them their lives. Piccolo was there beside him, his protective glare still centred on Gohan. Goku nodded to the Namek and by some unspoken agreement, they both lifted the object out of the ground and set it on the elevated ring for examination.
"Looks like a light fixture," Goku said, studying it.
Piccolo ran his green hand across the heavy fluorescent light, noting the excess heat coming from it and the distinct smell of something burning or melting. "This light didn't fall on it's own."
"What do you mean?" Tien said from the ring, helping up Chaozu.
"This light was infused with energy," Piccolo stated bluntly. "It was meant to kill someone."
General unease swept across the room, each person looking to each other as if to gauge by their reaction to their stares who was meant to receive the fatal blow. Suddenly, a shift in the air occurred, swirling around them maliciously and silencing all sounds in the room but for the collective hammering of all their hearts in a cacophonous, frantic rhythm.
"DID I NOT INSTRUCT YOU TO LEAVE THIS STADIUM?!"
A shiver ran down each of their spines, though some more noticeable than others. Yamcha backed away from the group slightly, his eyes alight with fear. Gohan snuggled closer to Chichi, who hugged him
firmly back. Tien drew himself up into a fighting stance, standing protectively over Chaozu. Goku and Piccolo both readied themselves as well, their eyes keeping Chichi and Gohan within their range of defense.
"Who are you?!" Tien shouted, summoning up his courage. "Why did you try to kill us?!"
"Tien," Chaozu whispered worriedly, "don't . . ."
The voice spoke with such a harsh, bitter laughter, it made the entire group jump.
"THAT WAS JUST A WARNING. IF ALL MY DEMANDS ARE NOT FOLLOWED THROUGH, THEN MANY MORE DISASTERS WILL OCCUR."
"What demands?" Goku shouted to the room. The rest of the group tensed up, waiting for a fight, though unawares, they lacked one. Yamcha had already made it out the back door.
"What did we do?" Goku continued. "Who were you instructing to leave? Why are you doing this?"
"HEED MY WARNING. THE NEXT TIME NONE OF YOU WILL BE SO FORTUNATE," and the voice disappeared into the abyss from whence it came.
Silence has a strange way of returning to a room when odd or unexpected events happen.
"W-what do you think we should do now?" Chaozu breathed uneasily.
"I think we might want to reread that letter we got," Chichi said, still shocked.
The front door into the arena opened abruptly, jolting the group's already shot nerves and causing them to jump. Bulma sauntered in, her fighting clothes on, hair newly arranged, and a look on her face that read, "I'm ready to kick butt."
"What did I miss?" she said.
A newspaper rustled in the dim light of the training room. Long after the stadium had closed and the very frightened and little more than confused fighters and managers had left the premises, Bulma sat at the edge of the miniature ring in her training room, waiting.
And she did *not* like waiting.
Most of the time, Bulma would be the one to arrive tardy to her lessons, though Grumpy had his fair share of late arrivals. This happened to be one of them. It annoyed Bulma to no end that while he had often arrived long after the lesson was scheduled to begin he still berated *her* for her tardiness. And her she was waiting again, and she knew just how their dialogue would go when he finally did arrive:
Bulma: You're late.
Grumpy: A true warrior has patience enough to wait for their instructor.
Bulma: Oh yeah? Then why do you get so mad when *I'm* late, Mister I'm-the-greatest-warrior-in-the-universe?
Grumpy: You will not speak to your teacher so! Now begin the training!
Bulma: Hypocrite.
Grumpy: NOW!
*Hypocrite,* Bulma thought. She ruffled her newspaper again with one hand so she could read it better, the other hand stuffing a bagel into her mouth. She read with only half-interest.
*"RETURN OF THE DARKSIDE?
Newest information on the possible return of those responsible for the 'Kold Mafia' Murders
Recent police investigations have discovered a few survivors of those who have witnessed the tragic day eight years ago when a group of unknown men led an assault in unarmed residential area named Arlia. Witnesses say these men were ten in number and were not carrying any visible weapons, though what is left of the area would disagree. The area within a ten mile radius now lies in ruin even to this day, though the smoke and screams from eight years ago has long since died. No one knows why the KM decided to attack this city, but police investigators believe there may have been some information within the city's hall of records regarding the Mafia's whereabouts and inner workings, though this widespread destruction encompasses the entire town. Most of the survivors have either moved to another city or out of the country, though some brave souls still remain in the devastated city, living off what little they have through this nightmare. Though, some do not believe that the nightmare is over yet.
'I've seen one of the murderers just the other day,' Lenlia Acridid says. 'Those monsters killed my Ackla. Now I have nothing left to remember him by but this bakery and the name he gave me.'
When asked about her mysterious sighting, Mrs. Acridid says:
'I didn't see a lot of him, but I just knew it was one of *them.* He swooped down on my shop all bat-like and dropped some money. Then he took his purchase and flew off. I couldn't see any of him because it was very dark and he was wearing dark clothes too, but just the way he seemed to fly like some alien or demon reminded me of the way those *awful* murderers did the [day of the massacre].'
Many other sightings have been noted, though they are no more enlightening than this one. Most of the activity of the Kold Mafia has ceased since the demise of the old leader Frieza, though perhaps this mysterious customer may be the leader of a neo-KM. Police are still unsure as to the validation of these sightings, but those who have claimed to witness this posthumous pariah will tell you this: the Kold Mafia's reign of terror has not yet ended.
In fact, it may just be beginning."*
Bulma looked at the captioned picture next to the article with a lackluster eye. Almost a dozen men of every shape and size seemed to be firing lasers out of their hands, incinerating the helpless city around them. One seemed to be very pudgy with spikes all over his body and very puffy, fat lips that smiled as he blasted a mother and child. Another looked dark and brooding, his face set in a permanent scowl and seemed to be robotically going through the motions of the annihilation, not putting any thought or emotion into it whatsoever. There were many others, all of them sending shivers down Bulma's spine just by seeing their images immortalized in black and white, though the most terrifying of all seemed to be a white creature that floated in a little hovering chair, his smile sadistic and his eyes gleaming mirthfully at the scene of devastation below him as he extended his index finger and a pinpoint of light flickered on the end of it.
Bulma shivered but quickly got over the feeling as she set down the paper, finished off the last piece of her bagel, and checked her watch. *Darn it, when is he going to show up?*
"Bulma?"
Her head snapped up immediately and she looked with a surprised expression at the intruder of her training room. "Who . . ."
The figure walked in, his orange outfit rustling and his short black hair waving a little with the movement. "It's me . . . Yamcha."
"Yamcha?" she said with a note of both surprise and wonder. "But . . . but your hair . . ."
Yamcha laughed and put his hand behind his head. "Yeah . . . I had to cut the long hair off after an opponent grabbed it and used it to throw me out of the ring," he reminisced. "It's been a long time, hasn't it?"
"Yeah," Bulma smiled and patted part of the elevated ring beside her, instructing him to sit down. he did as he was told and clasped his hands in his lap, looking at her in a way that said, 'I'm not really sure how to begin . . .'
"So, how have you been?" Bulma asked cheerily, lightening the mood.
"Pretty good I guess," he looked down at his feet, then suddenly lifted up his eyes to gaze into hers. "But not half as good as I feel now."
Bulma blushed and laughed, clasping her arms around the scarred fighter in a big hug. "Oh Yamcha! I've missed you!"
Yamcha stuttered and gasped within her tight embrace and barely managed out a half-strangled, "Me too."
"Oh, it's been so long since I heard you say such cute things like that! I knew you'd come back to me! I just knew it!" Bulma squeezed even tighter.
"Ack!!" Yamcha choked. "Uh, Bulma," he said in a hoarse, constricted voice, "I can't breathe here . . ."
"Oops! Sorry," Bulma released him sheepishly. He rubbed his neck as if to check if it were still there before he smiled.
"Does this mean you're happy to see me?"
"Of course, you goof!" Bulma playfully slapped his shoulder. "Honestly, you can be so dense sometimes."
"Hehe . . . yeah," Yamcha laughed with an embarrassed flush across his cheeks. "I can remember a couple of times where that got out of hand . . ."
"Like the time you locked your keys in the car when we were out on a date and we were waiting in the parking lot for two hours while you tried to stick a coat hanger through the window to get them, but only managed to set off the car alarm?"
"Yeah, that was pretty dumb of me," he laughed.
"Or the time you took me to that expensive night club and you wore that hideous plaid shirt and the bouncer wouldn't let you in with me?" Bulma smirked at him.
"Hey, it was laundry day!"
"Or the time—"
"Bulma, are all the memories you have of our relationship just me being stupid?" Yamcha chuckled in a teasing way.
"No silly! I always remember the good times," Bulma looked at him, her eyes glittering. "I just consider those good times funnier."
"Oh? Then I guess you would remember the time I took you to that amusement park on your birthday . . ."
" . . . and we held hands in the tunnel of love . . ." Bulma snuggled in closer to him.
"Or when it was raining how we would run inside my house all dripping wet . . ." he stretched his arm around her shoulder.
" . . . and we would snuggle up to the fire with hot cocoa . . ."
"Or those sunsets on the beach . . ."
" . . . where we'd just walk on the water's edge and talk . . ." she gently leaned her head on him and he took her hand in his. They sat like that for a while, just taking in each other's presence and feeling the other's warmth, no words but the beating of their hearts, no feelings but the feeling of comfort they found within each other.
"This is just so perfect, Yamcha," Bulma finally spoke, though her tone refused to break the warm bond the shared at the moment.
"You know what would make it more perfect?" Yamcha smiled down at her through his closed eyes.
"Hmm?" Bulma murmured, cuddling closer to him.
"If we went out to dinner right now."
Bulma's eyes shot open. "B-but I can't."
"You can't?" Yamcha asked her, moving her so that he could look directly into her eyes. "What do you mean you can't?"
"I have to have my lessons . . . my teacher will be here any minute."
A cold knot of worry settled in Yamcha's stomach. "Your teacher?"
Bulma suddenly covered her mouth as if she had just let something slip that should not have slipped. "Yes," she danced around an explanation, "he's very strict. He doesn't let me miss practices."
Yamcha looked at her skeptically, remembering the night he had been there previously and had heard her talking to someone who had called himself the Tournament Ghost. Of course, with all that had happened during that week, and all that he could remember, it very could have been a dream. He *had* been out for five days, after all. He smiled coquettishly at her and stood both of themselves up.
"I won't keep you up late then."
"But—"
"You get changed here," Yamcha started for the door happily. "I want to take you out on the town. Five minutes, Bulma, and I'll be back to whisk you away!" he practically skipped out.
"Yamcha!" she called after him, but he was long gone. Resigned, she sat back down next to her back and put her head in her hands.
"Things have changed, Yamcha . . ." she sighed as she closed her eyes.
"Idiot."
"Huh?" Bulma looked up sharply, recognizing that voice. "Grumpy?"
"Hmph. Who does he think he is, trying to steal my protégé?" the room echoed disdainfully.
"Well," Bulma said, her surprise giving way to her irritation, "maybe if you weren't so late, you might have been able to tell him that yourself."
"What have I told you about patience?" the voice barked at her.
"What have I told you about being a hypocrite?" she barked back.
The voice slipped into a surly silence.
Bulma's face wore a triumphant grin when, suddenly, the cogs in her head started to go into overdrive. She had always resented the fact that she had never spoken to her teacher face to face and now, with a little trick of persuasion, she could have exactly what she wanted . . .
A chance to see his face.
"Well Grumpy," she put an emphasis on the nickname, "If you really want people to listen to you, why don't you talk to them in person? I'm sure you're just *radiating* masculine intimidation . . ."
"Hmph . . . you think so?" Grumpy said sarcastically.
Bulma winked slyly. "I *know* so."
"Really," she could almost feel the room smirk. "And how would you know about something you haven't seen?"
"Well," Bulma put on the coyest smile in her repertoire, "With a voice like that and all the things you've taught me, I can't help but think you have good looks to match . . ."
"Hn," the voice seemed amused but unbelieving of that excuse.
"Please?" Bulma batted her eyelashes.
"So, this is for *your* benefit now, and not mine?"
Bulma stammered. "I-I uh . . . well . . . uh . . ."
"Nevermind," the voice began exasperatedly and Bulma's shoulder slumped in defeat. She started packing up her bag.
"I'll let you see me then," the room said huffily. "You'll just keep pestering me until I do anyway."
Bulma blinked. "Really?" she said excitedly.
"Yes. Now look in the mirror."
"The mirror?" she questioned, turning her head to look at the narrow, full-length looking glass on the other side of the room. "But it's so small . . . and I don't see anythi—"
Suddenly the silvery sheen of the mirror dissipated into a cloudy mist, separating around a dark figure standing within. As the clouds parted, the figures full detail became visible. Dark hair, rising up like the flames of Hades, seemed to ignite the very air around him while his clothes, a body suit that clung to him and a cape that flowed around him, darkened it like the dead of night. The most contrasting feature in this creature of darkness, however, was the white mask shielding his face from the onslaught of another's stare, while his own dark, obsidian gaze focused intensely.
Something in the atmosphere seemed to call to Bulma, pulling her closer and closer to that porthole into the underworld. As though in a trance, she could not break that almost hypnotic stare of the creature before her, walking without any thoughts within her head but thoughts of dreams, and no dreams within her heart but this, her own beautiful nightmare. Coming closer, her reached out her hand to touch the glass, but found her fingertips passing through it as though it were a warm, silver liquid. Never breaking eye contact with her, the creature retreated into the darkness behind it, almost disappearing from sight.
"Bulma?" Yamcha called from the door appearing with his aircar keys and a spiffy new outfit. "Bulma, you ready to go?"
Bulma did not hear him. The only thing she could hear was song of urgency playing in her mind, heard only by her, driving her onward. She took a step forward, pushing herself through the liquid glass, closing her eyes and letting the underworld take her to do as it pleased.
"Bulma!" Yamcha cried out, rushing toward the mirror.
But Bulma had already disappeared.
He tried to put his hand through the mirror, but only found it solid and cold to the touch. He pounded on the glass, but it refused to break, and sent off an electric current, blasting him away. Dazed, he shook his head to look at the mirror to find another way in, but all he saw were the misty clouds covering up the form of an entranced Bulma, retreating into the reaches of darkness known only to the phantasmal Tournament Ghost.
Apparently, the date was off.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hah! I am still alive! THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR ALL THE REVIEWS! Hmm . . . over a dozen more than expected. Nice. Apparently threats work, so that threat will stand if I don't get at least ten reviews a chapter, k? Well then . . . yeah, I took a while, but THAT WAS BECAUSE I HAD TO ACTUALLY WRITE THE FRICKIN' CHAPTER. I do *not* write fast, despite how many words a minute I can type (64), and the fact that my chapters are so long do not help (though I refuse to shorten my chapters, since I have certain key points I want to cover in each one). You must realize that often times, it can take me up to ten minutes to finish a sentence, since I'm so into syntax and detail. Have you noticed? I noticed you noticing . . .
According to some friends of mine, I apparently use too much detail and people are falling asleep in the middle of chapters. If this is the case for you, please tell me, and I shall try to cut down (but I'm not sure if I can guarantee that . . . I just think in detail with big words . . . I'm kooky like that), but if you actually . . .dare I say . . . LIKE the amount of detail I use, please tell me this as well, because it makes me feel good about myself. And please, please, PLEASE don't fall asleep reading my story. It makes me very sad.
If any of you have suggestions as to what you want to happen in the next chapter, or any other future chapters, feel free to leave them in your reviews. I would love to read suggestions from you guys since I *know* you all have some. I am in desperate need of fillers for some of my chapters. Why fillers? Because I need to divert your attention from certain things before they become too obvious, of course. Yes . . . I like hiding things from you. I find it enjoyable in a sadistic sort of way. Please submit your suggestions. They will be greatly appreciated.
Now, I know I left this chapter at a bit of a cliffhanger, and you probably all hate me right now, but it is necessary. This is where the song ends, therefore, where the chapter ends. Yes, I am basing my chapters off of the songs. Just so that you don't hate me too much (but I don't give you too much information on the next chapter) here are the lyrics to the next song/chapter.
THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA:
CHRISTINE (Just try and guess who's playing her role):
In sleep he sang to me
In dreams he came
That voice which calls to me
And speaks my name
And do I dream again?
For now I find . . .
The Phantom of the Opera is there—
Inside my mind . . .
PHANTOM:
Sing once again with me
Our strange duet
My power over you
Grows stronger yet
And though you turn from me,
To glance behind . . .
The Phantom of the Opera is there—
Inside your mind . . .
CHRISTINE:
Those who have seen your face
Draw back in fear . . .
I am the mask you wear . . .
PHANTOM:
. . . it's me they hear . . .
BOTH:
Your/my spirit and your/my voice,
In one combined:
The Phantom of the Opera is there—
Inside your/my mind . . .
OFFSTAGE VOICES:
He's there, the Phantom of the Opera . . .
Beware the Phantom of the Opera . . .
PHANTOM:
In all your fantasies,
You always knew
That man and mystery . . .
CHRISTINE:
. . . were both in you . . .
BOTH:
And in this labyrinth,
Where night is blind,
The Phantom of the Opera is there/here—
Inside your/my mind . . .
PHANTOM:
Sing, my Angel of Music!
CHRISTINE:
He's there, the Phantom of the Opera . . .
PS: I didn't really feel like proofreading this chapter, so there are probably a bunch of typographical errors. Bear with me. Proofreading is the part I HATE. I don't know why, I just do. I hope my spell check on my computer got most of the mistakes so it's still legible. Yeah. Hey, anyone want to be my proofreader? I'll give you a cookie . . .
PPS: Man, that has to be the longest author's note I've ever written o_O
