Disclaimer: What the hell are you looking up here for?! Go! Read! And
don't forget to review!
The Phantom of the Opera/Tournament and A Name
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 . . .
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 . . .
She felt the glass opening for her, spreading out like liquid silver as she closed her eyes and stepped forward. The song of urgency that she had heard before now sped up tenfold, though echoing in wherever she was that she had been transported to, sounding like an compelling, cavernous fugue. Finally free of her fluid passage, she opened her eyes . . .
. . . only to find herself staring back.
Startled, Bulma backed away from the new image, only to collide with the now solid mirror that had served as he passageway here. An electric current zapped her away, breaking her connection momentarily with that silent song that called to her and effectively throwing her off balance and to the ground. She spun sharply to view the offending object, barely taking note of the small silver sparks that rippled from the wavering glass of the strange portal or the small keypad just to the left. It was only a matter of seconds before she was called to again. She raised her head to the strange calling, her body lifting itself up of its own accord and she looking into the strange place before her.
Suddenly the room seemed to extend before her, stretching out immeasurably and twisting in every way imaginable, and some ways that were not. Looking at the strange, bending, labyrinthine walls, she could see that they were not walls at all, but mirrors and the her staring back was merely a reflection of her own entranced self. This maze of mirrors, so intricately woven, made it hard to distinguish where the real ended and the surreal began, each bend making it seem as though they lead to an infinite path of mere reflections of reality. And from the depths of this dream, she heard something calling to her.
She complied.
Standing from floor to ceiling, the mirrors slid smoothly across the ground as though to direct her path in this strange, tangled web of looking glasses. Her very reflections seemed to whisper a strangely alluring command, so soft it was barely an order, but so insistent, it could be nothing but. As she made it to the first bend in the maze, though it was near impossible to distinguish what was an open path and a dead end in this network of illusions, she caught a glimpse of a black shadow, swooping its way through the maze with a determined sense of purpose, yet seeming to lag behind for her to follow.
Once again, she complied with the silent demand.
*Why do I obey?* she questioned her actions even as she was performing them, directing her thoughts to this floating phantasm ahead of her, almost willing it to hear her strange, rhythmic litany. *What is this power you have over me? Do you seize control of my free will, or do I surrender it to you? Who are you? And who am I . . .* the silent recitation tapered off, as though there were more to it, but she had not yet learned the words.
Her instructor flew round bends and curves, his long, dark cape swirling behind him, his movements flowing and graceful, like an adept creature of the night. Periodically he stopped and waited for Bulma, and when she came close he continued on his winding trek, just letting her catch glimpses few and in-between of his masked features, making her wonder what he could be hiding beneath.
Just when the twists and turns seemed endless, her teacher's form disappeared through a lidded opening in the ground. Bulma followed, despite the fact that she did not know how far the drop from this trapdoor was, or what was waiting at the end of it. She felt herself falling, and still unthinking, landing on her hands and knees upon hard, gritty terrain. Her teacher ghosted past a thick tapestry, the cloth obeying the underlying command within his passage and rippling open to reveal what lay behind it. Bulma looked up from her position on the ground and her eyes widened.
If the labyrinth above had been a dreamlike wonder beyond normal comprehension, then this caliginous cavern was one beyond the even most quixotic person's imagination. Within the deep, dank surroundings lay a dark palace of hellish beauty, a vampiric wonder to the eyes with its heavy tapestries, sheers, and curtains entwining round the cave's walls, the impressive, full-sized tournament ring seated sedately on the rough ground with its white marble tiles glistening a tantalizing brilliance, and a great unpartitioned mirror extending across the ceiling like vast glassy lake reflecting a sea of magnified stars upon its surface. Ridges and outcroppings of the walls cast dancing shadows as the enhanced ethereal beauty of the stars supplied the only illumination to the underground sanctuary from surface light. The only illumination, that was, except for the ruddy red glow of a deep chasm that cut across the far side of the cave, its light flickering with a magmatic likeness, yet the light and warmth seeming to dissipate in the grey haze it emitted, stopping short of illuminating the other objects in the cavern. While the fact that the furnishings of the cave were quite Spartan, the eerily beautiful lighting of the mirror and the dark, swirling ornamentation of the tapestries gave the room an air of ancient royal nobility. Despite this, the only furniture that could be seen was a fair sized bed, some typical facilities for living, like a sink, a stove, a dining table, et cetera, and a long, plain desk filled with crumpled notes, broken frames of old pictures, and outdated newspapers, giving the Bulma the impression that the escritoire had been ransacked at one point in time.
Bulma arose quickly, stumbling to her feet as she kept her attention on her surroundings. But though her amazement may have disrupted her grace, it had not intruded upon the strange song that seemed to guide her actions in this place. It commanded her forcefully, yet at the same time it felt as though it was hardly there at all. It coaxed her softly and sweetly, yet seemed completely irresistible, and impossible to refuse, demanding her to follow the dark, ghostly creature she had for so long thought of as her teacher into this strange, stygian empire. She saw the object of her pursuit drift on ahead of her for a bit before stopping and turning his head slightly to see if she was following. Bulma took a few steps forward before tripping over a rock on the earthen surface of the cavern, panicking when the song in her heart skipped a beat, but suddenly found herself in someone's arms. For a moment she did nothing but breathe as she gazed into the dark eyes of her saviour, the entire world stopping for just that brief second where he seemed to bore right into her soul. But the moment was broken when she made a startling realization.
He was warm.
He was solid.
He was *there.*
Bulma pushed herself away from her 'Grumpy's' grasp with a look of shock, horror, and outrage crossing her face. Her breath came quickly as she struggled to form coherent words to express her state of mind until she finally managed to gasp out:
"You LIED to me!"
The crisp night air circulated refreshingly in the soft breeze, making fallen leaves dance and fly in a strange aerial rhapsody. Thin, lithe limbs of trees swayed softly in the gentle gust while flirtatious flowers responded to the wind's coy kisses with demure little curtsies. Blades of grass followed suit, their fresh, pristine dewdrops gliding on invisible sails off each green wave as the wind carried them to settle down below. Unfortunately, it also happened to be carrying a bit of dust into Kami's eyes.
He rubbed his wrinkled, green hand over the watering organs, shifting his weight slightly to lean more on his gnarled wooden staff. The wind ruffled his robes a bit, making him decidedly uncomfortable, even more so than simply attending this judges' convention. Ahead of him the other judges migrated through the large door of West Stadium, where the convention was to be held. Because West Stadium was owned by the city, the decorations were austere and sparse, perfect for budget cuts, and made for an easy, smooth passage inside without any stopping to sightsee, which was exactly what the others were doing.
Now Kami was as good a judge as the next one, but he abhorred these conventions. They were practically pointless other than to check up on fighters' records and converse with other judges who, inevitably, had been offered numerous bribes to allow such and such fighter to be out in the third, or win the fifth round after whatever maneuver, and other such nonsense. And if there was one thing Kami hated, it was dishonesty, especially when it came to his line of work. In his eyes, a judge's position held a certain amount of respect, a respect that could be easily lost if the integrity of the position was ever compensated for something as petty as money.
"Kami, sir," Popo stepped up beside the old Namekian. "Shouldn't we be heading inside? We're going to be late and it's getting quite cold."
"Right," Kami said, his stony gaze toward the horizon indicating that his mind was elsewhere. "We wouldn't want to ruin the reputation any further now, would we?"
Once again, Popo was left in the dark as to the meaning of his master's words but brushed it off as another part of Kami's mysterious wisdom. Stepping lightly to the open door of the stadium, Kami showed remarkable walking speed for one his age, making Popo wonder, not for the first time, why the Namek needed him at all, let alone took him everywhere. Kami was always cryptic like that. But the dark genie's thoughts were soon interrupted when a cloyingly, churrupy voice exclaimed:
"Wow! You're *really* wrinkly!"
"I beg your pardon?" Kami said indignantly.
A big blue head emerged from the doorway, complete with a matching set of wide, blue eyes. The girl blinked up at the Namek in a strange sort of childish wonder, her intense gaze disturbingly blank. Slowly she extended her index finger, coming closer and closer to his face, just barely making contact with it, then drawing her finger back as though something had bit her. She blinked again and shifted her weight in her snazzy periwinkle suit, looking for all the world like she was trying to form a coherent thought. Suddenly her arm snapped out and she grabbed a large chunk of Kami's face with her fingers, pulling and twisting on it as though she were trying to rip it off.
Kami's infinite wisdom failed him and he found himself at a loss as of what to do in this situation.
"Madame, please!" Popo exclaimed, grabbing the woman's hand and yanking it off his master's person.
"What was that all about?" Kami was doing a remarkable job of containing himself as he rubbed his face gingerly.
"That's your real face?" the girl gave him an empty-headed look of slight comprehension. "But it's so leathery and dry! Are you sure you're not wearing some sort of mask?"
"Why would he be wearing a mask that makes him look old and wrinkled?" Popo said, then slapped his hands of his mouth, backing away from his master slowly.
"It's all right, Popo," Kami sighed. "I know I'm not getting any younger. Now," he focused on the blue-haired girl with a slight curiosity, "who would you be?"
She gave a vacuous smile and chimed, "My name's Marron!" as if it was the most exciting name ever. "Can I get a picture of you? Please? This'll be great for my article! Joe, break out the camera and get a shot of this guy!" she moved aside to reveal a crouching photographer who had been previously engrossed at looking at her butt through her miniskirt. He snapped up at the sudden attention drawn to him.
"Right!" he blushed, fumbling with his camera for a second before the telltale flash went off and he resumed his staring.
"Thank you boys!" Marron pinched Kami's cheek again, this time affectionately, and patted Popo on the head. "Now I've got to go talk to some other judges over there," she pointed to her right, when it was obvious that the judges were on her left, "but I'll see you again some time, Wrinkly! By-ee!" she scurried off, her photographer trailing right behind her.
"What. Was. THAT?" Popo blinked, shocked.
"I believe, dear Popo," Kami said, "that *that* was a reporter."
Popo stared after her. "Do you think she realizes that she's going in the wrong direction?"
"She's probably about as aware of he surroundings as that photographer was," Kami smiled to his servant and stepped through the door of the convention. "Now, are we going to get this over with or not?"
"Right," Popo said, following him inside.
Through slowly meandering crowd, Kami nimbly managed to obtain a list of the year's current teams while weaving between the languidly moving assortment of reporters, photographers, management crew, and other judges, and effectively secluding himself in the quiet area behind the vacant judges' box. Popo lagged behind slightly, always a bit overcome by the gaudy splendour of the tournament stadiums, whether indoor or outdoor, with their vast areas, grand designs, and the sheer number of people of every shape and size that turned up in them. Finally joining up with his master, the dark genie sat down on the soft grass behind the judges' box, the night's dew not having descended upon it yet. Kami proceeded to read the list of team members while Popo settled for enjoying the slight privacy they had from the din of the throng.
"So Piccolo isn't fighting in the tournaments this year, either. Hmm . . ." Kami mused as he read over the list of fighters. "Probably too busy training that boy . . . Gohan was his name?" the old Namek chucked. "He's still trying to rub it in my face that he can do something for someone other than himself. Stubborn fool. He claims that he hates me, but in reality, all of this rivalry against me just shows that he's trying to find new ways to prove that he's just as good as I am."
"If I may be so bold as to ask, sir," Popo said politely, "why does Piccolo dislike you so much?"
"Dislike me?" Kami laughed slightly. "Popo, Piccolo *despises* me."
"But why would he?" Popo persisted.
"Well," Kami closed his eyes and leaned back on the judges' box outer wall smugly, "wouldn't you be a little resentful if your better half were walking around?"
"What?"
Kami suddenly clicked into story mode.
"Many years ago, in the village in Namek where I lived, there was a position of village elder. The elder would look after the village, solve domestic problems, and overall protect it from any sort of harm. In order to obtain this prestigious position, though, one was required to go through a series of trials. When I attempted to achieve the status of elder, I passed all the tests but one."
"Which test was that?" Popo asked, enraptured.
"The test of a pure heart."
Popo was shocked. "How could anyone say that *you* don't have a pure heart? It's absurd! Its un-"
Kami quieted him with a raise of his hand. "Ah, but Popo, you don't understand the whole story. You see, I was not always the person you see before you. I had in my heart a latent evil that only showed itself in my stubbornness and my selfishness."
"You? Selfish? But-"
"Yes, I was selfish and stubborn, thus disqualifying me from the position. However, I had learned a trick that guaranteed that I would not be denied for long."
"What was it?" Popo asked.
"The ability to purge myself of all evil."
Popo said nothing in his breathless fascination.
"However, when I performed the task, I had no idea that it would take the evil in me and create an entirely new being with it."
"No," Popo said, disbelieving.
"Yes. And that being terrorized our village for years until he met his end at the hands of Goku. However, before he died, my evil self became Piccolo's father, investing in him all of his hatred, anger, and evil. Piccolo is basically my evil side, reincarnated. Therefore, I am Piccolo's better half."+
"Did you eventually become village elder?"
Kami smiled sadly. "Yes, but it did not last for long."
Popo looked puzzled. "Why wouldn't it la-"
His question was cut short as someone rushed behind the judges' box, clutching the wall and peering out behind him in apprehension. He had a large, muscular build, dark hair puffing around his head in a rounded manner, a dark mustache, blue eyes, and he was panting as though he had been chased by the devil incarnate, or even worse: a mob of fans.
"Ah, Mr. Satan," Kami greeted dryly, "so good of you to join us. But don't you think your fans will be missing you?"
Satan turned his head and blinked as though he just realized he wasn't alone behind the judges' box. He furtively glanced around the small area, looking to see if anyone else would suddenly pop up before he released a frightened: "They're everywhere, I swear! They keep chasing me, asking me to sign this or say that. There's just no way to get rid of them!"
Kami quirked a brow. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were afraid of your own fans, Mr. Satan."
Satan blinked. Realizing his mistake, he drew himself up from his cowering, placing his fists on his hips in that quintessential pose of his and laughed, "Ha! Mr. Satan fears nothing! I'm the champion of the world and-"
"Former champion," Popo corrected, crushing his speech prematurely.
Satan glowered at the dark genie. "You don't have to rub it in, you know."
"He has a point," Kami said brushing it off with a wave of his hand. "Besides, if you don't want your fans to join us, I suggest you stop bellowing."
Satan snapped his mouth shut and stared at the floor like a little boy who has just been scolded for eating cookies before supper. Folding his arms in a surly manner, he took a seat on the ground next to the aged judge, relieved that now he had some semblance of privacy despite his newfound company's remarks.
"So," Kami broke any awkward silence with his affable nature, "do you suppose there will be any good fights in this year's tournament?"
"I hope so," Satan grunted. "With all the weaklings fighting it would one heck of a surprise though. I mean, they're even letting kids fight in it. Like that one boy, Hagon? No, no . . . Gohan! Gohan, that's his name. Little shrimp of a kid if you ask me. I can't believe they're letting him enter. It's ridiculous."
"But isn't you daughter fighting in it? She's only six or seven, isn't she?" Kami said.
"But, well . . . er . . . uh, that's beside the point," Satan stammered. "Besides, I don't think that kid will be a good enough challenge for my Videl. He's way too scrawny."
"He's bigger than Videl," Popo pointed out.
"It's not size or strength that matters in these competitions," Kami interjected wisely. "It is a fighter's will to succeed. Courage, honour, perseverance: these are the traits necessary in order to win."
"Then how did Mr. Satan manage to pull it off?" Popo mumbled under his breath.
"I heard that," Satan grumbled back.
"Gentlemen, please," Kami placated them swiftly. "Now, getting back to the original subject, I think if we saw someone like oh, maybe that triclops Tien against a member of Team Ginyu, we might have a very interesting fight indeed."
"Maybe, but I still think this year's teams are all a bunch of weaklings," Satan sneered derisively.
"Well you can't expect every year to be like the Bardock/King match," Popo said.
"Yeah, now there was a fight," Satan smirked. "What I wouldn't give to be able to go back in time and see that."
"Yes," Kami smiled wistfully, "that was one of the best days of my life."
"You were at the King match?" Satan said in awe.
"It was quite hot that day though," Kami continued.
"What was it like? I've seen some televised broadcasts, but I'm sure it's nothing like the real thing. What really happened that day?"
"They fought, of course," Kami said bluntly.
" . . ."
"Yeah, and . . .?"
"It started out looking like a draw but the King caught Bardock off-guard and won."
"Come on, why won't you tell us what happened?" Satan whined.
"Because, Satan, I don't believe there are any words great enough to describe that day," the wise Namek grinned.
"You're just doing this to mess with me, aren't you?" Mr. Satan pouted.
"Maybe."
"Just out of curiosity, why did they call him the 'King'?" Satan asked.
"Are you daft? Because he was unbeaten his entire career," Kami quirked his brow. "Until he went missing that is."
"Oh," the former world champion blinked. "Why did he go missing?"
"No one has ever really been able to answer that," Kami said sadly. "The day after the tournament he was scheduled for a press conference and he didn't show up. They proposed to meet him at his house, but when they got there it was completely decimated. No one has heard from or of him since."
There was a long silence before Satan started up again.
"Well, I still don't think this year's tour is going to be all that great, especially comparing it to the King match . . . and those of yours truly here," he boasted.
Kami looked off over the outdoor bleachers into the night sky, his gaze unfocused.
"Don't be so sure."
"H-how could you . . . how could you lie to me like that?" Bulma stammered, staggering away from this newfound imposter. "Who are you? Who are you really?!"
"What are you talking about?" the masked figure took a step closer.
"You!" she screeched. "You! I can touch you! You're not a ghost at all! You lied!"
"Woman, I may not be a spectre, but I can assure you that I am the only Tournament Ghost in existence."
"That's just it! You exist! Ghosts aren't supposed to exist!" Bulma pointed her finger accusingly.
The man before her growled irritably, folding his arms over his chest in an exasperated manner. "I didn't lie to you. I *am* the Tournament Ghost."
"But who is that?!" Bulma shouted, still hysterically frightened. "Who are you?! I want a name!"
"I don't have a name anymore," he answered bluntly and turning away from her, his voice dissipating into a soft but bitter echo. "I have no more use for it."
Something in his mood made Bulma cease her histrionics and re-approach the situation. Coming slightly closer she put a hand on his shoulder only to find it rock-hard and as tight as a wound-up spring. "What *was* your name before?" she whispered to him before adding an, "unless you want me to call you 'Grumpy' forever . . ." in a playful, teasing voice.
Her instructor's gaze became unfocused as he gazed at an invisible point on the other end of the cavern, though Bulma could only see the profile of his face as she peered over his shoulder. She felt his diaphragm tremble a little as he inhaled, the sound of his voice the only hint that he was disconnected from what he was saying, not putting any emotion into it whatsoever.
"They called me Vegeta."
Bulma backed away from him slightly, more than a little shaken at this frighteningly neutral tone of voice. It held neither sadness nor bitterness, but held such a distinct feeling of *nothing* that had she not been able to touch him, she would not have doubted that he was, in fact, a phantom.
"Who's 'they'?" she questioned curiously.
"Enough of these questions," he snapped at her, whirling around quickly. "We are wasting time."
"Wasting time for what?" Bulma asked, confused.
"Time that could be used for training of course," he said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"Training? At this hour? Do you know how late it is right now?" Bulma said incredulously, checking her watch that read around half past two in the morning.
"Time makes no difference here," her instructor stated.
"But the maze up there," Bulma pointed to the ceiling, indicating the labyrinth above, "it was so long . . . I'm tired. Can't I just call it a day?"
"I will not tolerate any more laziness," he barked out churlishly. "You came down here for one reason and one alone: to fight. Now let us begin."
He ghosted darkly over to the large tournament ring replica, his curt actions doing very little to put Bulma's questions to rest. She followed, more out of curiosity than out of actual regard to her teacher. He may have just explained to her more than he would have ever for anyone else, but that did not mean she was inclined to trust him any farther than she could throw him. And Bulma did not throw very far.
Just as she made it onto the elevated ring her instructor abruptly turned around, his glare through the stark white mask centring on her and making her just a bit uncomfortable. His eyes narrowed as though he were trying to size up just which lesson she would be ready for. He paused for a moment before seeming to come upon a decision.
"Tonight you will learn the art of flight."
"FLIGHT?!" Bulma screeched. "Are you insane?! I can't fly!"
"Why not?" he sneered. "Don't think you're up for the challenge?"
"No," she sputtered slightly, "it's just that, well . . . normal people don't fly."
"Oh come now," he growled irritably. "All the other fighters can fly, and you've seen them do it. What makes you think that you're any different?"
"I . . . uh . . . well . . . ah," she fumbled for an answer to that, but unable to find one, sighed resignedly. "Fine, but if I end up falling on my butt it's all your fault," she mock-glared at him.
"But don't think I'm going to prevent you from doing it though," he snickered.
"Just shut up and teach me, jerk," Bulma hmphed.
He, however, did not stop chuckling.
"Come on! Are you going to teach me, or are you just going to stand there laughing all night?!" Bulma shouted to him indignantly.
"Fine, fine," he consented, a twisted smile still on his face. "I know this is probably just a waste of words, but clear your mind of all thought."
"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?!"
"Shut up and stop thinking!"
Bulma frowned, but did as he said. Closing her eyes she felt her mind drifting away from all of the stress and unnecessary worries that had piled on her since the night began. Worries of reuniting with old loves, of descending into an underground kingdom with a man who had dubbed himself the Tournament Ghost, of falling on her rear if she proved that she actually could *not* fly . . . the normal fears and worries of a young lady at her age.
"Now, concentrate on your own personal energy inside of you," she heard the man's from a distance in front of her, "just like we discussed before."
Bulma concentrated deep within her, feeling her own individual aura just beginning to spring to life. She focused on it, feeling it grow from her centre, flow through her veins, and eventually begin to encompass her entire body, blanketing it in a warm, comforting feeling.
"Take that energy and force it beneath you," her teacher instructed. "Make it push yourself off the ground."
Bulma's brow began to perspire in effort as she forced her energy beneath her feet, but she did not cease her efforts. Just the slight feeling of weightlessness it gave her made her want to press on, the new belief that she actually might be able to fly giving her a newfound motivation. She clenched her teeth and kept pushing.
"Come on, Woman," her teacher said derisively, "don't tell me that's as high as you can go. You're pitiful."
Bulma growled as she strained to lift herself more than two inches off the elevated ring. How dare he say such things to her when she was doing so well for her first time! Bulma's eyes snapped open to give off a death glare to her cocky looking teacher, his arms crossed and that mocking smile still plastered on his face beneath the white mask that covered all but his striking dark eyes. As she kept pushing against the ground beneath her, her blue orbs shining with unbridled anger, she suddenly gasped as the exertion proved to be too much for her. She collapsed to the ground in a crumpled heap, her aura of energy long since dissipated, the last thing she remembered seeing before her trip into unconsciousness being those dark black eyes laughing at her from behind the white skeletal mask.
"Krillin, are you sure no one will find us?"
All was still in the halls of the Dragon Stadium after hours, despite the happenings beneath it, the details of which the reader is well aware. The question that emerged from the lips of the beautiful Android Eighteen echoed worriedly down the corridors, just a mite too loud for the ex-monk's comfort.
"Shh, keep it down, Eighteen," he put a finger to his lips. "They won't find us if we're quiet."
"I still don't see why we couldn't do this at your house," she folded her arms over her chest irascibly, dislodging a lock of golden hair as she did so. "Don't you think there's less of a chance of us getting caught there?" she brushed the irritating lock back behind her ear
"No," Krillin whispered, still furtively glancing around him. "Our alibi is that I'm visiting sick relatives and you're training with your brother here. If they saw something going on in my house they'd be suspicious. If they hear something at this stadium, they won't think anything of it."
Eighteen nodded silently at his cleverness. "Perfect," she smirked, "you picked the night when Seventeen is out of town. No one will be the wiser," her last words came out in a breathy hush as she pulled the small man into a small corner alcove of the hall, her breath tickling his ear as she spoke. Her hand caressed the smooth surface of his head, coming to rest behind his ear as she pulled him in for a soft, silent kiss. She closed her eyes, letting her long lashes brush gently against his face as he returned the kiss effort for effort. Pulling her closer to him with is hand on her lower back, the other entangled itself into her smooth blonde hair, letting the silky strands cascade through his fingers. Entwining themselves together, Eighteen started to trail her hands down lower when Krillin abruptly signaled her to stop.
"Hold on," he whispered through his ragged breathing, "I hear someone coming."
"But who would be he-" Eighteen's question was cut short as Krillin slapped his hand over her mouth and pulled her deeper into the darkness.
True to Krillin's word, the couple soon heard the telltale sound of footsteps upon the corridor floor, slow and lethargic, and almost . . . disoriented? Not daring to even breathe, both Eighteen and Krillin's eyes widened when they saw who was approaching.
Yamcha staggered down the hall, supporting himself on the opposite wall as his hand raked through his dark hair. His eyes darted wildly as he mumbled to no one in particular:
"The mirror . . . right through the mirror . . . vanished . . . right through . . ."
His words trailed behind him as he pressed on farther down the corridor, disappearing as strangely as he came.
When Krillin finally judged it safe he removed his hand from over Eighteen's mouth, both of them still blinking after the strange sight they had seen. Eighteen was the first to speak when she turned her head to her bald companion and said, "What's up with him?"
Krillin furrowed his brow in confusion, not only to what his teammate had been muttering, but also as to why Yamcha had been in the stadium in the first place. This place was getting too weird.
"Well, Yamcha's always been a little off," he said, waving the matter away with a motion of his hand. "Anyway, Eighteen, why don't we go someplace else. It's getting to quiet around here."
"Fine by me," she said covering her arms with her hands to ward off the creepy chill the place gave her.
+ I thought this was explained on the show, but I received a question about it in a review and decided to explain it. This is why Piccolo hates Kami. ^_^
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Ohmygod, please don't kill me for not updating for so long! Eep! Okay, first of all I forced to go to the middle of nowhere for a vacation and had absolutely no access to a computer, and second, when I got back home I had the worst case of writer's block ever. I know, that's no excuse, but hey, it's all I have. I hope you guys will forgive me. I love you . . . does that help?
*Sigh* well . . . I probably should warn you that the next chapter won't take quite as long as this one did, but not by much. I've got so much stuff to do! But don't worry . . . I'm almost always thinking about you and my fic . . . kind of sad, isn't it?
Anywho . . .what's up with Krillin and Eighteen, huh? Getting a little close, are they? Hey, isn't that not allowed? Oooh . . .somebody's being bad . . .
Poor Yamcha . . . he's so confused
Hehe . . . Mr. Satan and Marron are dumbasses . . . Kami's cool though
And what new surprises lie in store for our bitchy blue-haired damsel? I know . . . hehe . . . it involves a toaster oven, a newspaper, and a big hole in the ground. Still confused? Damn straight.
*~*~*~ChunkyMunky241's random plugs~*~*~*
'Romance Idiots With High Ki' by ZippyDragon*43 - *Very* funny Gohan/Videl fic, but let's not forget, there's always a bunch of B/V, G/CC, and Trunks and Goten mischief. They have a mafia . . . pretty cool huh? READITREADITREADITREADIT! Come on, you know you want to . . .
For those that have been reading it and are wondering what the hell is up with her updating schedule, she hasn't been able to update because her computer is busted. She's getting a new one at the end of summer. Remember, she loves you all! ^_~
'The Treasure of Power' by ChibiChibi - This fic is so cool! Come on . . . the Z gang as pirates . . . what could be more interesting than that?
'Pseudo Ferocity' by Catgirl26 - Everyone loves Catgirl, right? She's got a new one out! Vegeta's kicked out of Capsule Corp! O_o what will happen next?
Wait! There's one more!!
When No One Is Watching - Another fic by me . . . er . . .and ZippyDragon*43 . . . Justice League . . . they get drunk and have strange relationship problems . . .We know that you guys probably don't like DC Superheroes that much, especially the ones shown on the dreaded CartoonNetwork, but everyone loves people getting drunk, right? Right?
That's all for now! Tell me you love me!
~Chunks
The Phantom of the Opera/Tournament and A Name
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 . . .
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 . . .
She felt the glass opening for her, spreading out like liquid silver as she closed her eyes and stepped forward. The song of urgency that she had heard before now sped up tenfold, though echoing in wherever she was that she had been transported to, sounding like an compelling, cavernous fugue. Finally free of her fluid passage, she opened her eyes . . .
. . . only to find herself staring back.
Startled, Bulma backed away from the new image, only to collide with the now solid mirror that had served as he passageway here. An electric current zapped her away, breaking her connection momentarily with that silent song that called to her and effectively throwing her off balance and to the ground. She spun sharply to view the offending object, barely taking note of the small silver sparks that rippled from the wavering glass of the strange portal or the small keypad just to the left. It was only a matter of seconds before she was called to again. She raised her head to the strange calling, her body lifting itself up of its own accord and she looking into the strange place before her.
Suddenly the room seemed to extend before her, stretching out immeasurably and twisting in every way imaginable, and some ways that were not. Looking at the strange, bending, labyrinthine walls, she could see that they were not walls at all, but mirrors and the her staring back was merely a reflection of her own entranced self. This maze of mirrors, so intricately woven, made it hard to distinguish where the real ended and the surreal began, each bend making it seem as though they lead to an infinite path of mere reflections of reality. And from the depths of this dream, she heard something calling to her.
She complied.
Standing from floor to ceiling, the mirrors slid smoothly across the ground as though to direct her path in this strange, tangled web of looking glasses. Her very reflections seemed to whisper a strangely alluring command, so soft it was barely an order, but so insistent, it could be nothing but. As she made it to the first bend in the maze, though it was near impossible to distinguish what was an open path and a dead end in this network of illusions, she caught a glimpse of a black shadow, swooping its way through the maze with a determined sense of purpose, yet seeming to lag behind for her to follow.
Once again, she complied with the silent demand.
*Why do I obey?* she questioned her actions even as she was performing them, directing her thoughts to this floating phantasm ahead of her, almost willing it to hear her strange, rhythmic litany. *What is this power you have over me? Do you seize control of my free will, or do I surrender it to you? Who are you? And who am I . . .* the silent recitation tapered off, as though there were more to it, but she had not yet learned the words.
Her instructor flew round bends and curves, his long, dark cape swirling behind him, his movements flowing and graceful, like an adept creature of the night. Periodically he stopped and waited for Bulma, and when she came close he continued on his winding trek, just letting her catch glimpses few and in-between of his masked features, making her wonder what he could be hiding beneath.
Just when the twists and turns seemed endless, her teacher's form disappeared through a lidded opening in the ground. Bulma followed, despite the fact that she did not know how far the drop from this trapdoor was, or what was waiting at the end of it. She felt herself falling, and still unthinking, landing on her hands and knees upon hard, gritty terrain. Her teacher ghosted past a thick tapestry, the cloth obeying the underlying command within his passage and rippling open to reveal what lay behind it. Bulma looked up from her position on the ground and her eyes widened.
If the labyrinth above had been a dreamlike wonder beyond normal comprehension, then this caliginous cavern was one beyond the even most quixotic person's imagination. Within the deep, dank surroundings lay a dark palace of hellish beauty, a vampiric wonder to the eyes with its heavy tapestries, sheers, and curtains entwining round the cave's walls, the impressive, full-sized tournament ring seated sedately on the rough ground with its white marble tiles glistening a tantalizing brilliance, and a great unpartitioned mirror extending across the ceiling like vast glassy lake reflecting a sea of magnified stars upon its surface. Ridges and outcroppings of the walls cast dancing shadows as the enhanced ethereal beauty of the stars supplied the only illumination to the underground sanctuary from surface light. The only illumination, that was, except for the ruddy red glow of a deep chasm that cut across the far side of the cave, its light flickering with a magmatic likeness, yet the light and warmth seeming to dissipate in the grey haze it emitted, stopping short of illuminating the other objects in the cavern. While the fact that the furnishings of the cave were quite Spartan, the eerily beautiful lighting of the mirror and the dark, swirling ornamentation of the tapestries gave the room an air of ancient royal nobility. Despite this, the only furniture that could be seen was a fair sized bed, some typical facilities for living, like a sink, a stove, a dining table, et cetera, and a long, plain desk filled with crumpled notes, broken frames of old pictures, and outdated newspapers, giving the Bulma the impression that the escritoire had been ransacked at one point in time.
Bulma arose quickly, stumbling to her feet as she kept her attention on her surroundings. But though her amazement may have disrupted her grace, it had not intruded upon the strange song that seemed to guide her actions in this place. It commanded her forcefully, yet at the same time it felt as though it was hardly there at all. It coaxed her softly and sweetly, yet seemed completely irresistible, and impossible to refuse, demanding her to follow the dark, ghostly creature she had for so long thought of as her teacher into this strange, stygian empire. She saw the object of her pursuit drift on ahead of her for a bit before stopping and turning his head slightly to see if she was following. Bulma took a few steps forward before tripping over a rock on the earthen surface of the cavern, panicking when the song in her heart skipped a beat, but suddenly found herself in someone's arms. For a moment she did nothing but breathe as she gazed into the dark eyes of her saviour, the entire world stopping for just that brief second where he seemed to bore right into her soul. But the moment was broken when she made a startling realization.
He was warm.
He was solid.
He was *there.*
Bulma pushed herself away from her 'Grumpy's' grasp with a look of shock, horror, and outrage crossing her face. Her breath came quickly as she struggled to form coherent words to express her state of mind until she finally managed to gasp out:
"You LIED to me!"
The crisp night air circulated refreshingly in the soft breeze, making fallen leaves dance and fly in a strange aerial rhapsody. Thin, lithe limbs of trees swayed softly in the gentle gust while flirtatious flowers responded to the wind's coy kisses with demure little curtsies. Blades of grass followed suit, their fresh, pristine dewdrops gliding on invisible sails off each green wave as the wind carried them to settle down below. Unfortunately, it also happened to be carrying a bit of dust into Kami's eyes.
He rubbed his wrinkled, green hand over the watering organs, shifting his weight slightly to lean more on his gnarled wooden staff. The wind ruffled his robes a bit, making him decidedly uncomfortable, even more so than simply attending this judges' convention. Ahead of him the other judges migrated through the large door of West Stadium, where the convention was to be held. Because West Stadium was owned by the city, the decorations were austere and sparse, perfect for budget cuts, and made for an easy, smooth passage inside without any stopping to sightsee, which was exactly what the others were doing.
Now Kami was as good a judge as the next one, but he abhorred these conventions. They were practically pointless other than to check up on fighters' records and converse with other judges who, inevitably, had been offered numerous bribes to allow such and such fighter to be out in the third, or win the fifth round after whatever maneuver, and other such nonsense. And if there was one thing Kami hated, it was dishonesty, especially when it came to his line of work. In his eyes, a judge's position held a certain amount of respect, a respect that could be easily lost if the integrity of the position was ever compensated for something as petty as money.
"Kami, sir," Popo stepped up beside the old Namekian. "Shouldn't we be heading inside? We're going to be late and it's getting quite cold."
"Right," Kami said, his stony gaze toward the horizon indicating that his mind was elsewhere. "We wouldn't want to ruin the reputation any further now, would we?"
Once again, Popo was left in the dark as to the meaning of his master's words but brushed it off as another part of Kami's mysterious wisdom. Stepping lightly to the open door of the stadium, Kami showed remarkable walking speed for one his age, making Popo wonder, not for the first time, why the Namek needed him at all, let alone took him everywhere. Kami was always cryptic like that. But the dark genie's thoughts were soon interrupted when a cloyingly, churrupy voice exclaimed:
"Wow! You're *really* wrinkly!"
"I beg your pardon?" Kami said indignantly.
A big blue head emerged from the doorway, complete with a matching set of wide, blue eyes. The girl blinked up at the Namek in a strange sort of childish wonder, her intense gaze disturbingly blank. Slowly she extended her index finger, coming closer and closer to his face, just barely making contact with it, then drawing her finger back as though something had bit her. She blinked again and shifted her weight in her snazzy periwinkle suit, looking for all the world like she was trying to form a coherent thought. Suddenly her arm snapped out and she grabbed a large chunk of Kami's face with her fingers, pulling and twisting on it as though she were trying to rip it off.
Kami's infinite wisdom failed him and he found himself at a loss as of what to do in this situation.
"Madame, please!" Popo exclaimed, grabbing the woman's hand and yanking it off his master's person.
"What was that all about?" Kami was doing a remarkable job of containing himself as he rubbed his face gingerly.
"That's your real face?" the girl gave him an empty-headed look of slight comprehension. "But it's so leathery and dry! Are you sure you're not wearing some sort of mask?"
"Why would he be wearing a mask that makes him look old and wrinkled?" Popo said, then slapped his hands of his mouth, backing away from his master slowly.
"It's all right, Popo," Kami sighed. "I know I'm not getting any younger. Now," he focused on the blue-haired girl with a slight curiosity, "who would you be?"
She gave a vacuous smile and chimed, "My name's Marron!" as if it was the most exciting name ever. "Can I get a picture of you? Please? This'll be great for my article! Joe, break out the camera and get a shot of this guy!" she moved aside to reveal a crouching photographer who had been previously engrossed at looking at her butt through her miniskirt. He snapped up at the sudden attention drawn to him.
"Right!" he blushed, fumbling with his camera for a second before the telltale flash went off and he resumed his staring.
"Thank you boys!" Marron pinched Kami's cheek again, this time affectionately, and patted Popo on the head. "Now I've got to go talk to some other judges over there," she pointed to her right, when it was obvious that the judges were on her left, "but I'll see you again some time, Wrinkly! By-ee!" she scurried off, her photographer trailing right behind her.
"What. Was. THAT?" Popo blinked, shocked.
"I believe, dear Popo," Kami said, "that *that* was a reporter."
Popo stared after her. "Do you think she realizes that she's going in the wrong direction?"
"She's probably about as aware of he surroundings as that photographer was," Kami smiled to his servant and stepped through the door of the convention. "Now, are we going to get this over with or not?"
"Right," Popo said, following him inside.
Through slowly meandering crowd, Kami nimbly managed to obtain a list of the year's current teams while weaving between the languidly moving assortment of reporters, photographers, management crew, and other judges, and effectively secluding himself in the quiet area behind the vacant judges' box. Popo lagged behind slightly, always a bit overcome by the gaudy splendour of the tournament stadiums, whether indoor or outdoor, with their vast areas, grand designs, and the sheer number of people of every shape and size that turned up in them. Finally joining up with his master, the dark genie sat down on the soft grass behind the judges' box, the night's dew not having descended upon it yet. Kami proceeded to read the list of team members while Popo settled for enjoying the slight privacy they had from the din of the throng.
"So Piccolo isn't fighting in the tournaments this year, either. Hmm . . ." Kami mused as he read over the list of fighters. "Probably too busy training that boy . . . Gohan was his name?" the old Namek chucked. "He's still trying to rub it in my face that he can do something for someone other than himself. Stubborn fool. He claims that he hates me, but in reality, all of this rivalry against me just shows that he's trying to find new ways to prove that he's just as good as I am."
"If I may be so bold as to ask, sir," Popo said politely, "why does Piccolo dislike you so much?"
"Dislike me?" Kami laughed slightly. "Popo, Piccolo *despises* me."
"But why would he?" Popo persisted.
"Well," Kami closed his eyes and leaned back on the judges' box outer wall smugly, "wouldn't you be a little resentful if your better half were walking around?"
"What?"
Kami suddenly clicked into story mode.
"Many years ago, in the village in Namek where I lived, there was a position of village elder. The elder would look after the village, solve domestic problems, and overall protect it from any sort of harm. In order to obtain this prestigious position, though, one was required to go through a series of trials. When I attempted to achieve the status of elder, I passed all the tests but one."
"Which test was that?" Popo asked, enraptured.
"The test of a pure heart."
Popo was shocked. "How could anyone say that *you* don't have a pure heart? It's absurd! Its un-"
Kami quieted him with a raise of his hand. "Ah, but Popo, you don't understand the whole story. You see, I was not always the person you see before you. I had in my heart a latent evil that only showed itself in my stubbornness and my selfishness."
"You? Selfish? But-"
"Yes, I was selfish and stubborn, thus disqualifying me from the position. However, I had learned a trick that guaranteed that I would not be denied for long."
"What was it?" Popo asked.
"The ability to purge myself of all evil."
Popo said nothing in his breathless fascination.
"However, when I performed the task, I had no idea that it would take the evil in me and create an entirely new being with it."
"No," Popo said, disbelieving.
"Yes. And that being terrorized our village for years until he met his end at the hands of Goku. However, before he died, my evil self became Piccolo's father, investing in him all of his hatred, anger, and evil. Piccolo is basically my evil side, reincarnated. Therefore, I am Piccolo's better half."+
"Did you eventually become village elder?"
Kami smiled sadly. "Yes, but it did not last for long."
Popo looked puzzled. "Why wouldn't it la-"
His question was cut short as someone rushed behind the judges' box, clutching the wall and peering out behind him in apprehension. He had a large, muscular build, dark hair puffing around his head in a rounded manner, a dark mustache, blue eyes, and he was panting as though he had been chased by the devil incarnate, or even worse: a mob of fans.
"Ah, Mr. Satan," Kami greeted dryly, "so good of you to join us. But don't you think your fans will be missing you?"
Satan turned his head and blinked as though he just realized he wasn't alone behind the judges' box. He furtively glanced around the small area, looking to see if anyone else would suddenly pop up before he released a frightened: "They're everywhere, I swear! They keep chasing me, asking me to sign this or say that. There's just no way to get rid of them!"
Kami quirked a brow. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were afraid of your own fans, Mr. Satan."
Satan blinked. Realizing his mistake, he drew himself up from his cowering, placing his fists on his hips in that quintessential pose of his and laughed, "Ha! Mr. Satan fears nothing! I'm the champion of the world and-"
"Former champion," Popo corrected, crushing his speech prematurely.
Satan glowered at the dark genie. "You don't have to rub it in, you know."
"He has a point," Kami said brushing it off with a wave of his hand. "Besides, if you don't want your fans to join us, I suggest you stop bellowing."
Satan snapped his mouth shut and stared at the floor like a little boy who has just been scolded for eating cookies before supper. Folding his arms in a surly manner, he took a seat on the ground next to the aged judge, relieved that now he had some semblance of privacy despite his newfound company's remarks.
"So," Kami broke any awkward silence with his affable nature, "do you suppose there will be any good fights in this year's tournament?"
"I hope so," Satan grunted. "With all the weaklings fighting it would one heck of a surprise though. I mean, they're even letting kids fight in it. Like that one boy, Hagon? No, no . . . Gohan! Gohan, that's his name. Little shrimp of a kid if you ask me. I can't believe they're letting him enter. It's ridiculous."
"But isn't you daughter fighting in it? She's only six or seven, isn't she?" Kami said.
"But, well . . . er . . . uh, that's beside the point," Satan stammered. "Besides, I don't think that kid will be a good enough challenge for my Videl. He's way too scrawny."
"He's bigger than Videl," Popo pointed out.
"It's not size or strength that matters in these competitions," Kami interjected wisely. "It is a fighter's will to succeed. Courage, honour, perseverance: these are the traits necessary in order to win."
"Then how did Mr. Satan manage to pull it off?" Popo mumbled under his breath.
"I heard that," Satan grumbled back.
"Gentlemen, please," Kami placated them swiftly. "Now, getting back to the original subject, I think if we saw someone like oh, maybe that triclops Tien against a member of Team Ginyu, we might have a very interesting fight indeed."
"Maybe, but I still think this year's teams are all a bunch of weaklings," Satan sneered derisively.
"Well you can't expect every year to be like the Bardock/King match," Popo said.
"Yeah, now there was a fight," Satan smirked. "What I wouldn't give to be able to go back in time and see that."
"Yes," Kami smiled wistfully, "that was one of the best days of my life."
"You were at the King match?" Satan said in awe.
"It was quite hot that day though," Kami continued.
"What was it like? I've seen some televised broadcasts, but I'm sure it's nothing like the real thing. What really happened that day?"
"They fought, of course," Kami said bluntly.
" . . ."
"Yeah, and . . .?"
"It started out looking like a draw but the King caught Bardock off-guard and won."
"Come on, why won't you tell us what happened?" Satan whined.
"Because, Satan, I don't believe there are any words great enough to describe that day," the wise Namek grinned.
"You're just doing this to mess with me, aren't you?" Mr. Satan pouted.
"Maybe."
"Just out of curiosity, why did they call him the 'King'?" Satan asked.
"Are you daft? Because he was unbeaten his entire career," Kami quirked his brow. "Until he went missing that is."
"Oh," the former world champion blinked. "Why did he go missing?"
"No one has ever really been able to answer that," Kami said sadly. "The day after the tournament he was scheduled for a press conference and he didn't show up. They proposed to meet him at his house, but when they got there it was completely decimated. No one has heard from or of him since."
There was a long silence before Satan started up again.
"Well, I still don't think this year's tour is going to be all that great, especially comparing it to the King match . . . and those of yours truly here," he boasted.
Kami looked off over the outdoor bleachers into the night sky, his gaze unfocused.
"Don't be so sure."
"H-how could you . . . how could you lie to me like that?" Bulma stammered, staggering away from this newfound imposter. "Who are you? Who are you really?!"
"What are you talking about?" the masked figure took a step closer.
"You!" she screeched. "You! I can touch you! You're not a ghost at all! You lied!"
"Woman, I may not be a spectre, but I can assure you that I am the only Tournament Ghost in existence."
"That's just it! You exist! Ghosts aren't supposed to exist!" Bulma pointed her finger accusingly.
The man before her growled irritably, folding his arms over his chest in an exasperated manner. "I didn't lie to you. I *am* the Tournament Ghost."
"But who is that?!" Bulma shouted, still hysterically frightened. "Who are you?! I want a name!"
"I don't have a name anymore," he answered bluntly and turning away from her, his voice dissipating into a soft but bitter echo. "I have no more use for it."
Something in his mood made Bulma cease her histrionics and re-approach the situation. Coming slightly closer she put a hand on his shoulder only to find it rock-hard and as tight as a wound-up spring. "What *was* your name before?" she whispered to him before adding an, "unless you want me to call you 'Grumpy' forever . . ." in a playful, teasing voice.
Her instructor's gaze became unfocused as he gazed at an invisible point on the other end of the cavern, though Bulma could only see the profile of his face as she peered over his shoulder. She felt his diaphragm tremble a little as he inhaled, the sound of his voice the only hint that he was disconnected from what he was saying, not putting any emotion into it whatsoever.
"They called me Vegeta."
Bulma backed away from him slightly, more than a little shaken at this frighteningly neutral tone of voice. It held neither sadness nor bitterness, but held such a distinct feeling of *nothing* that had she not been able to touch him, she would not have doubted that he was, in fact, a phantom.
"Who's 'they'?" she questioned curiously.
"Enough of these questions," he snapped at her, whirling around quickly. "We are wasting time."
"Wasting time for what?" Bulma asked, confused.
"Time that could be used for training of course," he said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"Training? At this hour? Do you know how late it is right now?" Bulma said incredulously, checking her watch that read around half past two in the morning.
"Time makes no difference here," her instructor stated.
"But the maze up there," Bulma pointed to the ceiling, indicating the labyrinth above, "it was so long . . . I'm tired. Can't I just call it a day?"
"I will not tolerate any more laziness," he barked out churlishly. "You came down here for one reason and one alone: to fight. Now let us begin."
He ghosted darkly over to the large tournament ring replica, his curt actions doing very little to put Bulma's questions to rest. She followed, more out of curiosity than out of actual regard to her teacher. He may have just explained to her more than he would have ever for anyone else, but that did not mean she was inclined to trust him any farther than she could throw him. And Bulma did not throw very far.
Just as she made it onto the elevated ring her instructor abruptly turned around, his glare through the stark white mask centring on her and making her just a bit uncomfortable. His eyes narrowed as though he were trying to size up just which lesson she would be ready for. He paused for a moment before seeming to come upon a decision.
"Tonight you will learn the art of flight."
"FLIGHT?!" Bulma screeched. "Are you insane?! I can't fly!"
"Why not?" he sneered. "Don't think you're up for the challenge?"
"No," she sputtered slightly, "it's just that, well . . . normal people don't fly."
"Oh come now," he growled irritably. "All the other fighters can fly, and you've seen them do it. What makes you think that you're any different?"
"I . . . uh . . . well . . . ah," she fumbled for an answer to that, but unable to find one, sighed resignedly. "Fine, but if I end up falling on my butt it's all your fault," she mock-glared at him.
"But don't think I'm going to prevent you from doing it though," he snickered.
"Just shut up and teach me, jerk," Bulma hmphed.
He, however, did not stop chuckling.
"Come on! Are you going to teach me, or are you just going to stand there laughing all night?!" Bulma shouted to him indignantly.
"Fine, fine," he consented, a twisted smile still on his face. "I know this is probably just a waste of words, but clear your mind of all thought."
"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?!"
"Shut up and stop thinking!"
Bulma frowned, but did as he said. Closing her eyes she felt her mind drifting away from all of the stress and unnecessary worries that had piled on her since the night began. Worries of reuniting with old loves, of descending into an underground kingdom with a man who had dubbed himself the Tournament Ghost, of falling on her rear if she proved that she actually could *not* fly . . . the normal fears and worries of a young lady at her age.
"Now, concentrate on your own personal energy inside of you," she heard the man's from a distance in front of her, "just like we discussed before."
Bulma concentrated deep within her, feeling her own individual aura just beginning to spring to life. She focused on it, feeling it grow from her centre, flow through her veins, and eventually begin to encompass her entire body, blanketing it in a warm, comforting feeling.
"Take that energy and force it beneath you," her teacher instructed. "Make it push yourself off the ground."
Bulma's brow began to perspire in effort as she forced her energy beneath her feet, but she did not cease her efforts. Just the slight feeling of weightlessness it gave her made her want to press on, the new belief that she actually might be able to fly giving her a newfound motivation. She clenched her teeth and kept pushing.
"Come on, Woman," her teacher said derisively, "don't tell me that's as high as you can go. You're pitiful."
Bulma growled as she strained to lift herself more than two inches off the elevated ring. How dare he say such things to her when she was doing so well for her first time! Bulma's eyes snapped open to give off a death glare to her cocky looking teacher, his arms crossed and that mocking smile still plastered on his face beneath the white mask that covered all but his striking dark eyes. As she kept pushing against the ground beneath her, her blue orbs shining with unbridled anger, she suddenly gasped as the exertion proved to be too much for her. She collapsed to the ground in a crumpled heap, her aura of energy long since dissipated, the last thing she remembered seeing before her trip into unconsciousness being those dark black eyes laughing at her from behind the white skeletal mask.
"Krillin, are you sure no one will find us?"
All was still in the halls of the Dragon Stadium after hours, despite the happenings beneath it, the details of which the reader is well aware. The question that emerged from the lips of the beautiful Android Eighteen echoed worriedly down the corridors, just a mite too loud for the ex-monk's comfort.
"Shh, keep it down, Eighteen," he put a finger to his lips. "They won't find us if we're quiet."
"I still don't see why we couldn't do this at your house," she folded her arms over her chest irascibly, dislodging a lock of golden hair as she did so. "Don't you think there's less of a chance of us getting caught there?" she brushed the irritating lock back behind her ear
"No," Krillin whispered, still furtively glancing around him. "Our alibi is that I'm visiting sick relatives and you're training with your brother here. If they saw something going on in my house they'd be suspicious. If they hear something at this stadium, they won't think anything of it."
Eighteen nodded silently at his cleverness. "Perfect," she smirked, "you picked the night when Seventeen is out of town. No one will be the wiser," her last words came out in a breathy hush as she pulled the small man into a small corner alcove of the hall, her breath tickling his ear as she spoke. Her hand caressed the smooth surface of his head, coming to rest behind his ear as she pulled him in for a soft, silent kiss. She closed her eyes, letting her long lashes brush gently against his face as he returned the kiss effort for effort. Pulling her closer to him with is hand on her lower back, the other entangled itself into her smooth blonde hair, letting the silky strands cascade through his fingers. Entwining themselves together, Eighteen started to trail her hands down lower when Krillin abruptly signaled her to stop.
"Hold on," he whispered through his ragged breathing, "I hear someone coming."
"But who would be he-" Eighteen's question was cut short as Krillin slapped his hand over her mouth and pulled her deeper into the darkness.
True to Krillin's word, the couple soon heard the telltale sound of footsteps upon the corridor floor, slow and lethargic, and almost . . . disoriented? Not daring to even breathe, both Eighteen and Krillin's eyes widened when they saw who was approaching.
Yamcha staggered down the hall, supporting himself on the opposite wall as his hand raked through his dark hair. His eyes darted wildly as he mumbled to no one in particular:
"The mirror . . . right through the mirror . . . vanished . . . right through . . ."
His words trailed behind him as he pressed on farther down the corridor, disappearing as strangely as he came.
When Krillin finally judged it safe he removed his hand from over Eighteen's mouth, both of them still blinking after the strange sight they had seen. Eighteen was the first to speak when she turned her head to her bald companion and said, "What's up with him?"
Krillin furrowed his brow in confusion, not only to what his teammate had been muttering, but also as to why Yamcha had been in the stadium in the first place. This place was getting too weird.
"Well, Yamcha's always been a little off," he said, waving the matter away with a motion of his hand. "Anyway, Eighteen, why don't we go someplace else. It's getting to quiet around here."
"Fine by me," she said covering her arms with her hands to ward off the creepy chill the place gave her.
+ I thought this was explained on the show, but I received a question about it in a review and decided to explain it. This is why Piccolo hates Kami. ^_^
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Ohmygod, please don't kill me for not updating for so long! Eep! Okay, first of all I forced to go to the middle of nowhere for a vacation and had absolutely no access to a computer, and second, when I got back home I had the worst case of writer's block ever. I know, that's no excuse, but hey, it's all I have. I hope you guys will forgive me. I love you . . . does that help?
*Sigh* well . . . I probably should warn you that the next chapter won't take quite as long as this one did, but not by much. I've got so much stuff to do! But don't worry . . . I'm almost always thinking about you and my fic . . . kind of sad, isn't it?
Anywho . . .what's up with Krillin and Eighteen, huh? Getting a little close, are they? Hey, isn't that not allowed? Oooh . . .somebody's being bad . . .
Poor Yamcha . . . he's so confused
Hehe . . . Mr. Satan and Marron are dumbasses . . . Kami's cool though
And what new surprises lie in store for our bitchy blue-haired damsel? I know . . . hehe . . . it involves a toaster oven, a newspaper, and a big hole in the ground. Still confused? Damn straight.
*~*~*~ChunkyMunky241's random plugs~*~*~*
'Romance Idiots With High Ki' by ZippyDragon*43 - *Very* funny Gohan/Videl fic, but let's not forget, there's always a bunch of B/V, G/CC, and Trunks and Goten mischief. They have a mafia . . . pretty cool huh? READITREADITREADITREADIT! Come on, you know you want to . . .
For those that have been reading it and are wondering what the hell is up with her updating schedule, she hasn't been able to update because her computer is busted. She's getting a new one at the end of summer. Remember, she loves you all! ^_~
'The Treasure of Power' by ChibiChibi - This fic is so cool! Come on . . . the Z gang as pirates . . . what could be more interesting than that?
'Pseudo Ferocity' by Catgirl26 - Everyone loves Catgirl, right? She's got a new one out! Vegeta's kicked out of Capsule Corp! O_o what will happen next?
Wait! There's one more!!
When No One Is Watching - Another fic by me . . . er . . .and ZippyDragon*43 . . . Justice League . . . they get drunk and have strange relationship problems . . .We know that you guys probably don't like DC Superheroes that much, especially the ones shown on the dreaded CartoonNetwork, but everyone loves people getting drunk, right? Right?
That's all for now! Tell me you love me!
~Chunks
