For some reason, ffn isn't allowing me to use the "hr" (horizontal line) mechanism. -_-
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To summarize a word to fit Gohan's situation, 'swollen' would hit a marker. It wasn't merely his physical state--though his entire body was becoming puffy and numb, a welcomed change to the sharp, blinding pain through which he had been mucking--but his thoughts were also hexed with bloated irritation. A dull, thick awareness that wouldn't quite be acknowledged, but wouldn't quite go away.
He was sure this was what it felt like to rot. His skin, mottled with protruding bruises and lacerated with wicked cuts, was white as a sheet, and looked very much like something would were it festering. As though any minute, he would be jarred and a quivering blob of old flesh would fall from his bones.
It was fortunate he was unable to totally comprehend his musings; it was the type of looney thought he tried hard to avoid. Still, deep down he wished he could think through the thick, bloated feeling in his mind, find some way to pierce through his mental block and find comfort in reason and calculation--there there seemed to be little logic in what was going on anymore. When he had been talking to the Tahch-jin, the timid one, Joru Le'Armont, he had been reasonably sharp. Almost as good as new.
However, nearly the instant he had staggered around the corner, all conscious thought had fled, leaving him with nothing more than an empty head and a broken body. He moved jerkily, his shoulders swaying unevenly as he dragged his left leg--as good as dead weight--behind him.
Vaguely, in some part of his mind, he remembered Joru's dicrections of escape.
"Go left, three doors on the right is an exit. Since were on the top floor of the Underground, you'll be led right outside."
He managed the left turn, one bloody hand pressed against the wall to support him. Fifty feet had never seemed so long. Somehow, through the haze of his eyes and the swollen uncooperativeness of his mind, he managed it. Ticking off one door, two doors, three doors on the right, he reached the door that, if the Tahch-jin spoke truth, was his means of escape.
It couldn't possibly be this easy. Infiltrating, coming in, entering the Tahch-jin fortress had been so difficult, every single time he tried, and leaving had always been harder....Why, now, that he was broken and beaten, was it so simple? He wasn't sure if it was rightious concern, paranoia, of just him looking a gift horse in the mouth.
Either way, though Joru had told him in advance it would be, Gohan was utterly shocked and surprised when, after hitting the door-open mechanism, he found himself faced with sun light, wide open spaces and a breeze that eagerly rushed in through the door way to merrily greet him. He closed his eyes, not because the garish sun light was so much more potent than the halogens above him, but just because he wanted to soak it in.
It smelled delicious. The sun on his eye lids like sweet water to a parched throat.
But then his eyes traveled downward. The door had been carved into the wall of the steep incline of a mountain, close to its summit, and the drop from the door way to ground at the foot of the nearly 90 degree drop couldn't have been less than sixty feet. More likely it was around seventy. A very long fall for anyone, much less someone as wounded as Gohan.
He didn't know if he had the energy to fly. But there was little option.
He gathered his good leg under him, lowered his body to the ground, then heaved himself forward, into the air.
It was surprising; he had less chi than he thought he would. He had been low on chi before, hundreds of times; had been forced to drag whatever dredges of power he had left to be able to walk, limp, or shuffle off the battle field once things were over, or had to allow himself to pass out to regain energy.
But he had never been actually forced to fly on power that could not support him.
Still, he was hovering, his arms grasping at the air as he floundered for the chi needed to land gently. Too far from the door to go back, unable to go back even if he had been closer, he was ten, fifteen, twenty feet from the rocky surface. Farther still as he tried to get enough control to start declining. His head was spinning, his eyes were getting heavy. He was using up too much power sustaining himself, too much to keep his head clear....
His chi collapsed, and he fell.
He didn't know if he would have been better off free-falling the seventy feet to the rocks beneath, but he would never know. Less than ten feet of falling, his body struck a rocky outcrop. The sharp, eroded stone lay open his skin, but before he could cry out he slammed against a second craige.
He was falling down the mountainside now, picking up speed and momentum, his body tossed from one chink to another like a rag doll, inconsiderate of his wounds and uncaring of his moment of weakness. He was sliding down sideways, his rightside facing down the slope, his left side looking up at its summit. His legs crashed into another stone, and his entire body fish-tailed, spinning in a series of 360 rotations, dirt and pebbles and stone tossed into the air as his bloody hands scrambled at the rocks and loose dirt to stop himself. He couldn't get himself to breath.
As he was going down head first, his shoulder struck a larger craige, and with his momentum his legs were hurled up and over his head, and his back came crashing down, nearly crushing his vertibre on the stones. Now sliding down on his back, heading feet first for another, much larger outcrop of stone. Using every aching fiber of his strength he brought his feet down hard against the craige.
For a split second, he managed to stop, but then all the loose dirt and rocks and sediment and pebbles and sand that had been following him down the mountian in a miniature avelanche came crushing down on his shoulders and head, for a moment covered his face completely, then it got under him, picked him up from the dirty ground, and hurled him up and over the large craige like a dry tidal wave. It didn't lift him high enough.
He saw it coming before it struck him, but there was no way to avoid it; he was too weak and the avelanche behind him was too strong. He crashed bodily into the craige. He thought he heard something goosh in his stomach, and blood exploded from his mouth. He didn't remember much of the rest of his decent, except that he had lost the ability to control his body. He was limp, totally at the mercy of the rocky mountain.
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Henning Le'Armont opened his eyes in the medical bay, instantly awake; he remembered everything that had happened since he fell asleep. He sent his hand tenderly seeking along his side for the swollen proof that Son Gohan really had struck him. Apon finding the lump--he knew without looking that it was dark purple and black, he leaned back in his bed and relaxed.
Perfect little Son Gohan. It wasn't a dream. He really owned him. The bruise on his side--luckily not a broken bone, but still extremely painful--was proof that it wasn't a dream. He really owned him; really owned that thin whisp of a dream. Bloody. Beautiful. Broken. Curious. Bound. Young. Perfect. Perfect. His. Son Gohan. Little Saiya-jin.
The Tahch-jin no longer felt anger toward the boy, and he no longer felt regret that he had so viciously punished him for attacking. Perhaps the first couple of days--when the boy had the most spirit--there would be rough spots. But after a week, little Gohan would be broken, and the understanding that Henning was the master would set it. Before he died, that boy would thank Henning. For everything.
The Tahch-jin was smiling when the sentry entered the room, followed closely by Joru.
"Brother...," Joru said, "There's some bad news."
Henning sat up in bed, a flood of forboding crossing his system. He somehow knew what they were going to say, and he didn't want to hear it. He had known it was too good to be true.....
"The...prisoner. Son Gohan," the sentry said, "Has escaped."
Henning screamed and threw himself to his pillow. He was crying.
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Gohan came to sneezing.
There was a peculiar stillness to the air, the type of silence that radiates after a catastrophy has struck...or is about it strike. His ears were ringing. He was covered in rocks and dirt. The air was thick with air born dust--the cause of his sneezing. The very act of opening his eyes was strenuous. He was on his stomach, his face pressed into the ground; while on top of him was some hundred pounds of rock and stone and other depris that had followed him down the mountain side.
When he lifted his head slightly, the dirt stuck to the blood on his face. Fresh blood, still wet, freshly escaped from his nose and mouth. His body ached beyond belief, his shoulder muscles couldn't strain hard enough to escape the stones pressing down on his body. After ten minutes of futile struggling, he gave up and went limp, allowing his face to smash back into the cold dirt and his eyes to close.
He wanted to cry. Seriously. He wanted to be home so badly, to be with his mother, to sleep in his own bed, to eat and study and walk and swim and fly around at his own will, not worrying about saving anyone or protecting the planet. He was whimpering, his shoulders were shaking. Two tear drops washed streaks through the mud on his face. It felt so hopeless.
No.
He was Son Goku's son, it didn't matter if he didn't want to, he had to represent his father, in front of himself as much as others. It didn't matter if he wasn't strong enough, he would just pretend he was. He wasn't good enough, but it didn't matter. He was also Piccolo-san's pupil. He had been taught better than this. He should be strong.
But instead of strengthening him, these thoughts made his body heave harder. He was hyper ventilating, breathing hysterically to avoid screaming or crying or wailing or hurting himself. A third tear ran down his dirt streaked face. He felt like a failure; not worthy of claiming to be Piccolo's student; not good enough to be Son Goku's child. His shoulders were shaking, his breath was coming out in dry heaves, blood was dripping from his mouth. He was probably going to die here.
Still, beyond his understanding why, he started struggling against the crushing weight on top of him again. He got his elbow under himself, pushed, strained, forced himself upward until he was sure the muscles in his back and shoulders would shred into frayed ruination.....
One by one, the rocks on top of him rolled away, and finally, with a last jerk of supreme effort he managed to get his legs under him. With that power, he was finally able to stand. But he was utterly exhausted.
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Three survivors. Of the entire fleet of mature, well trained, combat Aeesu-jin, there was three survivors.
For that, Heng was mad.
He sat in Heaven, surrounded by his most favored secretaries, in silence, holding the elaboratly carved crystal goblet, half filled with a deep red wine, not drinking. Not admiring the subtle, sensual carvings of sleek Aeesu-jin alonst the arm of his chair. He was thinking, his eyes pinched.
Not only had only three survive the mission to kill a boy--a single child!--and not only had they failed, they had also returned with the news that a large group of traitorous Aeesu-jin were now under the command of a Tahch-jin called 'Henning.' They had sold their loyalty to someone not even an Aeesu-jin.
For that, Heng was irate.
Slowly, he lifted his goblet to his mouth and took a sip too dainty for one his size. It didn't matter. He didn't taste the wine. It was an action the other men in the room, frightened into silence by the sheer intensity of his power, expected of him. He was Heng, he would continue to act like the deity he was, he would remain regal and calm.
Worse, it seemed someone had hacked into his computer's system--his personal, unimpregnable, exclusively rigged mega-computer--and had diverted all control to an unknown source, thereby stealing the control he had of the planet's atmosphere and everything below it. His control of the elements had been stollen.
For that, Henning was rageful.
He lowered the goblet to the arm of his chair where he set it down quietly, then folded his arms across his considerable stomach, and lowered his head as though deciding to succumb to his daily meditation.
Somewhere out there, Bojack, the man who decemated Heaven itself with murder of an Aeesu-jin, the man who dared to lift his chin to Heng, God, Kami-sama himself, and snort, was still at large; free, safe, and probably laughing his ass off that he and his comrades were safe and sound whilst Heng was suffering.
For that, Heng was severely pissed.
He whipped his hand out, grabbed the ornate, beautiful goblet from its dainty seat and heaved it at the ground, where it shattered into a million sparkling pieces, causing every man in the room to jump in their seats as they looked, startled, down at the gleaming ruins.
"Someone clean that mess up right now!!" Heng bellowed, and three of the Aeesu-jin immidiatly began crawling on their hands and knees, trying to collect the pieces into their hands while another ran from the room to fetch a broom. The worms. Heng despised them for their failure, even if they weren't directly responsible.
His deep red eyes remained centered on one particularly noticable shard of crystal that the other Aeesu-jin just didn't seem to notice. The light caught it just right, and it gleamed into Heng's eye in defiance. It reminded him of the gleam he had seen in the eyes of Son Gohan and Bojack as they stood before days ago.
Heng's tail, despite how bloated and akward it looked, moved with incredible grace and speed as it rose from where it hung across the arm of his chair, arched through the air, and crashed down on the disrespecting shard of crystal, crushing it to a fine, white powder.
He would do no less when he found Bojack and Son Gohan.
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It was the morning of the third day Gohan was missing.
Garlic had remained near camp, never close enough that Sunow or his children might attempt striking up a conversation, but always within sight. He sat, legs crossed, his hands clasped in his lap, his eyes closed. He was searching for the chi of Son Gohan.
And he was finding nothing.
Garlic was far older than he looked, hundreds of years; he had patience, he had confidence, he was immortal. He knew the gaki was probably hiding his chi like the good little Earthling he was. It was the smart thing to do, even on a planet with creatures who couldn't recognize what chi felt like.
Still, he had been sitting in the same spot for these past three days straight now, his musings growing darker with each day that blasted boy was missing. Three days. Too long. Something must have happened.
He didn't really know why he kept troubling his mind with it. If the boy were already dead, he and the other two would be in Hell by now... There was no concern. Still, the queston would not leave him. Where was Son Gohan?
As much as Garlic was perplexed, he knew that each passing hour wound Bojack tighter. The Biraju-jin didn't sleep, he didn't eat, and, after the first day, he never left the camp. He paced, his hands behind his back, his eyes on the ground, a scowl creasing his forehead. He seemed to be growing, swelling with his anger. Only Garlic was aware of the dark chi radiating from him.
No one went near Bojack.
But on that third morning, he suddenly stopped pacing.
"That does it," he said, "That does it." It didn't sound like a yell, so calm he might as well have just finished meditating. But it radiated to everyone in the camp; Freeza and Sunow's conversation ceased, Forester and Eesei looked up from the game they had scratched into the dirt. Garlic opened one eye, breaking his meditation. Everyone knew the blue giant wasn't finished talking.
Bojack said, continuing, "A day and a night. Whether the bozu shows up or not, we attack tomarrow morning. He has a day and a night. He doesn't make it by then, chances are he never will; not without help." He paused, smiling for the first time in days. He took a certain pleasure in having to save the troublesome boy, Garlic realized. Probably a dominance thing: Son Gohan had never had to rescue Bojack.
The Biraju-jin was frightfully mighty, and as Garlic knew on many levels, he was just as evil as any demon from hell. The gremlin liked him for that. Almost like finding a kindred spirit. "Sounds good to me," Garlic said.
Freeza was less eager to agree. He had been commander and leader; nearly god; for hundreds of years, clever and quick to strike, always one to move in on the week spot, always keeping a vigil for a danger. It didn't sound smart. Attacking was their only option, perhaps even a head on charge was under way, but as far as the Aeesu-jin could see, there was no plan.
What was an attack without a goal? To kill the Tahch-jin? They didn't even know where the Tahch-jin were. Somewhere in the Underground; deep, deep beneath the Underground, somewhere in the millions of miles of subterrainian tunnels. Freeza had doubts the Biraju-jin knew just how large the Underground was.
Bojack's intensity shook Sunow to his core. He was still angry, rageful perhaps, that Son Gohan hadn't returned yet--judging from Bojack's last reaction to Gohan being gone for a single day, Sunow was afraid what would happen to the boy if--when, when, he reminded himself, not if, when--he returned to camp after three days of absence. But, though he didn't know why, the gentle Tahch-jin was almost sure that when Gohan returned, he would know what to do.
Nevertheless, depending on a thirteen year old boy to save the day and the world was nerve-wracking.
Sunow began nerviously chewing his lip. Freeza went into Son Gohan's capsule house for water. Forester grabbed his sister's attention back up in their game. Bojack, his piece spoken, returned to anxious pacing. Garlic closed his eyes, returning to his meditation.
They all awaited Gohan's return.
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To Son Gohan, his agony was everying he precieved as he walked, his feet dragging each step over the rocky, bare terrain. It was overwhelming. Covering him from the outside in; eating away at his nerves with horrible little nibbles. He kept his eyes closed, couldn't open them, even if he could remember how. He didn't want to have to see anything, the light hurt his eyelids, his pores were clogged with blood and grit. There was dirt in the horrible wound on his leg, ground in deep.
His face was crusted with the dried-out child of mingled dirt and blood; a foul sludge when it was wet, worse crusted. He stank. Reeked of old blood; he could taste it in his mouth, smell it, feel it. Occationally he felt the warm wetness on his left leg, informing him he was still bleeding. Everying was pain and blood. Sometimes more the former, sometimes more the latter, but always one, and always both. And always it was on him, in him, around him, and following him. He felt it, even when he was sure he was unconscious.
Sometimes he knew he was walking, where he was going, and why, but others there was only a thin line between him and that tempting, seductive darkness that melted itself against his thoughts, slowing them down. He was walking the rail between conscious and unconscious and he wasn't sure why he hadn't fallen yet.
Some part of him was guiding him, his sense of direction told him where to go, even if he couldn't think of it consciously. Walking. His toes dragging through the dirt. Walking. His legs slowly carrying him along. Walking. A breeze tugging at his matted hair. Walking. Blood and grit embedded in his pores. Walking.
He risked opening his eyes. In the distance, he saw the white, domed out-line of his capsule house.
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Garlic, keeping the vigil, saw him first.
He looked horrible. Like a walking corpse, a cadaver in motion. There wasn't a spot on him untouched by blood, and sticking to his blood was dirt, mixed, a deep red mud. Crusted over his face. Ground into his clothes. Matted to his hair. His nose had been bleeding.
He was staggering, one leg dragging behind him uselessly while the other barely seemed able to keep his body erect and moving. One of his eyes was closed, the other was squinted and pinched with pain. His lips were drawn back, exposing his teeth to his molars.
"Son Gohan!" Sunow exclaimed as he, too, saw the cadaverious boy approaching. The remaining camp-members' attention abandoned its previous devotion as the Aeesu-jin's conjection reached their ears. They turned and looked, disbelieving.
Gohan had returned to camp.
To be continued........