I owe this part to a lovely plate of eggs, sunny-side up, with a piece of tough toast, well buttered, to soak up all the delectable runny yoke. *hails eggs in all their splendor*
----------------------------------------
High above the little capsule house, miles and miles away, the wind shifted from a warm, southerly breeze to a chillier northern nip, sweeping the purple grass of the fields into magical ripples, like seaweed in an active ocean current. And there began to occure, also, a new heaviness to the air, a pressure of moisture, humidity. Oppressive. And with the heaviness and the sharp shift of air came an odd calm. As though the whole planet had stayed its breathing in anxious, silent waiting.
The weather was changing.
The Tahch-jin had never seen such a peculiarly shaped structure before. It was a house of some sort, of that they were sure; through the windows they could see the impliments of comfortable living: chairs, couches, a kitchen, a bedroom, tables, drawers, cabinets, closets, and other things beyond sight.
They circled the entire complex twice in silence, exchanging quizical glances, their foreheads furrowed, as they passed each window. It was completely deserted, no one to be seen. Abandoned. Rounding the house, nearing the only enterance for the second time, Henning turned and faced his brother, saying, "I say we go inside."
Nibbling at his lip, nervously rubbing his hands together, Joru responded, "I suppose..."
"Goodness, your enthusiasm astounds me," Henning grinned, pinching the bill of Joru's hat, pulling it down over his eyes. He really got a bang out of those hats. Irritated, the gentler Tahch-jin readjusted his head gear and, sulking, followed his brother to the doorstep; he nearly crashed into his back, infact, as Henning suddenly jerked to a stop before reaching the door.
"What is it?" Joru asked, hovering closely to his brother incase danger showed itself; he felt so very vulnerable out in the open.
Henning had one of his trademark 'wild-grins' on his white face, and he pointed at the sand in front of the door, "Look at this," he said, and squated, "See?"
Joru knealed beside him, "What?" He studied the ground, "What are you looking at?" Henning traced a shape pressed into the sand, a shape Joru, totally inexpirianced in tracking, finally recognized. "A foot print?"
Henning nodded, growing excited, "And this isn't an Aeesu-jin foot print.... and it's not any sort of wild life.... Joru, oh, dear brother, do you know what this is a foot print of?"
The timid brother could swear he felt his stomach sinking slowly into his bowels, he swallowed dryly, then shook his head, no.
"I'd say, going from size and weight...," Henning said, drawing out his conclusion that both brothers already had, "That this is a boy's foot print...perhaps five foot four.... a hundred and fourty pounds.... I'd say aged twelve or thirteen. The shape and pressure suggest the aided balance of a tail... Let's assume this is a Saiya-jin's footprint. Who, dear, dear brother, do we know, that fits this description?"
Joru's body was rigid, no, please don't let it be.....
"Do we know any Saiya-jin boys? Joru, brother?"
Joru was unable to respond.
Henning smiled, "This is little Gohan's house. Don't you think? Brother?"
Joru opened his mouth, but before he responded a tiny voice said from inside his pocket, "Joru Le'Armont-sama? Sir?"
Grateful for the interuption--he had been certain the next thing he said would give away his betrayal and endanger his life--he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, hand-held communicator. Holding down on the transmission button, he cleared his throat then spoke into it, "Yes, this is Joru Le' Armont. Go ahead."
Henning leaned forward to hear as the small voice continued, "Sir, nearly all troops are prepared to move out; most supplies are packed. We'll be completed directly on schedule, and need orders."
Henning glanced at his watch, then whispered, "Six-thirty. We have an hour and a half. Let me talk to them."
"Ah, this is Joru Le'Armont. I'm putting my brother, Henning Le'Armont on." Joru prattled, still mentally frozen, "His orders are my orders."
"Hai," came the reply.
----------------------------------------
"*Krrzz*- you hear-*shrrkr*-now?"
Wincing, Gohan pressed the communicator closer to his ear, "I didn't catch that, Forester" he said loudly into it, "Could you repeat?"
"*Ksshrk*-what!?-*krrk*," came the static-retarded reply, hardly understandable through the intense interference.
Gohan cupped his hand over his eyes, blocking out the still-morning sun from his vision, and squinted, looking across the purple field at Forester. The Aeesu-jin was barely within sight, his light-green body hardly a speck, even for Gohan's Saiya-jin-acute sight. Perhaps the length of two football fields. Not a bad distance of transmission for a first time.
But it wasn't as far as Gohan had hoped. Nor was it as far as he needed.
It was, really, a large disappointment. His tail hung behind him in near-defeat, and he was unable to control it well enough to pull it out of such a stance.
"Forget it." He said into the reciever, "Let's regroup."
"*Shhrk*-what did-*rrksh*-say?"
Gohan raised his arms and waved, hoping to get Forester's attention, then began making 'c'mere' gestures. Soon, Forester was waving an acknowledgment, and began to jog the long distance between them.
Trotting to intercept him, hobbling slighly on his messed up leg, a sinking feeling came over Gohan. He still had the rest of the day and tomarrow to fix the problem with the transmitter. But in another perspective, that wasn't even two days. Tick tock, tick tock. Needless to say, he was torn between optimism that soon this whole ordeal could be over, and fearful that he wouldn't be prepared in the short, two days Bojack had allowed him.
Irony, ever on cue, reared its malformed head, and, just as his fears of Bojack came to mind, he found himself jogging past the great blue Biraju-jin, standing ever tall in his nine-foot-plus frame, arms folded across his great barrel chest. He lowered his head and grinned at the boy, holding up four fingers. Then he brought down one finger. Then another.
Gohan stopped in mid-step, his eyes glued on those two final fingers, for an instant flicking to Bojack's face, then back to the fingers. Then, one more finger lowered. Yes, one more day was in progress. Burning away with each passing second. Only one full day was left.
A distant clap of thunder sounded miles away.
Gohan turned his back to Bojack and ran, albeit faster than before, across the field toward Forester.
Tick tock, tick tock.
----------------------------------------
"Final preparations considered, as well as the time it takes to actually get here...," Henning said, handing the communicator back to Joru, who tucked it away in a fold of his cape, "The troops will be here in about two hours. Behind schedule. I hate being behind schedule..."
"They're coming here?" Joru asked, pointing at the ground beneath his feet, "As in, to this house?"
Henning grinned, spinning on one heel twice in a little dance, "What better place to keep nearly a thousand, loyal sentries than Son Gohan's door step? It'll be a splendid welcoming party for that dear boy, don't you think?"
"Ah," Joru said, "Um, well, we don't really know if this is...Son Gohan's...house..." he drawled off as Henning began to dance, spinning on his heels, heading towards the door of the domed house. He suddenly remembering that they had been intending to entering before the call had interupted them.
"Then let's go in and see!" Henning said, his hand on the knob. He turned to Joru, "Well?"
Defeated--what option did he have?--Joru followed him, his shoulders slumped.
The interior wasn't spacious, but it didn't feel necessarily cramped. More cozy. Certainly welcoming. Comfortable. The carpet was a rust-red hue, the walls a gentle green, the cealing white. In the enterance hall, which extened only a few good feet before turning off into another room, there was a small mat that read "Welcome"; Henning grinned at it a moment, Joru thoroughly wiped his feet; he always felt upset when he tracked dirt in.
On passing a rack of hangers for coats, Henning paused, removed his hat, and hung it up. He turned and removed Joru's hat as well, mentioning, "It's impolite to wear a hat in someone else's house." He hung it beside his own, then continued into the house, rubbing at his hat-hair, looking left then right as he entered the mini-house's living room, admiring.
"Nice place," Joru mentioned off-handedly, walking with his hands behind his back, feeling for all the world like a trespasser. He slowed in the living room to push against the cushions of the couch, admiring their gentle submission to his weight. He walked on, testing the foot rest in the same manner, then the easychair, on which sat a book, a page folded to mark a place.
His eyes, colorblind and farsighted, worthless, were the last thing he was using to take in the house. His sixth sense, the sensitive Tahch-jin ability to feel reeled at the comfort and easiness, the welcoming, open-armed warmth of the house. This was a house of refuge, a secluded island that excluded the entire world, creating a quite haven for the one who lived here.
He felt unnatural here. Unwelcomed. No one belonged in this house, every piece of furniture proclaimed as he feather-brushed his finger tips over them, no one except the one who lived here.
"Joru-dear?" Henning's voice sounded from deeper in the house, startling Joru from his thoughts; so caught up had he been that he had failed to search beyond the first room. "Come here! Look at this and just try to tell me this isn't dear little Gohan-chan's home."
Joru followed his voice down a narrow hall--the walls continued to remain a light mint-green color, and the carpeted floor continued to look like smoked umbre--until he came across a white box/table of sorts, though it looked more like a large instrument, beside which stood another box-table the same size but differently proportioned (they were unfamiliar with a machine designed in such a way, though indeed they had machines of similar function, for they had stumbled, unwittingly, across the house's washer and dryer.)
Spread neatly across the top of the washer, in all its spotted, bloody, shredded glory, was the mutilated remains of Gohan's orange gi, never to be orange again. The two brothers exchanged knowing glances, recognizing it for what it was. Henning beamed from ear to ear. Joru forced a fearful smile as an icy hand laid hold of his spine.
"The walls are closing in on you, Gohan-chan," Henning said, his eyes closed, his hands behind his back. Oh, how pleased he was.
----------------------------------------
A strong north wind, bearing the smell of heavy moisture, reached the boy as he watched the northern skyline, following the distant path of a series of dark, foreboding cumulous clouds, riding the wild wind, chasing away the gentle stratus clouds in bulk; heading, it seemed, in his direction. Big, dark clouds; tall and imposing. Gray and black and brown with picked up dirt. Purple, almost, and swollen with natural fury. From deep inside the clouds, he saw a frenzied flash of lightning, dancing clear to the ground, striking, then vanishing like ghost, all in the blink of an eye.
The factors Gohan knew and recognized. And, on a primal sense, though the dooms-day clouds were many miles away, he dreaded them. A storm was coming. A big one.
A tornado is all I need right now, Gohan shuddered to himself, vaguely recalling his hard nights during the first three or four months of Piccolo's training in his early youth. It was a very long time ago, and though his memories were unclear and fuzzy, he remembered being wet, and cold, and hungry, and scared, and oft-times hurt, and alone. Especially alone. As horrible as it was, he was already hungry and scared and hurt and alone. Especially alone. He gratefully thought of his safe, warm capsule house. At least he knew he wouldn't be wet or cold.
Nevertheless, he sighed as he looked carefully at the tiny communicator in his hands, turning it over in search of some easy-to-find flaw, longing for the once taken-for-granted use of Bulma-san's extensive laboritories. Or simply her tools. Or even simply Bulma-san. Gohan was certain she could aid him in this tight pinch with her technical genius.
"Too much interferance," was his diagnosis as he sat, cross-legged, beside Forester, "I need....oh, a more complex transmitter. Or maybe an antenne would help....I don't know." He began studying the device again, his forhead wrinkled. No need to mention the storm. It was hours away.
"Do you have either?" Forester asked, idly chewing a blade of grass between his white teeth. So damn calm. He didn't fully comprehend the gravity of the situation, just as he didn't seem to grasp the chance that he could die very soon if the Tahch-jin weren't stopped. Gohan supposed that Aeesu-jin children, their species living far longer than any human, took longer to mature than, perhaps, an Earthling youth. Of perhaps it was just Forester being himself.
Sighing, tucking both communicators into a pocket of his Saiya suit, Gohan responded, "I can only hope I find something... Maybe I could use....it would be tricky, but yeah, perhaps..."
Leaning closer, Forester asked, "What? You have an idea?"
Gohan shook his head, "Just a guess. I don't know. Nothing has been working right-"
He stopped talking and turned his head to look far beyond the field. He was no longer seeing with his eyes, rather, reaching out with his keen sense of chi. Something had gave him a chill of foreboding....
Seated fifty meters away, Garlic's ink-black eyes had already focuses in the same direction. His brow creased, his eyes pinched, he was begining to put the ominous feeling he'd been expiriancing for the past couple of hours into shape. And it was huge, and it was seething, and it was deadly. And, slowly, picking up speed, it was traveling across the plains and grasses and sands of the Aeesu terrain like a giant wave of broiling black death.
It was a rolling army. Boiling over the rock formations, flooding through valleys, washing up mountainsides and splashing down the other side. Men. It wasn't one, large, evil being of emense size and power. It was many. Many many. Far too many for Garlic to count. Hundreds. More than hundreds.
Gohan was on his feet, his tail defensively arched behind him, his shoulders swept back. He was actually trembling, now. Not just fear. He was jittery. Shaky. Defensive in his his temporarily crippled condition. His heart began to pound furiously, his eyes dialated, his blood-flow accelerated. The coarse hairs of his tail bristled on end. He was chemically preparing himself for an fight he knew he shouldn't participate in....And yet....there was a longing in him to engage them in battle. Oh, how his body wanted to fight. It frightened him, that lust for battle, just as it exhilerated him.
"What's wrong with you?" Forester, still seated with ease, asked up at him, weedling the grassblade back and forth in his mouth with his tongue.
"Ah," Gohan said, distracted, limping slighly in the direction of the rolling sea of chi, "Trouble." It was an easy enough answer. The boy wasn't feeling up to elaborating.
"What do you mean?" Sunow asked, pulling his daughter protectively into his lap, wrapping his arms around her. He was developing a stronger and stronger fear for his children.
Looking up at her father, Eesei inquired, "Papa? Are we going to run away again?" Adding, "I don't want to. I like living by the water. It's nicer than the Underground. Are we going to have to leave?"
Sunow could only hush her, saying, "I hope not, dear one. I hope not. I like the water, too."
Gohan didn't hear them. His eyes studied the horizon, attempting to count the enemy's great number. There were too many chi, all mulling together. He would have just as much luck trying to count the ants on a busy ant hill. His tail slashed the air behind him in nervous/anxious energy.
"An army," Garlic took the opportunity to answer, "Hundreds of them." He added, swallowing nervousness, "And seem fit to kill."
Fight or flight, Gohan's instincts said loudly to himself, run at or away from the enemy, but don't just stand there. Gohan said, "I'm going to check it out." He never got two steps.
"Just sit down, bozu," Bojack interupted, speaking in a frightfully threatening monotone, "I have yet to see you do anything right, and if you really need to get a beating, you don't need to go after any army to get it." He paused to crack his knuckles, ephasizing his statement. He repeated, "Sit down," when the boy didn't immidiatly oblige.
Slowly, painfully, his pride suffering, Gohan sank to his knees in compliance, restraining himself from testing out the truth of Bojack's threat. The Biraju-jin, for all his nasty character flaws, had, thus far, spoken only the truth. It was odd to think about, but Bojack really didn't lie. It didn't matter. Gohan still wanted to fight him. He closed his eyes and began mindlessly pulling up handfuls of grass, wondering what was wrong with himself. His state of mind seemed altered, disaligned, off-center. He was Son Gohan. He did not eagerly go looking for fights. He defended himself and others, yes, he sparred and trained, yes, but he did not look for fights!
Kami, he wanted to attack Bojack.
An echo of thunder crossed the field.
Forester raised his voice, "So, what do we do, then? Should we run?"
"We need to check the enemy out," Freeza said, soundly suspitiously as though he agreed with Gohan--though, of coarse, he did not, if only for their supreme conflict of character--finishing his statement with, "before we can come up with any other plans." He shrugged, "Who knows. They might not even be looking for us."
Oh, how the great, blue Biraju-jin narrowed his eyes, but said, finally, rationalizing, "Yes, someone should look into them-" Gohan wasn't even able to draw a breath to volunteer before Bojack said, "Not you, bozu. Just stay down." He turned his attention to Freeza, finding a peculiar respect for the Aeesu-jin's superior expiriance in dealing with--and ultimately overcoming--larger numbers. He had, after all, spent his entire life killing off thousands of planets, many of which surely had respectable armies.
"Whoever they are, and whatever they want," Freeza mused, rubbing his sharp chin, "They might have chi-detecting technology. We should send one of the Chikyuusei-jin to avoid attention."
Gohan opened his mouth to readily agree, and attempt volunteering yet again, but Bojack beat him to it, "Fine. You. Gremlin," he addressed Garlic, still uncertain of what his name was, exactly, "You know how to supress you chi, correct?"
Garlic sneared at being called 'gremlin', narrowing his eyes he gruffly replied, "I do." Then said, not waiting for Bojack to order him to, "I'll spy the enemy out." He stood, packing his chi down to zero-detectability, and turned to vanish between the rocks, "I'll be back in an hour." With that, he leapt over the rocky surroundings of the field and out of site.
Gohan suddenly stood and fast-walked in the other direction, using a gait that could almost describe his action as 'storming off.'
"Where do you think you're going?" Bojack yelled after him.
"Home," Gohan snarled the word. Okay, his capsule house was a dinky representation of his real, ever loving home, but it was the shortest answer he had. He kept his fists at his sides and he walked. Oh, how he wanted to turn around and challenge Bojack to mortal combat. Don't look back.
"I'll come with you," Forester called to him, haughtily showing Bojack his pink tongue as he passed. He jogged to catch up with the other boy.
When they were shoulder to shoulder, however, Gohan said quietly, an odd sense of restraint in his voice, "Forester, I really need to be alone right now."
Forester balked, then brushed aside the words, saying, "It's us against them." Them obviously being the adults, "We should stick together."
Gohan shook his head 'no', almost arguing that it was only him against the entire planet. But he was too angry to feel sorry for himself. What he really wanted was a fight, and he was afraid he might actualy attack the Aeesu-jin boy if he wasn't left alone. Even now he found himself studying Forester's fighting potential. Tasting his chi, noting the confindence of his walk, eyeing the already developing muscles under his light green skin and the thick, deadly tail that twitched behind him.
Forester was, obviously, a warrior-in-training; still in his first year of easy lessons. Aeesu-jin were born with fighting capability, of that Gohan was sure, but without years of constant training and physical dicipline.... a fight was not worth a fight, when it comes to Aeesu-jin.
Gohan shuddered to realize how he was thinking. In no way, shape or form did he want to battle Forester, didn't want to hurt him, or scare him, or bring up any such competition between them. But he was angry. More than angry. Irate. Simmering. He didn't care who, but he wanted to fight someone.
"Forester, please," he said, not looking the other in the eye, looking straight ahead, instead, as he walked, "I really don't want to be around anyone."
"Oh, come on," Forester said, disreguarding him a second time, "Together we can probably take out anyone-"
"Go away." Gohan said, rather sternly, then said, "Please, just stay away from me for a little bit. Please." With that he hastened his pace, walking increasingly faster until he fell into a loping jog, favoring his unfortunate leg, then into his first all-out sprint since he had returned to camp.
Forester stopped following him, his face riddled with confusion, concern, anger and, perhaps if one looked close, hurt. "Fine!" he called after the retreating back of Gohan, "I can take on the world without you!" Mumbling, he turned and trudged back to his father and sister.
----------------------------------------
"Brother.....," Joru said, his arms crossed over his slender chest, "Brother, it is really not that funny."
Henning, in every way, must have disagreed. He continued to laugh and laugh, choking for air, his hands wrapped under his stomach. Oh, how laughing hurt his side--Tahch-jin took a considerable amount of time to heal impact wounds--but oh, he couldn't help himself.
The stood in the small kitchen of the odd little house, and, having just discovered the refrigerator, they had also come across the last, final container of stollen Tahch-jin food. Yes, the very food Gohan had stollen from them some days ago.
Henning found it absolutely hilarious.
Wiping a tear from his eye he said, snortling, "To think he was living off us this whole time!"
Joru shook his head, "He had to live, I guess..."
"Oh, laugh for once!" Henning said, pinching the other on the nose, "Just admit, I beg of you, that you appreciate the irony of this."
Joru raised an eyebrow.
"Look," Henning said, "Look. I want to kill dear Gohan-chan, correct?" Joru shuddered in confirmation, "Well, instead of contributing to his discomfort, he uses us--our food--to make his life more pleasant. Get it? It's funny!"
Joru shook his head, only saying, worrying, "Brother, there are more pressing things at hand-"
"You worry too much."
"-such as this." Joru went on, ignoring Henning's frightfully lackadaisical statement. He held up a rather scuffed and blackened case, partially crusted with coagulated blood; he held it with a scarf to avoid actually touching it. Unwittingly, he was holding Gohan's capsule case. "I found it in a pocket of the boy's....torn and tattered...bloody..."
"Joru my dear, you touched the boy's gi? You?" He was genuinely surprised, "You've developed a backbone these past couple of days. My, my. Did you really feel it? Did you-"
"No," Joru said hurriedly. He had washed his hands in the sink four times after touching the thing, still feeling dirty. He would never, up till the day he died, want to savor the feeling of blood and pain.
"What is it, anyway?" Henning inquired, nimbly removing the case from his brother's grip, "Have you opened it?"
"Ah...no." Joru said, "I didn't want to...well..."
"Didn't want to touch it," Henning said knowingly. Fearlessly, he undid the clasp on the side of the case, popping it open, revealing rows of, unbeknownst to him, capsules, each neatly labeled with numbers and sorted by size and color, the inside of the case showing a chart that explained what each number was in relation to the capsule bearing it.
"How very odd," Henning said, holding a capsule up for Joru to see.
----------------------------------------
Never once had Garlic felt any sort of anamosity toward his size.
It gave him, he felt, an edge over the enemy. Any enemy. Hitting a small target was much trickier, he knew well; he was constantly underestimated, thus setting him at a tidy advantage; he was closer to the ground, allowing him a better sense of balance, and, as the situation was calling for presently, he was able to keep his tiny body easily out of sight.
The army was on the move. Many/most/some were Aeesu-jin, their tails held high in the air like banners, out of the way to keep from slapping against their powerfully pumping legs. There were quite a few shaggy creatures as well, sentient, loping along speedily on two legs, their gruesome faces centered ahead, their long arms swinging back and forth at their sides. And there were some amphibious monstrocities, slimy green skin, bloated purple lips, and a noticable fin lining the tops of their spotted heads.
It was a repulsive army, Garlic decided, fully aware of his own degree of hypocracy; a hideous, ugly, nasty army. A deadly army. Their chi's were phenominal; Garlic, his only knowledge of chi stemming from Earthlings, was having a hell of a time comprehending their power. But he had learned the hard way to never mistake his senses. If they felt freakisly strong, they probably were.
He ran silently, his chi suppressed beyond recognition--just like the good Earthling he was--amoung the boulders and rocks and occational shrubs that flanked each side of the rolling army, never exposed for more than half a second before he dove into what only he could consider cover. A small depression in the ground, a shadow of a cloud, he didn't need much. He felt tricky and clever, sly and devilish. The suckers had no clue he was even there.
He was spying with his ears the most, really. Yes, he saw them, yes the trailed their movements, carefully flanking them, but he could find nothing really out about them in such a fashion. So he listened, his pointed ears acutely catching snatches of conversation; not liking what he was picking up, but not willing to return without a full report.
What he made out of the tid-bits of conversations: these were the Tahch-jin's army. They did have a mechanical way of recognizing and locating chi. They were, indeed, here to find, specifically, Son Gohan, though finding any member of the camp, quite obviously, would be extremely unfortunate and undoubtably painful. Garlic pressed his lips into a firm line, feeling, not concern, but certain worry for himself in the least. He cared nothing for his fellow campmates, would kill them himself, probably, given the chance and opportunity (and appropriate enough situation) but he dreaded one outcome.
He did not want to return to the Dead Zone. It was a horrible place, created to rival hell in its torment, eroding away at mind and body, tormenting and teasing and taunting and never releasing. Being immortal really sucked when cast into such a place. He was almost desperate to prolong his stay in the real world the better.
As the vile Kami Larkas has said, however, if Son Gohan were to die, he would instantly be returned to that horrible, eternal hell.....and await being erased from existance. There came his problem (which he was willing to blame on everyone, especially the goddam Kami and even more specifically on Gohan himself, for if it weren't for him he never would have had to suffer the Dead Zone in the first place), he was forced to keep a special eye on that damn gaki's well-being. Thankfully, Bojack was taking the task into his own hands for the most part, but.....
The final thing he deduced from the army, devastating the landscape in their wake, kicking up a cloud of dust visible half a mile away, was that they were heading toward a base the Tahch-jin, Joru and Henning Le'Armont, had already discovered. A base sitting along the ocean's coast. A house, specifically. White. Domed. Abandoned.
The Tahch-jin were in the capsule house.
Garlic turned his direction and headed back to the field where the camp members awaited, as fast as he could run.
----------------------------------------
It was quite by accident that Henning de-capsulated Gohan's air car--a gift Bulma had given him on his eighth birthday--directly in the house's living room.
"What could it possibly be?" Henning fussed, holding the capsule with the number '12' emblazened on it close to his face, checking back to the case and reading what number 12 said, "Air Car."
"Very peculiar," Joru agreed, sitting on the edge of the couch, his hands on his knees. He looked dreadfully as though he didn't belong.
"Am I supposed to push this?" Henning questioned, venturing to press down on the top of the capsule, making it give a quiet click. He loved mashing buttons. He really did. When nothing happened, however, he was sorely dissappointed.
Now a capsule is designed for the safety of the consumer. A capsulated object does not, under any circumstance, remove itself from its tight confinement if just the ready-release button is clicked. It is, by design, set to explode from itself only once it has been thrown, the impact of hitting the ground jarring it, thus giving the final go-ahead to open.
Henning shook the device, held it up to his ear, and even attempted using his Tahch-jin sixth sense--which only determined that A.) the device did indeed belong to Gohan-chan and B.) it had been a gift of love. Very little help indeed. Irritated, he shook it once more, turned it over a few more times, looked at Joru helplessly, then tried banging his hand against it.
A capsule has no way of differentiating the impact of hitting the ground to the impact of hitting an open hand. It exploded. A colorful screen of odorless, thick smoke filled half the house even as Joru barely jumped out of the way to avoid the front bumper of the freed air car. There was a definate crunching sound as furniture and a wall were obliterated, making room for the sudden object.
Henning found himself pinned beneath it, the explotion of being so close during the decapsulation momentarily stunning him. The front wheel was planted firmly on his chest. It was heavy. Oh, yes. And it hurt.
The dust cloud vanished quickly. Joru, finding himself cramped in the corner of the room, shakily hoisted himself onto a wing of the air car before calling, "Henning! Brother! Are you alright!?"
The reply was muffled and pained, coming from below the car. Unable to draw a real breath to vocally inform his brother of his whereabouts, he flailed his hands against the bottom of the car, hoping the sound would lead help to him.
Amazingly, his hand hit against recapsulation button, and quicker than it emerged, the car returned to its capsule, non of the smokey fanfar ensuing. Joru was dropped to the ground from his perch the same instant the intense weight was lifted from his sibling's body.
The capsule landed on Henning's stomach.
Both brothers let out a breath of air, steadying their nerves.
"Those things are trecherous." Joru finally said.
With a cough, Henning said, "Agreed."
----------------------------------------
As Gohan approached his capsule house, something about it struck him as odd.
The front door was open. He specifically remembered closing it; his mother had taught him from infancy to close doors behind him. There were lights on inside. In all of the rooms. As a louder, closer rumble of thunder exploded behind him, followed by a flash of lightning that momentarily light up the shadows of the house, Gohan neared the enterance with caution.
Something bad is about to happen, his pessimistic side said.
Gohan didn't bother arguing with himself.
The hairs on his tail bristled.
To be continued......