Each room, it seemed, found new articles in which to perplex them, or so Joru decided as he tagged along behind his couragous, if not mildly insane, brother. None as peculiar, or nearly as dangerous, as the odd objects labeled "Capsules", but odd and confusing nonetheless (for how could they determine the funtions of a toaster or microwave? It wasn't that they didn't have impliments similar in function in their own Tahch-jin culture, it was just that they were differently shaped, labeled, placed and colored.)
Actually, in all truth, Joru was growing weary of searching the house. Yes, in some ways it was interesting; this was a new culture he was learning about--he and his brother both agreed that, though Gohan was obviously a Saiya-jin by heritage, his way of life was utterly different--but on another, stronger hand, there was only so much to look at. It was a small house. And, though he was in many ways afraid and surprised by Gohan, he wasn't obsessed about him.
Henning was possitively giddy. For nearly half an hour, now, he had been wandering mindlessly through the house, a devious grin spread clear across his face, just running his white hands along the walls, his eyes sparkling. Sitting in the living room, Joru caught glimpses of him as he continued throughout the house, saying quietly to himself, "Dear little Gohan-chan's home.... how delicious...how wonderful....That precious boy." He sounded so fanatical, so, to Joru's perception, evil that his brother's cooing chilled him to the marrow of his bone.
"Henning, dear," Joru said, shivering in his brother's nearly macabre presence, "Please. Please. Please!"
It took the other Tahch-jin half a moment more to fall out of his mumblings and turn, finally acknowledging his brother, "Is something wrong, dear?"
"I just...I admite your sudden compulsive obsession with this Saiya-jin boy is frightening me," Joru said, thinking, you're creeping the hell out of me, but only adding aloud, "It's clouding your judgement. I dare to call it borderline dangerous!"
Henning, despite his other, less fortunate qualities, made a point to, in the least, acknowledge dangers. He asked, "What dangers are you referring to?"
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A gargantuan bolt of lightning split the sky, illuminate the small shape of the boy as he came to a stop before his house, the dark shadow of a cloud closly following him, overtaking him as he paused, partially robbing the landscape of half it's light and covering the house with a dark, ominous presence. Each glowing window exclaimed a hidden danger, each strong gust of wind whispered about awaiting horrors.
Gohan, not more than twenty paces from his front door, found himself flooded with devistating hesitation to approach, frustration with his own fear-filled body as well as his limp, and, ultimately, his persistantly, frightfully, growing want to fight. And, perhaps most upsetting for him of all, he found himself incapable of clear rationalization; he couldn't think. Couldn't figure something out; he was sure he was missing something important.And, without the reassurance of reason, he lacked half his confidence, and, for his loss, gained a heady extra helping of inobjectable intimidation.
He was scared.
Feeling almost rageful at himself for his sudden, growing supply of inadequacy and undesirable fear, the slender Saiya-jin boy, feeling smaller than he had in years, could swear he was two steps away from degenerating into a rageful fit, tearing his hair out and, probably, streaking back the way he had come and trying his very best to rearrange Bojack's face. In which process, he would, unaided by a variety of unlikely miracles, eventually find himself suffering the pains of a brutal beating.
It was with supreme effort and other-worldly restraint that he managed to keep himself from either blasting backward into a well-known danger, or from tearing unwarily, headfirst, into an unknown danger--the one he felt radiating from the house. His house.
Oddly, the next emotion he had, following closely on the heels of his anger and unwilling lust for violence, was a strong, nagging urge to cry. He just wanted to cry. To just go into his room, climb into his closet, and curl into a little fetal ball of mistery and just let it all go, to release all the pent up fear and rage and humiliation and pain and memories in a harmless wash of silent tears; just as the heavy, dark clouds above desperately wanted to let flow the water within them.
But he knew that such a solution was even more unacceptable than taking everything out--unsuccessfully, sure--on Bojack. If he had a choice, he would never cry again. It was a silent vow. He had already cried--more than once, dammit--during this unpleasant trip. Not again. Not ever. Sorry. No. Just tough it out.
His tail hung low, dangling limply behind his legs save the last four inches, which twitched in anxious irritation. The wind blew a gust of sand and grit into his eyes and mouth, making him wince. His childhood fear of thunder and lighting sent a chill up his spine. Finally, a ground-shaking clap of thunder that chilled the boy to the core gave the pregnant, overhanging clouds a silent concention.
In fat, heavy droplets, it began to rain; such a collosal down-pour that the boy found himself drenched in a matter of seconds, his dark hair hammered to his head, his eyelashes dripping, his Saiya-jin uniform clinging to his body. His soggy tail hung lower, dragged down under the weight of the water. This was just perfect.
And so, in such a state of gloom and frustration and dispair, he crossed the last twenty paces, soaked and cold and trembling, his arms wrapped around his shoulders, to enter his breached home, his violated haven, his tainted island, with thoughts darker than the clouds overhead.
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Henning was begining to regret bringing his brother with him on this little excursion. Through the years, he had grown accustomed to Joru's fanatical cleaning habits, his overbearing sense of worry, and his inceasant need to voice one complaint after another until, in all truth, Henning found himself feeling a very real urge to simply kill him.
But, he was begining to realize, they had both lived rather sheltered lives. Now that they were venturing into the great outdoors, Joru was coming up with new, more irritating quirks--paranoia, for one--that were far less tolerable. Henning, now standing in the tiny bedroom of the tiny house, inspecting the tiny bed, made a point to ignore him.
"-left vulnerable if we corner ourselves inside the enemy's headquarters-" was something along the lines of what Joru was saying. It didn't matter. Henning was blocking him out, for the most part.
What he was really thinking about was the same thing he had been for the past however many days. That perfect, beautiful, spirited, taunting youth; the unfinished masterpiece, awaiting the finishing blow from a true master of both pain and art. Small, pale, raven-haired, curious, quiet, powerful, humble, proud. Little Saiya-jin. Little boy. Son Gohan.
Henning lovingly folded back the blankets of the bed, running his hands along the silk sheets beneath. This was where the boy slept at night. I was exactly his size. And, if any doubt still remained, the Tahch-jin could feel the boy's soft, powerful presence lingering on the mattress. Precious little boy.
"-would we do, then? Can you tell me? We could die-"
Henning could see it all, now.
The delicious little Saiya-jin boy would reach the house after the army arrived and, unsuspecting of the Tahch-jin threat awaiting him, would perhaps his way to his living room. There, he would find Henning sitting on the couch, relaxed, his legs crossed. With an order, "Seize him," a sudden wave of sentry, having been hidden in wait for just such an order, would leap forth and apprehend the shocked youth, no doubt having to beat him severely into submission, but specifically not into unconsciousness. Then, the small, helpless form would be delivered to Henning's feet. At his mercy.
As soon as he had the boy, he would have both his legs broken. Slowly. It would serve a double purpose; both as punishment for running away, as well as to keep it from happening again. The fun of watching as the boy would be pinned to the ground, face-up so Henning could see his expressions of horror and pain, while slowly his legs were bent the wrong way at the knee, would, of coarse, merely be an added perk.
Then, that captivating boy would be mine.
Henning smiled, self-satisfied, still running his hands along the soft silky sheets of the bed. There would be no hurry to leave, he decided. Why not keep the boy prisoner in his own home? Oh, that would be scrumptious; to chain him to his own bed, his own blood staining the sheets, his screaming and please resonating off these familiar walls; staring up at his own cealing with pain-filled eyes.
The more Henning thought of it, the more he liked it far better than any other plans he previously had install for perfect, endearing little Gohan. He was almost grateful the boy had escaped, for now he had his little haven, his secret, special home, his safe place. The boy's only refuge would be the place he spent his last living days, in absolute agony. And what better place to be destroyed, mentally first, then physically?
Henning rubbed his hands together in anticipation, running his tongue along his lips in wolf-like hunger as he thought about the perfect, appetizing, exquisite horror he would soon have the opportunity to unleash on the tender young boy.
"Are you listening to me?" Joru's voice broke in, interupting Henning's thoughts of pale trembling flesh, feathery black hair, small gasps of pain and warm red blood.
Henning narrowed his eyes, the tantalizing memories of the boy's previous imprisonment vanishing to the back of his mind, "You're becoming exremely annoying, brother."
Joru's jaw dropped, "What?" It, obviously, wasn't the reply he had been expecting.
Henning leaned against the nightstand by the bed, saying, "You are no fun anymore. You're paranoid, whiny, annoying-"
He didn't even get a change to finish as Joru turned and stormed out of the bedroom, his cape swirling behind him.
That's no way to talk to your brother, Henning chastized himself as his sibling vanished from sight. Sure, he teased him, but kin was kin, and, somewhere in his dark heart, he did have a certain fondness for Joru that went beyond simple family affection. Joru was the only person who stood at his side willingly and without fear, traveled with him through space, spoke supportively to and of him....
Henning shook his head. Yeah, it was uncalled for, but he would make it up to Joru later. After the breaking of Son Gohan.
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Dripping on the carpeting, his eyes narrowed, muscles tensed for danger, Gohan made his way through the open door of his house, closing it behind him. Keeping his back pressed to one wall, his damp tail twining tightly around his thigh, he started down the brief hall, pausing to note the new, unfamiliar foot prints on his door mat--the intruder had paused to wipe his feet? Things continued to get peculiar as he passed his coat-and-hat rack, finding two strange hats hung with care. His forehead puckered, he reached the end of the enterance hall.
He stopped the instant he came to his living room.
It was trashed. Thoroughly. The center of the couch sunk clear to the floor, as though some tremendous weight had been set on it; two lamps were broken, little pieces scattered across the carpeting, his television was crushed, one book had been half-mutilated, pages partly shredded, part of the floor seemed to have sunken in; most noticable damage: one wall had a large hole in it, leading to the next room--a small study in which he kept his books. Whatever he had prepared himself for--sudden attack, surprise, instant fight or flight--this was, in no way, it.
Oddly enough, the damage didn't look as though there had been any rhyme or reason to the vandalism. No one had been looking for anything, and though the level of distruction was intense, it wasn't as though someone had been intentionally trying to destroy his home. It looked, as odd as it sounded, as though some tremendous weight had been dropped from the cealing, crushing everything beneath it.
Though that possibility made no sense, neither did the damage itself. No sense at all. He crossed the room silently, touching the ruined wall with his fingertips. What's going on, here?
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How dare he!? Joru stormed loudly out of the bedroom. How dare he speak to me like that!?
The words his brother had said, actually, didn't quite bother him as much as....everything else. Henning had been ignoring him--completely!--and that was something he had never done before. Ever. They had both equally agreed the same day they decided to travel together that, no matter what, they would remain on good terms and tolerate eachother their faults for the sake of peace and happiness. It had been the only condition, and they readily agreed to it.
But now, Henning was ignoring him. Excluding him. Shoving him into the background, just like all the Tahch-jin children had done to him his whole life. Henning had been his only friend and ally. His brother. He had protected Joru from the school bullies, stood up for him, faught to protect his good name. And now..... Joru felt like nothing more than baggage, just being lugged from place to place, not really needed. He felt like he was being ditched. He no longer felt like a part of Henning's life.
It suddenly dawned on him. He was jealous of the attention Son Gohan was getting from his brother. It was an odd, sort of horrible realization, considering what Henning wanted to do to that boy, but it was true, as well. The young Saiya-jin was forever on his dear brother's mind. His only worry. His only concern. Nothing else mattered, not even his close family ties. Being cast aside in such a way hurt horribly for someone like Joru. Total abandonment.
So what was he to do with such a revelation? Trying to continue keeping the boy out of Henning's reach would only bring forth his brother's wrath. And it wouldn't work, anyway. Henning would hunt that boy forever, until the one day that the youth made his fatal error, getting himself captured and tortured and broken and killed in all the horrible fashions that Henning had been cooking up. It was bound to happen sometime; not even someone with all the power and cunning in the world could run forever from someone with such a one-track mind as Henning.
So what solution was there?
Son Gohan had to die?
It was a painful conclution to come up with. Joru felt sick to the depths of his stomach when he thought of killing one of the few good people in the universe, of killing a child, but..... If it wasn't Son Gohan who died, it would have to be Henning. The gentle Tahch-jin's throat hitched and his eyes watered. For the first time in his life, he had thought of something really horrible. He was thinking of ways to kill his own brother.
He was unable to consider it any further, however, for at that second he rounded the hall to enter the house's living room, where he suddenly found himself face-to-face with Son Gohan, dripping wet--looking rather miserable, actually-- wearing a damp, but new fighting suit. He had one pale hand pressed against the wall that had been destroyed during the capsule fiasco.
Joru's gasp of surprise seriously spooked the boy, who hadn't yet noticed him enter. With disturbingly fast reflexes, the youth vaulted in the opposite direction, loosing little droplets of water in his sudden movement, dropping his narrow body into a tight, defensive crouch. His eyes were absolutely wide-open in what must have been unimaginable shook. He obviously hadn't expected to find a Tahch-jin in his house. Even after he recognized this particular Tahch-jin as the one who had released him from an otherwise horrendous fate, Joru could tell it was no consolation to him. The boy made no movement to relax or appear even a hair less hostile.
The enemy was in his house.
Joru, feeling rather mad at the moment--mad at Gohan, albeit irrationally, for stealing his brother away--felt almost smug. He felt like such a threatening figure right then, that he thought he might understand slightly why Henning enjoyed the look of fear his victims took apon. I'm your enemy! He felt like saying. I'm just as dangerous as Henning! He was on a roll. Next time, I'll kill you instead of letting you go! Yes, he felt sort of like vomiting for even thinking about killing anyone, but if he carefully skirted around thinking about the actual act, he felt dreadfully dashing and deadly. Downright lethal!
It was difficult to maintain the mentalitity, however. Upon looking closer at the boy, though he still managed to look pretty dangerous, there was something about his young face that bothered Joru to no end. He looked fully prepared to fight to the death, but, somewhere in his eyes, he also looked horribly afraid, maybe even terrified; he also looked rather miserable. In some ways, pitiable. Dripping wet, his skin was quite pale; he looked very cold. His tight little fighting stance favored his left leg which, Joru noticed, was heavily bandaged, reminding him of the bloody wound he had seen in such a place during his capture.
It was a wonder he was walking at all, now that he thought about it. That wound had been rather severe.
"What are you doing here?" Joru asked finally. Plan A (to try keeping Son Gohan away from Henning) wouldn't work. But Plan B (to kill Son Gohan before Henning got a chance to) was turning out to be something equally impossible. So what was he supposed to do, then? Was there a Plan C? Joru wanted to bang his fists against the sides of his own head. No, there was no Plan C; besides that, no real thought had gone into A or B. He felt cornered. As ingenius as he was, he was no schemer.
That, saddly, was Henning's job.
"I live here," came the boy's deliberate answer, as though he, himself, hadn't the faintest idea why he was answering.
The situation was so very strange, thought Joru, that he should be holding a conversation this boy--the enemy. So, confused for the most part, he shrugged, nodded and said, "Yes, I know."
And he continued to study the small boy, in all his lethal, pitiful glory, and, despite himself, it wrenched his heart. From what he knew and had previously felt, this child, Son Gohan, struck him as a living casualty of war. And the more he studied, the more he saw that the boy wasn't perfect like Henning so dedicatedly believed. He was more like some lost, helpless kid, just wanting to find some way to survive this viciously impossible fate before him. He looked weary, desperate, and overly lean from missed meals.
The fact that there was nothing he could do for the boy really did just kill Joru. Every time his eyes met the boy's, it almost stung like an unspoken accusation. The Tahch-jin looked down at the carpeting, feeling ultimately guilty.
Whatever chance there was that something else could have been said, however, was choked off before it had a chance to begin.
For at that very moment, Joru's heart stopped as he heard the voice of his brother behind him, "Joru, I was wondering something..."
The gentle Tahch-jin jerked his head to look over his shoulder as Henning entered the room, his hands behind his back, his classic smile spread across his face. Joru turned back around to the boy--but blinked in surprise. For Son Gohan was no longer where he had been. He had vanished. Looking left, then right, Joru circled the room in appearant confusion, his brow furrowed, one finger pressed nervously to his mouth. No sign of him. He was gone.
"Joru?" Henning inquired, tilting his head to one side as he watched his brother behave in such a peculiar way.
Joru looked at him, eyes wide, his tongue limp in his mouth. He was completely and utterly speechless. Wherever the boy had vanished to, he had done it soon enough to avoid being spotted by Henning. So now what? Should he tell his brother that Gohan was in the house? Should he with-hold the information? Should he run?
"Are you still mad at me?" Henning asked, put his hands on his hips, "Giving me the silent treatment or something?"
Joru said said nothing, shaking his head in perplexion.
What am I going to do?
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Gohan could swear he had never moved so fast.
He barely heard the soft footsteps he recognized so thoroughly as Henning before he had streaked across the room, opened the hall closet, and slipped inside, closing the door quickly, quitely behind him. Just as he heard the soft latch of the closet door, his blood froze in his veins as he heard that voice.
"Joru, I was wondering something..."
He didn't breath. He could swear his heart wasn't even beating.
It was not a walk-in closet he was hiding in. His face was barely half a foot from the door, even with his back pressed against the opposite wall. He felt absolutely trapped. He could feel Henning's chi not more than ten feet away, but felt just millimeters, it seemed, from capture. He had only to make a single sound, and then Death itself would be apon him, greedily sinking its claws into him, never letting go. He knew the chances of escaping a second time were highly unlikely; next to impossible.
What was he to do? Was there anything he could do? Was there anywhere to run?
He remained absolutely silent and still and listened.
"Are you still mad at me? Giving me the silent treatment or something?" Henning was talking again, speaking to Joru.
Would the Tahch-jin tell, Gohan wondered as sweat beaded along his hair line. He was trembling violently. Would Joru Le'Armont tell Henning just who he saw? Even if Joru didn't say anything, Gohan was positive he could not stay where he was. He could not just stay in that closet, so close to Henning, and expect himself to remain safe, or even completely rational.
So the boy began to look frantically around the tiny closet, in search of some highly unlikely form of escape, finding a wall to his left, a wall to his right, a wall behind him, the only door stood, naturally, to his front--through which he would find Henning and many unspeakable horrors he had every intention of avoiding. The closet was way too small. So confining. He felt like Death pressing in around him, wrapping its cold hands around his neck, crushing his ribs. He need to get out of there before he went hystical. It was so closed in. He felt like he couldn't breath; where was the air?! He had to get out!
He silently knelt and ran his hands along the floor, trying to find some way to tear the carpet up from the tackstrip without making any particular amount of noise He stopped, however, when he realized pulling the carpet up would do him no good; beneath he would run into floor boards, beneath which he would find the cement foundation of the capsule house. Blasting or tearing his way through would, without a doubt, cause a loud commotion, thus ruining any tangible chance of escape.
Trapped. He heard Henning talking to Joru again, his voice sending horrifical little jitters down his spine, but couldn't hear what was being said over the pounding of his heart. A droplet of sweat slipped over his temple, trailed down his cheek, then dripped off his chin. He was drenched, he realized, with more than rain water. Amazing, just moments ago he had been freezing; now, he was sweating profusely, burning up, panting in the heat. But he continued to tremble, his hands shaking.
He felt irrational panic boiling up, he looked around again, expecting some peculiar new form of escape to suddenly appear--to his left: wall, to his right: wall, behind him: wall, in front of him: Door of Death, beneath him: floor, above hime..
His eyes widened. For when he looked up, he saw a small trapdoor. It was a maintanance crawl space, most likely, leading to his dusty attic; a second enterance he hadn't been aware of. Escape. The thought thrilled him. He just might survive. He continued to tremble. Was it too good to be true?
Quietly, his back braced against one hall, his feet pushed against the other, he began to climb upward.
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"If we have control of the weather," Henning was saying, "Why is it raining outside? I didn't give any order for it to thunder and rain, did you?"
Joru, ever bewildered, answered slowly, hardly thinking, "I imagine... the power we have is not a strictly controlled situation." He continued to look around the room as he spoke, searching for some sign of Gohan--was he even still in the house? "If you want the raining to stop, you could call up the sentries at the base and tell them to stop it; but I assume that when we're not exercizing our control, the weather simply goes about its every day business."
Henning frowned, "Do you think the weather will delay the troops? It's gotten rather dark out."
Joru, unable to worry about something far away when a threat--or was it someone being threatened?--was so close by. So he shook his head, shrugged, and crossed the damaged living room to look outside at the rain. It really was coming down hard now; the sea was churning and foaming in the wild wind, the sand pocked with large dimples where the rain pelted it, while the mud and grass farther from the surf was buried beneath a heavy sheet of water, only a few small sprigs of purple could be visible.
"I said I was sorry," Henning said behind him, mistaking Joru's silence to be anger.
Joru turned and tried to smile, saying, "Hm?"
"What, you're not angry?" Henning asked, mildly surprised; his brother had been known to hold grudges for extended amounts of time. Weeks? Try years.
Joru shrugged again, looking back outside, searching the landscape for the small form of a boy, fleeing off into the weather torn landscape. But, of coarse, he saw nothing. He said, "I was just thinking."
He felt his brother smile behind him, saying bemusedly, "What's rather whimsical...." He drawled off distractedly, and Joru heard him cross the room to the tiny house's enterance. Then he returned, slowly crossing the room. Joru turned to watch him, noting that his brother was hunkered over the ground, walking slowly, until he crossed the room entirely, pausing before the wall that had been ruined by the capsule car. Finally, Henning turned to Joru, asking, "Did you go outside into the rain?"
Joru blinked, "Certainly not."
Henning stood, frozen, his eyes centered on the ground.
"What is it?"
"Someone....has entered the house since it started raining. Look." And then he gestured to the ground, where Joru saw a few little smears of mud, barely visible against the darkly colored carpet. "I can't make out the size or weight, but...." His eyes suddenly grew wide, and, down on all fours, he crawled slowly across the room, following a path invisble to Joru, coming to a stop infront of the small hall closet they had passed when first entering the house. He was breathing heavily. He turned and looked at his brother, saying bewilderedly, "Someone is in the closet."
Joru's eyes widened, so that was where the boy was hiding! He wanted to turn away, to leave the room and take a long, hot bath and devote two or three hours to praying and redeeming his soul. For, if Son Gohan was really in that closet, that meant he was already caught. Vivid memories of the boy's screams of pain and agony as he suffered from Henning's hand whipped through his mind, bringing a bitter taste up his throat. He was going to throw up.
He fastened a hand over his mouth, but held his ground.
Stepping back, one hand on the closet doorknob, Henning secured his feet incase of attack, took a deep breath, then threw the door open.
The closet was empty.
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Gohan had never been so happy to see his grimy attic; the old furniture, the dusty picture frames, the trunks of old clothes, the filing cabinets full of the doodles he had done when he was younger and the graded papers his mother had insisted on keeping. Room had been scarce in his regular mountain home, so he had readily agreed to keep the upper floor of his capsule house as storage. And it was packed. The crib he had slept in when he was a baby, no-longer-used lamps, rugs, a television set with a broken connection, old clock radios....
He paused.
Television sets and clock radios? He hurried over to the broken TV, his feet padding as quietly as he could manage with a disrupted leg, and, upon turning it around, found that it had an antenna. He needed an antenna for his communicators. With a swift swipe, he broke it off its base, and padded towards the clock radio, discovering it, too, had the desired antenna--which he also removed. Near the regular enterance of the attic--a small fold-down ladder--he found his tool box, which he had carefully returned to the upstairs before leaving his house early that very morning.
It was amazing how much good luck he could find during such a horrible streak of bad luck.
A few miles away, he felt the approaching army he and Garlic had sensed earlier; he had little doubt that it was Henning's troops. They were coming here. To his house. Once they reached the little house, the boy was quite sure, the chances of escape would lessen greatly.
He began searching the sloping walls of the attic. Would there be a means of escape? Would fate be cruel enough to carry him this far only to...... The thought died, yet in its infant stage, as his eyes fell apon something on the far wall. As difficult as it was, he managed to scramble over the junk in his way, climbing over boxes and stacks of old books, to find what he had been looking for. A hatch, not more than three feet in height, shaped like a long, narrow trapezoid, hinges only on the top to allow it to fold upward. An exit.
Breathing heavily in disbelief, he undid a latch at the bottom, then pushed. The door folded upward smoothly, suddenly allowing the rain to come whipping inward, striking the boy in the face. It was freezing out. Gohan didn't care. He had to get out.
He waded through the junk and dust back to the the tin tool box and antenna he had intention of taking with him, then returned to the blessed opening, leading out into the frigid downpour; the ground on the inside of the attic was already becoming wet. Thinking was becoming hard, as a flighty, bewildered, frantic fluttering took over his mind. Only one thought was clear.
He had to escape.
After a taking a deep breath, attempting to calm his frayed nerves, he turned and took one last look at the attic--seeing the entire house with his mind--before placing the two antenna between his teeth, gripping the tool box firmly in one hand, and climbing quietly outside, into the elements.
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The campless camp members, reduced to drifters, were absolutly inarguably miserable as they stood, dripping and cold, in the pelting rain, beating at their heads and shoulders, relentless even to Sunow and his children as they sought worthless shelter amoung the rocks. The wind carried the unmerciful rain into every crevice, every nook, making escape from it impossible. Waiting in anxious irritation for their single missing member, they spoke not a word to one another, nor would they have if they could actually hear eachother over the roar of thunder and lightning and pelting rain.
The character of the foulest mood would be, inarguably, Bojack, who stood, arms crossed, in the very middle of the field, making no pretense to avoid the rain, for where was there to go? His impressive mane of lava hair lay flat against his back, dripping, from the force of the downpour, his bandana pressed down against his head. His eyes were barely slits, his lashes keeping the water out of his eyes, his lips were pressed together in a formidable scowl that few could match. Since recieving the news--via Garlic--that the Tahch-jin had claimed the capsule house (the last known destination of that goddam kid) as their new base, he had gone through first surpise, followed by selfish concern, then irritation, then anger, before finally settling on irrational yet potent hatred for Son Gohan.
He would have been amazed at how talented the boy was at getting himself into trouble if he wasn't too busy thinking of ways to punish him for it. Why was it that they were always waiting for that fucking boy?! Left, however, with little other choice--he would not stoop to looking for the gaki--wait he did, each second that ticked by causing him to dig his fingernails deeper and deeper into his arms.
And fifty-three minutes after it started raining, return the boy did. Jogged through the mud and water, his soaked hair hanging in limp strands over his eyes, he carried a tin box in one hand, his tail was slung low behind him. His young face was absolutely grim; obviously, he had discovered the hard way that he was now homeless.
Half of Bojack's lip lifted in a snarl. It didn't matter that the boy was uninjured, and thus, no harm had been done. What the Biraju-jin really wanted was an excuse to do damage to the boy himself, to hit him and break his little bones and make him beg for mercy or most of all to be able to kill him. His foul mood was worsening with each second he watched the boy approach, his express dark, his tail hung low behind him. The way the boy's shoulders hung in such defeat only slightly mollified the Biraju-jin's mood
"Son Gohan!" Even Bojack's sensitive hearing barely picked up Sunow's exclamation over the pounding of the heavens. Irritated, he turned his head to a side, watching the Aeesu-jin emerge from whatever little hole he had concealed himself in amoung the rocks to greet the boy, his green tail trailing behind him.
****
The instant he had scaled down the side of the house and his feet had splashed down into the deep layer of water waiting beneath him, Gohan had been running.
His feet pounding through deep puddles, water splashing up from beneath his boots as it poured down on him from above, stinging his face and burning his eyes, his one hand clutching the tool box and the two antenna, though he had forgotten he was holding either. He became only aware of the pounding rain and the impact his feet made against the ground, the rhythms, the consistent sounds, the beating of his heart, the throbbing of his leg, the splash of water that erupted beneath him with each frantic step.
He was running away.
But he found himself unable to escape what was chasing him. Dread. Loneliness. Abandonment. Death. Death had been following him since he had entered that house, sliding its cold fingers up his back at every turn. No, had been following him before that, even, since he arrived on this death-trap of a planet. Even that was inaccurate: Death had been persuing him his whole life, nipping at his heels, killing all who stood in its way.
He knew he should turn and face it, accept his fate, to look it straight in the eye like the warrior he was. But he ran. The lighting flashing overhead only partially lighting his way. Tripping, stumbling, gasping for breath, never looking back for fear of what he might see.
He continued onward in such a state until he found himself running across a familiar field, surrounded by large, rocky boulders. He slowed to a jog and squinted his eyes through the rain when he thought he heard someone call to him.
Presently, he saw Sunow jogging towards him, his face bright, a smile of relief on his lips. The boy could tell, somehow, that Aeesu-jin knew the Tahch-jin had taken over the capsule house. Perhaps Garlic had found out and informed the other ex-camp members. It didn't matter.
Gohan was not in the mood to see any smiling face at the moment, or any faces at all, really.
"Son Gohan, you're okay!" Sunow greeted, "I was so worried that....well, you know."
Gohan, oddly, found himself incapable of returning the warm greeting, only replying with a sharp, "I'm fine."
The Aeesu-jin wilted before his very eyes, his smile slipping back into the characteristically Aeesu-jin indifference, saying in an also typically Aeesu-jin monotone (with a sad not of disappointment) "Yes, well, it's good to see you're back."
Gohan didn't even meet his eyes as he walked past him. Something inside him told him he should feel guilty, but he didn't. He felt nothing. Nothing mattered right then. The rain was beating his shell of a body numb while the whole situation he was in--homeless, helpless, cold, wet, injured and, yes, scared--numbed his soul.
He made his way to a large rock, set his tin tool box down, carefully placing the antenna and the communicators inside it to protect them from the rain. He then leaned his back against the rock and let his feet slide slowly out from under him until his bottom plopped against the muddy ground.
Though it couldn't have been any later than mid-afternoon, he was more than prepared so spend the rest of the miserable day sitting right there, his head down, until sleep called to him. That's what he really wanted. Sleep. Just make it all go away and relax and maybe dream about something nice for a change...or to at least be allowed to forget the bad dreams before waking.
But plans changed--as they often do--when he opened his eyes to see Bojack's boots standing before him.
And he knew immidiatly that something bad was going to happen.
"I thought you said you were going home," Bojack's malicious voice said somewhere above him, his deep voice growling each word.
He was baiting Gohan, and the boy knew it. He knew. But he was in no mood or mental state to play mind games. So he said and did nothing. He made no movement, because he didn't trust himself. He said nothing, because he was afraid of what might come out of his mouth. By saying and doing nothing, giving no response, he was hoping the Biraju-jin would take the hint and leave him alone.
If only things would ever be that easy.
As he tried closing his eyes again, a large blue hand grabbed his upper arm and dragged him to his feet, giving him a rough shake. "Did you hear me?" Bojack asked, his face hardly a inches from the boy's.
"Let go," Gohan said, averting his eyes to the ground while he tried to pry the Biraju-jin's hand from his arm, "Let go of me."
For his efforts, he was jerked forward half a foot, then slammed backwards, banging his head and shoulders against the rock behind him, his mind reeled as he heard Bojack say, "Don't you dare tell me what to do."
This wasn't fair, the boy thought angrily as he continued to try breaking free of Bojack's iron grip, he had done nothing wrong! His head was spinning, but it didn't take more than a second to find the reason the giant was doing this. It was painfully obvious: he was in a bad mood, and wanted to take his anger out on someone. And he had, naturally, hand-picked Gohan.
It just wasn't fair, and Gohan was in no mood to deal with it.
So he did something stupid.
Leaning against the rocky wall behind him, he swung both his legs up, bunched them tight against his chest, and commensed with slamming both of his feet into the Biraju-jin's face. Just milliseconds before his boots hit their mark, he realized that by lashing out, he was greatly reducing his chances of escaping this confrontation uninjured.
And just milliseconds after his boots his their mark--allowing him to break free--, he realized that he was very right.
As another shock of lighning cracked the sky, a ferocious snarl erupted from deep in Bojack's throat as Gohan quickly tried ducking away and into the rock formations, the rain compromising his vision, the mud slipping under his feet. He was gripped by terror.
He didn't even get three feet before the first blow came.
Since the entire Aeesu excursion had started, Bojack had only struck Gohan three times, each time with an open hand. It had smarted greatly, yes, but he had been lucky, for those blows had been nothing compared to the rock-hard fist that plowed into his narrow back just now.
His breath left him on impact, and so stunned was he that he didn't feel his body hit the ground, or his face splatter into the mud. But he heard/felt Bojack closing in behind him, so very, very close. He clawed desperatly at the ground, trying to scramble to his feet and get away. Too late.
The second blow came to the back of his head, sending a blinding flash of white over his sight, brighter than the lightning or the stars above the clouds or the sun itself. In the single second that his body was discoordinated and limp, the Biraju-jin had moved in, grabbing him by the back of his Saiya-jin suit and throwing him against the rock wall once again.
Gohan could do little more than stagger a few feet before the third blow backhanded him across the face, sending him reeling against the rockwall for support. If he had any hope of gaining his senses and escaping, it soon vanishes as yet more fists rained down apon him, buried themselves in his flesh, each time driving him backward against the harsh, unforgiving rock formation behind him.
As he tasted blood and rain water in his mouth, he wondered silently to himself, momentarily blocking out the pounding of those mighty fists against his tiny frame, Why did I come back? And as sad as the answer was, he knew why: he had no where else to go.
He slid inexorably toward the muddy ground and, he supposed, toward death.
Bojack grabbed him by his hair, held him up agaist the rockwall with one hand, and, his other hand still free, continued to hit him. Gohan lost count of the number of times he was struck as he lost the ability to distinguish each new pain from the myriad old pains of which afflicted him, and just as consciousness seemed it, too, was going to leave him he was released.
The instant he hit the ground his legs were tight against his chest and his face was pressed inbetween his knees; his arms were crossed protectively over his head, his tail curled up between his legs.
Bojack stood above the curled up boy, a smile curling his lips as he surveyed the bruises already rising along the boy's arms. Such a little kid. And yet, this little kid had killed him. Oh, how he hated Son Gohan.
He knealed in front of the boy, looking closer at the purple swellings rising on his arms; he had been gleefully brutal, yes, but, knowing how vital this little package was, he had also been careful, making sure no bones had been broken, or any other serious damages inflicted.... or so he was pretty sure.
He grabbed a hold of the boy's raven hair and jerked his head up so he could see his face, inspecting the job he had done as the heavy droplets of rain struck his forehead and cheeks, clinging to his lashes. His lip was split and a dark bruise was forming beneath one of his eyes. A trail of blood was running from his nose and the corner of his mouth, already partially washed away by the steady flow of water from the heavens, but neither were serious. Looking at the damn bozu's face, Bojack felt rather proud; he could do this kind of damage and still not have to worry about dying.
"You're so stupid," he said thinly, tightening his grip on the boy's hair, "I warned you what I would do if you ever attacked me again, didn't I? And you got off lucky. If this ever happens again-" He brought his face in so close to the boys that he could feel the splashes of the raindrops as they struck his pale skin, "-I won't be so gentle." He finally released the boy's hair. "Do you understand?" When he made no move to answer Bojack struck him with an open hand before repeating, "Do you understand?" He got a small nod in reply, the boy's wide eyes looked surprisingly hollow, and in them the Biraju-jin was irritated to find not a trace of fear.
The boy wasn't really there at the moment.
What a waste; he could have had a lot more fun.
Finally, he stood, shaking his cape to rid it of the raindrops clinging to it, and he departed from Gohan's company. Ten minutes after he left, the boy scooted his small body into a crevice between to larg boulders, where he curled himself into a tight little ball, gripping his tail in both hands in an attempt to comfort himself. He didn't want anyone to see him. He was trembling. And he hurt.
What hurt more, though, was that he had been completely and utterly unable to fight back.
A few tear drops escaped from under his tightly closed eyelids, hidden by the rain that found him, even tucked away in his little crack, as he began to realize just how very helpless he was, even amoung "allies". If it ever came down to dying, he wouldn't have to worry about the enemies, Heng or Henning or Backlash or any other sect of Aeesu-jin. Bojack would kill him first. And as he had learned from past expiriances with the mighty Biraju-jin, it would not be a quick death.
He suddenly remembered fighting Heng's men, just before being captured by Henning. They had said, he recalled, that if he were to surrender, he would get a swift, painless death.
Sitting miserably, soaking wet, in a cramped little crevice between rocks, pinching his bleeding nose and crying ever so gently, he wished he'd taken them up on that offer.