I only now was able to upload on ffn's less-than-reliable account; appologies to all the readers who didn't get a chance to read this from my website.
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There wasn't a member of the camp that didn't witness the violent exchange between Gohan and Bojack, and not one of them didn't flinch, albeit ever-so-slightly, at least once during the beating, as small cries of pain and the sound of bone against flesh rang out, even over the overhead roar of thunder and rain.
Whilst watching the contemptable, brutal act, Sunow had more than once almost said something, had almost run forward to try pulling the blue giant off the boy, or to plead for him to stop or do something about it. But he just stood, transfixed, and watched, holding his daughter's face against his chest to hide the sight from her. He tasted vomit in the back of his mouth. He felt sickened. But he did nothing. He stood and watched, a putrid taste in his mouth, tightly hugging tiny Eesei to his body, and he made no move to stop it.
His fear of what Bojack might do to him, or worse, his children, held him steadily back.
Bojack had never mentioned needing either Sunow or his young, and the parental Aeesu-jin was sure he would have no qualms with killing the three of them. Sunow had already lost nearly everything: his home, his job, his old life; he was not going to risk losing his children, as well, for the sake of a Saiya-jin, no matter now kind and sweet the boy was. And besides, hadn't the blue giant said more than once that he needed the boy alive. Though Sunow didn't know exactly why, he told himself that, technically, Gohan's life wasn't really in danger.
Though Sunow was sure staying out of it was the best idea, it still made him sick.
No one should hit a child like that.
Either way, he stood by and watched, even after Bojack finally stopped hitting the small form under him. And watched as the boy wedged himself half-out of sight into a small crevice between two boulders, his little body curled tightly upon itself, his bloody face buried in his arms.
He wanted to run to the boy, to comfort him, aid him, help in whatever way he could, but still he feared drawing attention from Bojack. And when the blue giant turned to face Sunow, wiping his bloody knuckles against his cape, daring him to say something, the Aeesu-jin father kept silent.
The Biraju-jin looking one last time at the half-visible boy, looking so small, humbled and subdued from the ordeal, and gave a satisfied smile, obviously quite pleased with what he had done. He turned his huge frame away from them all, then, and walked away, vanishing amoung the boulders. Surely he was not going far.
With the deafening patter of the rain, a heavy silence filled the air.
Eesei was sobbing.
She hadn't seen even half of it before Sunow had covered her eyes. But she heard it. Had heard the sound of fists striking flesh. And, with even her minimal, inborn warrior instincts, she knew what the sound was. And that knowledge, rather than the icy water pouring down on her and her father, chilled her tiny reptilian body.
She clung to her father, her tail wrapped so tightly around him that he could hardly breath, her limited vocaularly reduced to frantic blubberings, the only audible words being, "Make him stop, Papa, please, please make him stop.... He's hurting Gohan...."
And she continued to say it over and over again, betwix strings of wails and incomprehensible words, even after Bojack had stopped and left. She was inconsolable. Sunow could do no more than hold her tight, his ruby eyes unfocused, his brow creased, his delicate mouth gaping.
Feeling something bump against his shoulder, he was partially shaken from his daze to find Forester standing next to him, his young eyes haunted, his face pale. The young Aeesu-jin boy tentatively leaned against his father, his tail slipping around Sunow's in search of comfort. Putting an arm around his son, the Aeesu-jin father tried his best to let him know it was okay. His son was trembling.
What he didn't know was that Forester was trembling with rage. Narrowing his young eyes in the direction Bojack had vanished, he spoke with absolute venom in his tone, "I hate him. I want him to die. I swear. I hate him more than anything in the entire universe."
And so, Sunow stood, listening to his daughter plead for him to help Gohan, and listening to his son snarl words of loathing, all the while looking at that little crevice the Saiya-jin boy had wedged himself in, until, finally, he could stand no more. So he sunk to his knees and said to himself more than Eesei or Forester, "We couldn't have stopped him. Son Gohan is so much stronger than I, but even he was helpless. There was nothing any of us could have done." But not a single word of it reached his heart.
He held his children tightly in the rain, and tried his best to comfort them with his body.
**
His back pressed against cold stone, Gohan didn't move for a very long time.
Keeping his legs pressed tightly to his chest, he buried his face in his inner elbows, his arms crossed over his head. He kept his tail strung tightly around his ankles, refusing to allow it to move. Absently, his fingers combed through his wet, tangled hair, ever so slowly; methodically working out the tangles and bits of mud, trying to comfort himself since there was no one else to do it, giving him at least some mindless chore to put his energy to.
He was desperate to keep his mind idle long enough to hide the brunt of this unpleasant memory from his mind. It never worked. The memories always found their way to surface again. Despite, he tried anyway.
He couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand his inability to defend himself. He hated Bojack, but more, he hated himself. Hated himself for letting Bojack hit him. Surely there had been someway to avoid it. Perhaps if he hadn't faught back in the begining, if he hadn't kicked him in the face, then he could have escaped. He had seen it coming in advance, had known that the Biraju-jin was intending to hurt him, why, why hadn't he done anything? Why hadn't he just acknowledged Bojack? Couldn't he have done that? Couldn't he have just played along and been a good boy and let the Biraju-jin just think he was in control?
He felt so stupid.
His pains never ending, for he also knew the entire camp had been watching. Perhaps the beating wouldn't have bothered himself so much if it had been only between him and Bojack, but for something like that to happen in front of everyone? Tears slid down his face, hidden by the pouring rain, and vanished into the sleeve of his body suit. His tail eased off his ankles and slid up between his legs in an uncontrollable gesture of humiliation. He had been tried, and proven weak, right infront of Sunow and his family and, even more humiliating, in front of Freeza and Garlic. He couldn't stand it, but there was nothing he could do.
And so he cried, running his hands through his hair, never uttering a sound, the salty tears burning his skin, crying not because of the pain, but because the helplessness. Incapable of defending himself. Worthless and without hope and ultimatly a burden that was only alive because Bojack had restrained himself. He wished Bojack had just killed him, for then he wouldn't have to be here, feeling everyone, subtly, watching him as he gave way to emotion. And still his fingers detangled his hair, rhythimcally, gently removing knots. He didn't want anyone to look him, didn't want anyone to know he was so bothered, but just couldn't pretend it had never happened, couldn't shrug if off and turn the other cheek.
He just wished he could go some place far far away where no one could see him, but was even more afraid that if he tried to leave, Bojack would stop him and hurt him further.
Slowly, one dark eye glanced up from its hiding place amoungst his arms, a finger momentarily caught in a snarl or wet hair, and, in the absense of motion, his mind said, You're so pethetic. Get up. Climb out of your little hole and do something.
But then he twisted his hand and the tangle gave, finger again freed, and he continued to aimlessly comb through his feathery hair, and he slowly grew quieted inside. With a heavy sight, he relinquished his grooming and leaned his head back against the rocks behind him, and closed his eyes, wincing as some unknown bruise was brushed against. I don't want to get up. I don't want to do anything but sleep.
The rain found him, then, by way of a gusting wind, splattering fat little raindrops across his face, so cold and harsh. With a wince, he opened his eyes, slowly looking at his surroundings; mud, rock and cold water. A dismal sky and a sore body. He was so cold his teeth were chattering. His soaked tail remained twined, miserably, between his legs. You won't sleep here. Not like this. Quit fooling yourself. Get up. Get revenge.
Revenge? He snorted distastefully, On who?
Bojack. Kill him. Just kill him.
He almost started laughing at the thought. But then he actually considered it. Then he added in the repercussions that would inevitably result. In light of what had just happened, attempting vengence would, at any perspective, be a very rash and altogether moronic thing to attempt.
He ran both hands over his head slowly, starting with the back of the scalp and probed along through his hair, locating the fevered bruises that hid beneath his thick locks and reached, as his fingers and wincing skin informed him, down across his forhead and welled up along his cheek bones. He hissed sharply when he pressed too hard against the skin by his left eye, which begining to swell shut. His nose, though it had stopped bleeding, felt raw and sore. Tenderly, he traced the split that ran down his lower lip, tasting the saltiness of it with a flick of his tongue.
And all of this had been for hitting Bojack just once, and in self defence.
He went on to think of what would happen to him if he actually attacked the Biraju-jin, and perhaps even managed to hurt him.... I'd be killed. Or worse.
He took hold of his tail and began to smooth the damp hairs down with his thumbs, taking little comfort in the way the gentle touch sent warm ripples up his spine.
He tried his best to ignore the other side of the argument when it said, Perhaps it's better to die.
He felt so selfish for thinking it; to skirt his mission--and thus failing his given task and everyone one Earth unknowingly depending on his success-- that his face darkened. He released his tail to let it curl around his thigh. He felt like such a coward. That's not acceptable and you know it.
Which left him back at square one. He had no clue where to go from here, or what was going on, he had nothing but the clothes on his back and a measly box of tools and a group of allies that would kill him if given the chance, and would hit him if they knew they could get away with it.
A shudder of dread took him as he began to realize that each passing second found him creeping closer to the point where he just wouldn't be able to do it anymore. Wouldn't be able to pull himself back out of of these black, mental mucks he kept staggering into. The walls were pressing in and he just wasn't bouncing back like he used to, each disappointment, each horror he went through, took a chunk out of him, out of his self-esteem and out of his courage and out of his confidence, leaving more and more room for older, deeper mental scars to surface.
He'd thought more about his father in the past week than he had in the past year before that, and each time hurt his heart more and more, and each time he remembered clearer and more distinctly every detail that led up to his father's death.
He lowered his head to his knees again.
He just couldn't do it anymore.
He was slipping out of himself, going somewhere beyond conscious thought, with nothing strong enough to hold him down, until one voice or other in his mind said, No, coward, you aren't going to take the easy way out. Grabbing fistfulls of his hair, shoving his tender nose against his knees until it began to bleed again, he internally yelled at himself, Think, baka, think!
He forcefully shoved thoughts into alignment, trying to put together some pretense of rationality, desperatly trying to come up with some way to distract himself from reality. Randomly, he began going over what he knew. The facts: he was wet--no, no, better facts, c'mon, idiot, think--, he was homeless--you can do better than that--he was homeless because Henning had taken over his capsule house--follow this, I have a feeling...
He balled his fists at his temples, tapping his knuckles against his head. Henning and Joru were at his home, with so many men that not even Bojack would be able to fight them all. No doubt the army was the combination of every footsoldier, every sentry, every secretary both Henning and Joru had, and they stood a formidable wall between him and his place of rest and safety.
You're thinking about your house too much. There's something bigger here, can't you feel it? Now think, dummy, you're missing something!
The Tahch-jin and all their men were camped around his capsule house which ment.......
His head jerked up from his knees, eyes wide. Which means there's no one at the Tahch-jin fortress.
Or at least not as many, his rational side quickly added, as though attempting to cancel out the possitive swing he was taking.
But, despite his own mental cautions to not get too excited, his broken wings of hope were painfully mending once again, and with this new train of thought, his thoroughly broken and beaten confidence staggered weakly back to its feet. The past few hours of miserable self-contempt were half-shoved off his mental table and into that dark little corner where he kept all the other undelt-with negative feelings and memories, and on top of that he threw his physical pains, which he dismissed from his concern.
The Plan could still work, then. He began moving the details of it around to fit the new situation, grateful to be distracted from his negated mood and doing something productive, even if his mind was acting. Some fleeting notion suggested he deal and cope with what had happened between him and Bojack first, to get rid of it now, while it was fresh, rather than let it sit inside him and fester, but some other, stronger part of him quickly silenced it, promising himself that he would do it later.
This were far more important things to worry about right now.
His muscles sore--he had been curled in that cramped little corner for hours--and his joints stiff; his entire upper body mottled with deep, dark bruises hidden under his body suit and across his face, he crawled out into the open, out into the heaving rain that made the submerged ground look as though it were boiling. His mind was now blank but for the hope that he would soon end this.
He needed this. Needed it to end soon, so soon. He was barely fighting that panic that said, I just can't take this anymore. The sudden anticipation that he might soon be home countered his self-loathing with such ferocity that he was near hysterics.
He had to finish those communicators.
**
It had been four hours and thirty-two minutes, precisely, that Gohan had remained hidden between those two boulders. Garlic had kept track of it down to the second.
True, he hadn't been particularly disturbed by the violent treatment the bozu had endured from the angry giant--he could feel by the boy's desolate but stable chi that he was in no danger of dying, and thus it was beyond the gremlin's concern--but it had indeed kept his thorough attention. He wasn't particularly happy about it, either, if not for any other reason that he was jealous it hadn't been him hitting the boy's tender face.
Still, something seemed...rather cheap about it. Though, being a demon himself, it wasn't exactly his place to decide what was fair and what wasn't; attacking that stupid boy in the condition he was in... Garlic's scowl deepened, heavy droplets of rain dripping from his overhanging brow. Had he been in Bojack's position, impossibly stronger than the gaki, he would have established his dominance first thing, the instant they landed on the planet. To make clear just who the boss was. By not doing so, the Biraju-jin had left the boy to give himself false hope that he was safe, which had caused them the lot of them a world of testy confrontations.
But that was just Garlic's oppinion, and he had long decided to remain neutral to the going ons amoung the camp members. Sticking near enough to enlist the safety-in-numbers form of protection (his painful capture by the Aeesu-jin had been a good aid in displaying just how out-classed he really was), but expressing his views... He had better things to do. Like enjoy not being hurt.
Movement drew his attention, and he blinked at the abrupt change in Son Gohan's chi, noting the boy as he stiffly emerged from his little crevice, his face concealed by his wild bangs, bogged down under the weight of the water clinging to them. Even then, the gremlin could easily make out the purple and blue swellings on his face, the shock of bright red sliding down his chin.
The gremlin felt indifferent. Were he able, and with the power, he could have found some enjoyment in kicking the kid around, but, uncomfortably aware of his own power inadequecies, his normal willing towards violence was left somewhat subdued. He was too damn upset to feel much of anything than a dark loathing toward everyone.
Watching the boy, wincing at every movement he made, his tail pressed tight around his thigh, as he sat down, pulling the small tin box he brought back with him into his lap, Garlic was at least entertained. Watching the trouble-making boy behave in such a sullen, humbled manner did serve to make him feel mildly smug.
Damn kid. Send Garlic Junior into the Dead Zone, will you.....
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Henning and Joru Le'Armont stood, side by side, in the attic of the capsule house, looking out the open hatch at the pouring rain, not particularly noticing the swarming mass of Aeesu-jin and other such brutes as they struggled to erect tents around the new Tahch-jin base, moisture. Both of their mouths were left unchecked, openly gaping.
Both decided, as they searched the ground sitting under a good inch of water, hovering above which hung a steel gray sky pouring forth the waters of heaven, that Son Gohan was unnaturally crafty.
Joru was near panic at the amount of dust and grime that surrounded him. He held his robes high above his knees, praying they wouldn't get dirty, while his eyes looked with intimidation at dust bunnies that lurked threateningly just beneat the old furniture.
He turned to his brother, and asked, his voice a few ochaves higher than usual, "What do we do, now?"
Henning sighed deeply, closed his eyes and gave a thoughtful shake of his head, "Well, the chance of catching little Gohan-chan by surprise in his own home is ruined. Damn, that would have been so very sweet. I guess our only option, now, is to wait for the storm to break, then send a few dozen platoons out to search for the boy."
Joru wilted internally, almost dropping the robes gathered in his arms. He knew Henning wouldn't abandon the search for the boy by the minor set back, but, being the hopeless optimist he was, he had still tried to mentally will his brother to give up. He almost opened his mouth to suggest it, but stopped before his vocals could make a sound. He didn't want to draw any attention to himself; his encounter with the boy had been, so far, over looked. He wanted to keep it that way.
Henning closed the hatch and turned away from it, his head hung low in disappointment, "Come along, now, Joru. Let's get back downstairs."
The gentler Tahch-jin followed without question, happy, at least, to be able to leave this hellishly dirty place.
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Completing the communicators--attaching the recovered antenna--proved an extremely difficult task, Gohan discovered. He had made a crude shelter from the rain by stacking boulders and rocks atop one another to make a shallow cave, but found that it was too dark, with the sun blocked by the clouds, to perform the precise, delicate work ahead. He fought the tantalizing despair, hanging so persistantly on the edge of his consciousness, as he found himself forced to hunch over and use his own body to shelter his work from the pouring rain.
But, his thoughts scrambled and unavoidably numb with supression of all things bad in his mind--which was pretty much everything--he found himself constantly staring at his work, his eyes glazed, completely confused about what to do next, scrambling at concepts he could normally recite in his sleep. And even then, when he knew what he had to do, his hands were shaking (from frayed nerves more-so than the cold) so hard he could barely hold the tools still enough to manipulate.
As he worked, he suddenly found himself rocking back and forth. And he was whistling.Whistling through his split lips. Eventually he recognized the tune as the silly little song he'd made up when he was five. The tune that he had taught Haiya Dragon to dance to. The tune he had whistled to Piccolo one fine summer day over a waterfall. The tune that ended up turning the losing battle between Earth and the astranged Nameksei-jin Slug into a victory. He had completely forgotten about that tune till now, hadn't whistled at all for the past eight years, since learning that whistling hurt Piccolo-san's sensitive hearing
He found it somehow comforting, now, though. For that tune, and the memories that came with it, was something he'd brought with him from Earth, and unlike his capsule house, no one, not Henning, not Bojack, not Heng, no one could take it from him unless they ripped him open and literally picked it out of his brain. It felt good to have something he knew no one could take away from him. As he whistled, louder and with more enthusiasm, he found himself working better, his hands becoming steadier, his mind finding a better path to calculate what his tools were doing, and giving him a brighter mood as he recalled the blissful hours he'd spent teaching little Haiya Dragon how to do the dance routine he had childishly made up.
The memory was pure gold.
His wet, bedragged tail swipped back and for behind him, keeping beat.
In such a manner, time passed. By early evening, the rain finally slowed to a drizzel. By the time the sun set--unseen through the still thick clouds--and darkness took hold of the land, the celestial flood gates finally closed, and the rain stopped.
And in the last waning minutes of daylight, Gohan set both communicators carefully into his tin tool box, followed by the tools he had used. He was, finally, done.
Stiffly, he crawled into the shallow cave he had made, unmindful now of the darkness, and curled up tightly to keep his still wet body warm, his tail twisting around the front of his knees until he wrapped both his hands around it, stroking it gently with his thumbs, the tip tickling against his nose. He was concerned he would lay there in the cold wet dark for hours. Worried his mind would wage such bloody war that he would be awake all night, worrying and fretting and hating and....
And then he fell asleep.
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The morning sun pulled the moisture up from the ground to create a thick, humid fog. Clinging to the ground in eerie whisps of untangible moisture, it was difficult to distinguish details at a distance of five feet or more. Within fifteen feet, an object simply disappeared from view in the hazy air.
Gohan closed his eyes a few seconds after opening them, unsure and uncaring if the fog was a good thing or bad. It took him a moment or two to remember where he was, then a moment more to remember why his body ached. He curled up tighter, squeezing his eyes shut, as the urge to never move again tempted him. To let himself remain there and let starvation sink in until he withered away and died. To not have to get up and face Bojack and not have to face Sunow and not have to face Henning or just not have to face planet Aeesu, his situation, his reality, or his life.
He was tired of trying. Tired of striving against the bitter fate that was so determined to make sure he was never able to be happy. He was just ready to let it all go. He almost started crying again, but his last mutilated shreds of dignity refused to allow him to.
He attempted to reassure himself that things would improve. The plan would still work, wouldn't it? The communicators were finished. The Tahch-jin fort was unprotected, virtually waiting to be infiltrated... He turned his face from the thought, disliking the pleading edge it was taking. It'll fail. None of my plans work. He was too mentally weary and physically sore to argue, so he allowed pessimism to take his hand and blindly lead him as coasted downward on a bobsled of hopeless thoughts.
So he remained, the side of his face pressed into the dirt under his head, unmoving. His eyes closed. His stomach aching. Unable to manage anything but the most dismal of thoughts.
And time continued to pass, as time is known to do, slowly but steadily. The sun continued to rise, burning away the fog and transforming the chilly pre-dawn into a heavily humid morning, finding all who had ventured forth from the Underground--from the Tahch-jin and their collosal army, down to the cowed Saiya-jin boy, curled in his shallow cave--with a thin layer of perspiration atop their flesh.
Gohan wished it were still raining. At least then it wasn't so hot.
Going back to sleep was looking bleak, and his mind was starting in with the, Get up and do something, baka routine, where both sides of the argument were yelling at eachother, both agreeing that he really should get up, but neither quite willing to force him to. His body insisted that he not move, and, on the physical level, that was the ultimate decision.
He got his mind caught-up with the thought of starvation, a subject he was becoming increasingly aware of each second, as his stomach pulsed and twisted in his gut, and his mouth tasted like bile, then went into spells of sudden mass over-production of saliva, as though he had somehow tricked himself into believing he was eating. He soon found that thinking about it was not the best thing to do.
His problem: he didn't know what the best thing to do was. Part of him insisted that getting up would improve everything, his mood, his pain-wreaked body, his hopeless situation.... But the other part argued that fate had it in for him, and would find some way or other to make him miserable, assuring him it would be better to just roll over and die now, instead of having to suffer the new agonies the day was sure to present.
A questioning hand on his shoulder decided for him.
He jumped, throwing himself away from the touch, slamming his back against the stones behind him, his pupils shrinking to pin-dots, his chi automatically raising, both hands raised to defend himself.
Eesei sat before him, unaware and unafraid of how close Gohan had come to instincively killing her. She studied him with concerned, ruby eyes, and, as the two looked at eachother, both mildly bewildered, her bottom lip began to tremble.
"You're hurt," she said, almost accusingly, as though by saying it, the "hurt" would feel bad and go away.
Gohan could only stare at her, his jaw slack, until finally he spoke, "Yeah. I am." Then, automatically added as tears began to well up in her big, worried eyes, "But don't worry. I'll be okay. See?" And, just to prove how swell he was, he stood up, raising his arms over his head and attempting a smile, "It doesn't hurt at all." He hoped he was doing a good job of hiding that it really did hurt.
The tiny Aeesu-jin girl, her lip still protruding, swallowed her tears, and stood up, too. She raised her arms in the classic "hold me" style, and Gohan found himself reminded of his own little brother, who had taken such a pose too many times to count, squeeling, "Hol' me, ni-chan!" Little Goten had sometimes been the only one alive capable of dragging him out of the dark moods he had frequented into the first year after his father's death.
The Saiya-jin boy found a small ray of light in his life--not enough, but something--, as he stooped, hiding the grimace the movement caused, and scooped the tiny Eesei up, swinging her around to ride on his back, her tail twisting around his abdomen, and finally ventured out of the cave and into the world.
He wasn't smiling, but, his half-dead optimism whispered, at least he was up, right?
**
Sunow awoke to two immidiate realizations. A.) The sweltering, humid heat was the hottest, most uncomfortable feeling he had ever felt, which in, turn introduced him to the tangy smell of his own sweat. B.) His precious Eesei was no longer curled up on his chest.
The latter was instantly a concern, the former only mild annoyance.
He sat up immidiatly, a tickle of panic rising in his throat as he searched left and right. Forester was still curled not far from him, a little green Aeesu-jin ball, his thick tail covering his body and face from the morning sun, already beating down on them with imense heat.
Sunow stood up, a new kind of worry-sweat rising under his arms and long his back, until he saw Gohan walking toward him, Eesei contentedly riding on his back. But his concern for his daughter stopped there, replaced with an even greater concern for the Saiya-jin boy bearing her.
He hurried forward saying almost harshly, "Eesei, you really shouldn't bother Son Gohan-"
"It's okay." The boy quickly said. Still, he turned for Sunow to gratefully remove the burden from his back.
The father cradled his daughter as she began to say, "Gohan's okay! He's not hurt, he says. He's just fine. See? Look, he's okay! You were real worried, huh, Papa? You dun' have to worry." She lifted her tiny chin in such a way that said 'silly you. I knew he was okay all along. Honest.'
"I can see that he's okay," Sunow said with a stressed smile, then hesitated a moment before setting her down and saying, "Why don't you go wake up your brother, hm?"
She gave him a heart-meltingly bright smile and chiruped a "'Kay!" before running toward her dozing sibling in a child-like gait.
Sunow turned back to Gohan, now that he had a chance to talk to him alone, about to ask, "And how are you really feeling?" but didn't even finish the first word before he stopped. The boy wasn't looking at him. Wasn't looking at anything, really, except maybe the ground beneath his feet. His head cast down, his speratic tufts of wild hair skewing his eyes visibility. He must have used every amount of the cheer in his body to assure Eesei, because he looked absolutely hollow, save for maybe a few scraps of some hopeless emotion.
The Aeesu-jin knew this much: despite the insistance he must have offered his tiny daughter, he was not 'okay'. Not okay at all.
"You were whistling yesterday?" Sunow said instead of inquiring about the boy's well-fare.
Gohan's reply was mumbled, and he did not meet the other's eyes as he said, "Yeah." He turned his head to the side, raising his eyes a moment and studying the rocky cliffs before losing whatever ambition that had caused the movement. His gaze slowly fell back to the ground.
"It was a nice tune. Very cheerful."
"I just made it up. When I was little." The boy said dismissively.
"Oh." The Aeesu-jin said, unable to come up with a better reply. "Well, I'll leave you be. You seemed rather busy yesterday and I don't want to keep you." He turned to go.
"Sunow-san?" The boy said, causing the other to turn back, "I'm really sorry. I don't want to be difficult. I just...." He trailed off, but didn't try to pick his sentence back up. He looked as though each second caught him shrinking, growing smaller and weaker, wilting.
"Gohan," Sunow said, putting his hands on either of the boy's shoulder. He felt the small frame tense, as though he expected to be hurt. His tail bristled, sending the hairs on it to stand attentive in sharp spikes. But slowly, Gohan looked up, seeming almost hesitant to allow anyone to see his face.
And when Sunow did see his face, he was pretty sure he knew why.
The boy obviously wouldn't want anyone to think he was bothered by what had happened yesterday with Bojack. That the boy just wanted everyone to forget what happened, to not mention it and just pretend that nothing had changed. But, when he lifted his head, raising his hair off his face, it was impossible to deny the incident. Battered and bruised, the signs of a brutal beating were indisputable; through the nights worth of sleep, and the use of incredible Saiya-jin healing, his eye was no longer swollen shut, but, for its credit, a deep purple bruise still welled beneath it, making his eyes look even larger and more hollow.
Sunow was begining to feel nausious once again.
The horror he felt must have been easily visible on his face, for Gohan quickly lowered his face again, shaking his head to quickly re-cast himself behind a veil of thick locks.
"Oh, kami, Son Gohan....."
The boy shrugged the Aeesu-jin's hands off his shoulders, saying in a hardly audible whisper, "I'm fine."
"Wait," Sunow said, as the boy began to leave, forcing his voice to sound sharp. Gohan stopped, not turning back around. "Do you still have a plan? Is there any way possible to still win?"
The boy almost seemed as though he wasn't going to answer, remained still and silent for a long while in thought. Finally, he said, "I have. There is. I don't know if it will work, though."
"Is there anything I can do?" Sunow asked, "There must be something."
Again a long pause, allowing the Aeesu-jin to study his narrow shoulders and back, overly-lean from his meagre diet. The boy then turned, raising his head and, finally making eye contact, "You still want to do things for me? Even though I've ruined your life, made you have to leave your home and your people and-"
"Yes." The Aeesu-jin said without a second thought. He added, "Yes," again after a pause, proving that he had actually thought about it, and still agreed with his answer.
The boy didn't lower his bruised face as he turned completely to face Sunow. His head was tilted at an angle, as though confused, his eyes searching the Aeesu-jin's for any doubts. His cracked his lips open in a fragile smile, and said, "I really could use some help."
Sunow smiled, "Just tell me what I need to do."