The scene quoted in this part is using the translations from Viz Comic's DragonBall Z, Part Two, Number 12. (My favorite translation of the scene aside from it's original Japanese diologue.)
------------------------
"My computer hacking?" Sunow was saying, "Well, I know how to break into a computer system....."
Another question was posed.
"Saddly," came Sunow's response, "I opted out of combat training. Beyond usual Aeesu-jin instincts and natural physical strength, I'm afraid I'm pretty impotent."
A third question.
"Well I was a...spy," Sunow said, lifting half a lip at the particular word, "I've had my fair share of sneaking around. Yeah, I can avoid being seen..."
Gohan's inquiries probably seemed quite random, shot off one after another as he wondered over and over if trying was worth the effort. The answers weren't particularly reassuring. He was hoping for more...confidence. Assurance.
"Son Gohan, I don't understand what you're getting at. Please, you have to tell me what you want me to do in order for me to help you."
The boy sighed, unable to explain that he was afraid to voice his plan, for each time he tried to mentally put it into words, it sounded even more choppy and overly-hopeful--depending too much on the grace of good luck--than he could ever see it if it stayed strictly to himself. That speaking it aloud would not only jinx it, but would prove to the both of them that it was doomed to failure.
His fragile confidence was trembling with exhaustion by simply holding up the almost unbearable weight of humiliation and helplessness. The next blow it sustained was destined to be mortal.
He sighed and shook his head, running his finger idly over the scar on his cheek, his tail hanging limp behind him save the last four inches, which curled to point sky-ward. "I can't tell you yet. Please, just give me a few more hours; I'll tell you today, I promise." His hand fell from his face to hang useless at his side, "I'm just not ready yet."
Sunow curled up half of his mouth in a weary smile, "Alright. But remember, you promised to tell me. Today."
The boy nodded, lowering his head slightly, hiding his face behind his hair. He felt embarassed, completely aware his fear of voicing his plan was irrational. He put a hand to his sides, becoming once again aware--with due internal pain--that he hadn't eaten since the early morning before. He was missing too many meals. His stomach had long since gone from merely 'flat' to almost non-existent. His entire body mass consisted, quite literally, of skin, muscle and bone.
He couldn't keep going like this.
Meeting Sunow's eyes with sudden determination, he said, "I won't just tell you. We'll do it today."
The Aeesu-jin's surprised expression went unnoticed as Gohan turned around to leave and collect his thoughts. "Isn't that a little soon?"
"No." Gohan said flatly. He didn't want to talk any more.
------------------------
General Kokoschka led the third Aeesu-jin search party across the strangely foreign landscape of his own planet, searching for the escapee Saiya-jin boy. There was twelve of them, strong, sturdy, powerful, though most of them were too young to have grown to truely intimidating sizes. Furim, Kokoschka's now official understudy, was the tallest among them save the General himself.
They traveled fast, combing the land, their eyes securely on the ground in search of even the slightest hint that their quarry had passed this way.
Now scaling rocky cliffs, now tramping through swampy marshes created by the rain, now climbing over unsteady boulders, now wiping sweat from their brows, now swearing as their footing slipped on the loose dirt.
Furim's colorful, if not entirely inappropriate, vocabulary surprised even the General. Jogging side by side, he said, "I want to go back to the Underground. It's too hot out here." A drop of perspiration trailed down his temple in his argument.
Kokoschka actually found himself laughing, thumping his chest with a fist, taking a deep breath of sweet air, he said, "Then you should try your hardest to find our elusive Son Gohan." He paused, inhaling again, "Smell that? This air is fresh. Never been caught in an air conditioner. Never been recycled by an air pump. The air in the Underground is dead, but this, well, this is real, live air. I'm in no hurry to go back just yet. This is great."
Furim didn't seem to particularly hear him; "Ung. Son Gohan. I'm tired of hearing that name. I haven't heard Henning issue an order that doesn't involve that goddam Saiya-jin in weeks." At that moment, he half-lost his footing as the seemingly sturdy stone he'd been occupying suddenly gave way under him, his long, wirey tail flapping to regain balance.
The General caught his elbow and steadied him before he said, "Our employer--mind you, you are being paid for this hardship--does seem to be more than slighly obsessive compulsive. If it weren't this boy it would be someone else. My only advice remains the same: if you want Henning to stop this mad hung, just hope he finds Son and keeps him found until he's done with him."
"And what does he want with him?" Furim asked.
Kokoschka studied the other as they continued on their task. Furim was still quite young, at twenty-six he was the youngest in the party, but even if he was green, with the ignorance of youth on his side, could he really not speculate what Henning had in mind for Son? What else would a maniacle creature like Henning want with an opponent taken alive rather than dead? This particular Tahch-jin employer must never be mistaken as harmless mad man.
He was a sadist. And a frightful one.
"I mean," Furim went on to say, adding to his own question, sounding as though he were more trying to reassure himself more than anything else, "I mean, the kid is still just a kid.You saw him, right? Twelve? Thirteen? Yeah, he's just a Saiya-jin and everything, but even if he did kill all those Aeesu-jin, it's not going to change the fact that he's-
"Shh." Kokoschka said, elbowing him roughly and glancing at the other Aeesu-jin in the squad to be sure none of them overheard. Never know who would take the opportunity of pointing out potential mutiny to Henning to climb the ladder all the faster. But no one was near. No one was listening.
Not waiting for or expecting a reply, Furim went on to say, "Y'know? I could almost feel sorry for the kid."
"Shh," the General repeated, then glanced left and right once more to assure himself. He murmered in reply, "I think most of us do."
------------------------
Gohan had never really learned the correct way to cope with trauma.
The opportunity to learn how had never been offered, since that first day he awoke after his first violently induced state of unconsciousness (courtesy of his uncle Radditz) and suddenly found himself in the care of the large green man introducing himself as "Piccolo". Perhaps at that time, in his little four-year-old heart, he knew how to deal with emotional pain, for when he was informed, through Piccolo's dead-pan monotone, that his father was dead, he was willing to shed his tears; grieve, deal with it in his own childish way.....
He was, that is, until his actions were abruptly cut short by the obviously not-yet-befriended Piccolo, who quickly yelled at him, all too seriously, "Start crying and I'll break your neck!"
And so he swallowed back his tears; his first lesson in supressing negative mental feelings.
It was quite a memorable introduction.
And from then on, through the next nine years of random unpleasant memories, it quickly became his sole method of dealing with the bad, unfair things that happened to him; it was easier, quicker, and, so far, it worked. Yes, it left a black residue in the back of his mind, the memories--hidden but still retaining their full intensity--came back with vivid detail in his dreams.
He kept promising himself that he would confront his interior misalignments, that he would chase away the bad memories rather then concealing them with shadows, but the time or opportunity never came up. As years past, and the darkness inside continued to grow, he lost the ambition to face it. It was too big, and his confidence continued to shrink and he doubted he had the power to withstand them all. So he went on, pretending it wasn't there, hoping that with time the inner problems would heal themselves go away on their own.
It hadn't happened yet, but he was yet stubbornly refusing to dig them up and fight them on a conscious level.
But he could deal with the darkness. As long as it remained hidden, he could function. Live. Survive.
But, though a day had passed, the memory of Bojack hitting him, holding him against the wall by his hair when he tried to fall to his knees, had yet to conceal itself under the dark swaths of his mind. Only occastionally could he slide it to the side and think functionably, but, when he wasn't consciously fighting it off, or tentatively groping at hope, it was sliding its way back to the surface of his thoughts. Relentless. Dominant.
Perhaps there was nowhere left inside him to hide it. Thirteen years of hidden memories could fill up a mind, couldn't it?
It bothered him. Troubled him. Ate away at him as he aimlessly walked through the the purple fields, unaware of the new, exotic flowers that had sprung up after the heavy rain from the previous day.
There was a particular muscle in his back that was knotted, a pinched nerve, just below his ribs and beside his spine. Impact wound. From either Bojack's fist or from being thrown against the rock wall. Every time he put weight on his left leg the knot antagonized him, pinching. It was at too awkward of an angle for him to masage it out. It was a plague.
At that moment, he desperately missed his mother. Kaasan, her fingers strong and nimble--expirienced from years or working out even the deepest knots from Tousan and his backs--could work the muscular ailment out within minutes.
For just a moment he closed his eyes, trying to hide behind the warm memory of Kaasan sitting on the side of his bed, masaging all his worries and anxieties and pain and memories out of him just by digging her knuckles into the meaty muscles of his shoulder blades, or rubbing slow circles along the sides of his spine at the small of his back with her palms. Singing quietly to him, telling him how proud of him she was, ruffling his hair lovingly.
But somehow the almost tangible memory changed itself, and the slender fingers rubbing his back soon became the sharp jab of stone as his body was thrown against them; and he could almost seen the flash of blue fists come crashing toward him, the hand in his hair now harsh, holding him up to keep him from collapsing....
It's only a memory! You're safe now!
He snarled loudly, forcing himself to focus his eyes on the reality around him. No rain. No stones pressed against his back. No fists. No blood. No threat. No Bojack. He was alone, on his knees, his hands covering his face from the unreal enemy.
Oh, this was such a bitch. He could not function in this condition. He slammed one fist into the ground, grabbing up a handful of dirt and grass and flowers. Raising the fistful over his shoulder, he threw it across the field, yelling at himself, "Stupid, stupid! What's your problem!? Get over it!" It was a rare occurance, indeed, when one of his inner voices became brave enough to speak aloud, rather than simply harping at him from within.
He made a vocal sound similar to, "Arrhh!!" as he began systematically pulling up hunks of mud and stone and dirt and foliage and heaving them in random directions. The roots of the plants made riiiiip-ing sounds as they were torn up, in the distance his ears heard the chnnk as the targetless missles struck down. All the while the pinched nerve in his back continued to hurt and each time he flung his arm out, projecting gobs of grit and plant, it loudly threatened to rebel.
His eyes widened and a chill ran up his spine as a queer feeling of deja vu taunted him behind a mask of mystery.
I can't do it.
So familiar. He'd said those words before. And it was with a sudden feeling of urgency he tried to remember when. I can't do it. He'd said it during the last agonizing leg of the fight with Cell, but that wasn't the particular memory he was looking for--or he was not yet ready to think of that particular time in his life. No, the time he was trying to recall was older, hidden deeper in his mind, beneath all the other concealed incidences.
------------------------
"...and he said we were going to do it today," Sunow was speaking to Freeza, throwing up his hands as he said, "But I don't even know what he has in mind! One minute he's asking questions, then he vanishes, seemingly completely confident and totally unconfident at the same time!"
"He gave you no hint as to what he had planned?" Freeza asked, mulled, a hand against his chin in thought. He was, admitably, curious about Son Gohan. Would the boy act like the other Saiya-jins he'd come into contact with, perhaps he could understand the bozu better. But therein lay the problem. Yes, by heritage, yes by technique, yes by instincts, yes by nature, yes, yes, yes, he was indeed Saiya-jin in a great many ways, but, kami, he was not a Saiya-jin! Freeza disliked being unable to understand a person, be they foe or be they ally.
Son Gohan was unpredictable. And that continued to remain unnerving.
"What are your confidences, Sunow-san?" he asked, his voice smooth and languid as ever; hell if he was going to let his ruffled feathers show, "Do you think it will work, the gaki's plan?"
Sunow could find no absolute answer. But speak he did, "Maybe. I hope. I think it's our best chance... I just wish I knew for sure."
Freeza snorted uneasily, tapping his nose with the back of one of his fingers. His tail brushed rapidly against the ground, upsetting the dust collected there. "So we wait, then?"
"We do."
So await Son Gohan they did.
They could feel it. Something big was going to happen. Soon. And once it did, it would only get bigger.
To be continued....