Chapter 6: The Second Son
Piccolo's head snapped up. Beside him, the child slept on; the tiny features of his face were barely illuminated by the meagre starlight that penetrated the recesses of the cave. Still, Namek eyes made up for the deficiency; one Son child, at least, was at peace tonight.
The other? There was no sense from the corner of Piccolo's mind where he kept Gohan's presense, a small shining place behind the two shadowy giants who shared souls with him. Nail and Kami, their conscious selves subsumed under his, murmured discontentedly and incomprehensibly at the noises from his bond with Gohan.
Piccolo left them and quested out from within himself, his senses blooming out to cover hundreds of miles; ocean to ocean, he felt the landscape of energy. Yes. There it was. A strong ki, and vibrating in concert with the uncomfortable snatches of thought he was receiving; Gohan, the familiar soul, his ki rising. And beside it, erratic, now barely perceptible, now overflowing with an energy that was enough to burst a small moon-- Vegeta.
Since Gohan had been just a little boy, Piccolo had found himself in a completely helpless position with regard to him. That corner of his mind which he shared with the boy was the brightest portion of his soul; to lose it would be unthinkable. Much as he knew that a student must be allowed to fight his own battles, in the end, he had no choice but to intervene; better to die himself than let that light be extinguished. Gohan could probably handle Vegeta, no matter the trouble; and as for Vegeta's own problem, Piccolo was willing to assume the man had brought it on himself. Nonetheless, he extended his feet down to the floor from where he'd been hovering. He laid the voluminous white cape over Goten, preparing to leave him, and suddenly frowned. Would it be safe to leave the child? Was he choosing one son over the other?
Confidence filled him, coming from Nail; Dende had had a connection with him, Dende was God of the Earth; Dende would watch over the child. The part of him that was Nail was certain. It was settled, then; Goten yawned in his sleep, and put his thumb into his mouth. Piccolo left the cave and took flight.
Eyes closed, concentrating on Gohan's ki, he took a direction. Capsule Corps. He'd had an inkling they had planned a some sort of prank on Vegeta; it was just possible that this was part of it, and he was overreacting. But something told him he wasn't; something told him that there was more afoot that night than anyone truly realized. The air was chill, and smelled of ozone. A nervous flock of birds on a course perpendicular to his fluttered around him, and he pushed his speed until the wind smarted against his eyes; it had been almost the behavior of birds before a hurricane or a windstorm, trying to grab hold of anything solid they could find in order to withstand the deluge--
Birds? In the night?
Piccolo stopped in the air and quickly pulled all his senses away from the conflict ahead of him and into the here and now. The birds passed around him, and he wheeled; and smelled now what he should have as soon as he awakened. Smoke. To his left, and behind, where he had come from; and then he saw, racing across the night forest, the low orange flickerings of forest fire.
Gohan's distress was becoming increasingly evident in his mind. The fire raced across the woods; this was no natural fire, Piccolo realized. No, and the coincidence with the incident at Capsule Corps was too much to accept. Someone was behind this. Someone with a knowledge of the Saiyans, and the instinct to seize an opportunity as it struck. And Piccolo found himself, after months of waiting in the woods with nothing BUT time, suddenly and utterly at a lack for it.
Snarling, he turned for the cave. No time, even, to make a decision; simply trust that the older son would come through; simply turn to the problem at hand. After all, he had made a promise. The fire blocked his way; eventually, there would be nowhere to go but through it, and hope the kid wasn't too badly hurt for Dende to tend. Assuming he could make it to the Lookout in time. Piccolo cursed having left his cloak in the cave; he had nothing to shield himself with, and no time to improvise. Hopefully Goten would instinctively find some use for it.
The smoke stung his eyes. Piccolo flew faster; down, closer to the trees. There was no going around it. It felt as if there were no air at all, so he stopped breathing. Just have to make it on what he already had in his lungs. For once and for all, the great champion Ma Junior roundly cursed Saiyans, babysitting, and all the annoyances of children that he could think of. It was getting very, very hot.
Gohan was fighting a losing battle. Surprisingly, with the new inches he'd put on, he was now approximately the same height as the prince; but Vegeta was wider, heavier, his physique mature. Not to mention the fact that Vegeta was thrashing wildly, at random; there was no predicting when an elbow would come crashing against his ribs, or his head slam against his shoulder. And Vegeta was far too far gone to pull any punches. His mother had gone to fetch Bulma; and although he was trying to keep calm, he felt terrified, utterly terrified. Vegeta was unconscious; he had never before found himself in a position where there was not even a theoretical way to end a threat to himself and others. It wasn't as if hitting Vegeta would do any good. Unless he were to kill him. No-- Gohan shook that thought away, horrified, as he took a shoulder to his ribs. That was not an acceptible thought. His mother was there. He would protect everyone. He would protect Vegeta. Like a marionette, Vegeta jerked again, and ki flew from his fingertips at the ground. The tree was still on fire. Gohan shut his eyes and prayed for it to stop, for him to stop, please, please, for Vegeta to just go to sleep, to stop. An elbow took him in the bottom of the ribcage, and he felt it crack.
"AAIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!"
Bulma's cry took him by surprise, and Vegeta's body jerked to the ground, flopping ignominiously in the dust. Bulma ran to his side, and Gohan barely mustered the awareness to throw out an arm to stop her, breathing hard as he clutched his injured chest.
"Stay back," he warned. "He's unconscious-- he could hurt you!"
"Gohan!" Bulma looked at him in shock. She was wearing a loose blue nightshirt, faded, and her hair was all askew; tension wracked her, and she seemed barely able to stand straight; she hunched towards Vegeta, unable to turn away. Gohan dropped his arm, and she straightened herself a little, then suddenly turned on him again, fierce. "What did you do to him?" she screamed, voice breaking.
Gohan didn't know what to say. His rib hurt too badly to stand; Vegeta must have broken two or three, and he could tell from the wooly feeling in his head that he'd been hit on the skull at some point too. The whole thing seemed so stupid, all of a sudden, and unreal; there wasn't even an enemy!
"Cherry soda," he said numbly, "And muscle relaxants. We don't know what happened."
"Who's 'we'?"
"... Ma..." he said. Where was his mother? Why wasn't she with Bulma?
"Well, he seems to be calming down a little," Bulma said. He allowed her to shove him aside, and kneel beside Vegeta. His ribcage was a sharp torment, as if knives stabbed him. He was barely able to breathe; and he felt hot all over. A fever? Or was it even his own sensations he was feeling?
"Pulse is... it's far too low... what kind of relaxers?" Bulma muttered, turning scientist.
"Bulma," said Gohan. Something was very wrong. Vegeta lay still on the ground, barely breathing, and behind them a tree was quietly burning itself down to ashes. His ki was rising. "Bulma!" Gohan said. Bulma looked around, Vegeta's limp wrist in her hand; panicking, he finally managed to unfreeze himself, to pull back into control of the scenario. This, at least, was something he could deal with; the monster's energy is rising. A friend is in danger. A little roughly, because he was in too much pain to care-- and not even entirely sure it was his own, this strange fire he felt racing down his veins-- he batted Bulma aside. She flew against the ground, and he was between them when Vegeta's back arched, his spiny hair flickering gold with energy; Gohan threw his hands into a block, knowing it wouldn't be enough, no time now to transform himself, and then the energy was on him and around him, coming through the barrier, he couldn't hold it, and then in truth he was on fire.
He blacked out, momentarily, from the sheer impact. It was nothing so focused as a Kamehameha or even a Gallic Gun, Vegeta had no control for that sort of direct attack; but it was every ounce of ki remaining in Vegeta's body, expelled into both of their bodies by some subconscious will to fight; a last-ditch maneuvre. When the fire was gone, Vegeta was spent; his chest barely rose, and the palms of his hands were singed. Gohan lay panting; he had been injured worse, much worse the year before; a concussion, broken ribs, perhaps a sprain in the left knee and a general beating would not be too much for his body to heal on its own, provided Bulma didn't kill him.
On the other side of him, he heard more than saw Bulma pull herself up to a seated position. She looked afraid, more afraid than he had ever seen her; she stared over him at Vegeta's body, dirty and pathetic, lying like a corpse. Blood dripped from his nose and tongue. She hesitated to go to him, glancing at Gohan.
"Go," he managed. "It's safe now."
Bulma ran to Vegeta's side, taking his hand in hers. Her face was very white, but motionless, as if she were afraid even of what she might betray if she moved any part of it. Gohan shifted uncomfortably on the ground; inside the house, he now noticed, Trunks cried on. Where was his mother?
High above the world, a blackened arm extended slowly above the lip of a white tiled floor. Shaking, the creature established its grip.
Some time passed.
Another arm, then, swathed in an incredibly dirty cape, rose, and deposited its burden; a small, unhappy, dark-haired child, smeared with soot and breathing unevenly. Son Goten, alive, and safe.
The arm dropped, and Piccolo hung from the edge of Kami's Lookout. His Lookout. He seemed to be having trouble remembering who he was; there was only fire, and more fire, and a child, and this place. But he remembered enough to know he was done now. He felt a deep sense of relief.
Is it time to pass out? He asked himself, and a voice inside him said, yes.
The fingers relaxed; Piccolo dropped from the sky like a stone. It was a long way down.
Piccolo's head snapped up. Beside him, the child slept on; the tiny features of his face were barely illuminated by the meagre starlight that penetrated the recesses of the cave. Still, Namek eyes made up for the deficiency; one Son child, at least, was at peace tonight.
The other? There was no sense from the corner of Piccolo's mind where he kept Gohan's presense, a small shining place behind the two shadowy giants who shared souls with him. Nail and Kami, their conscious selves subsumed under his, murmured discontentedly and incomprehensibly at the noises from his bond with Gohan.
Piccolo left them and quested out from within himself, his senses blooming out to cover hundreds of miles; ocean to ocean, he felt the landscape of energy. Yes. There it was. A strong ki, and vibrating in concert with the uncomfortable snatches of thought he was receiving; Gohan, the familiar soul, his ki rising. And beside it, erratic, now barely perceptible, now overflowing with an energy that was enough to burst a small moon-- Vegeta.
Since Gohan had been just a little boy, Piccolo had found himself in a completely helpless position with regard to him. That corner of his mind which he shared with the boy was the brightest portion of his soul; to lose it would be unthinkable. Much as he knew that a student must be allowed to fight his own battles, in the end, he had no choice but to intervene; better to die himself than let that light be extinguished. Gohan could probably handle Vegeta, no matter the trouble; and as for Vegeta's own problem, Piccolo was willing to assume the man had brought it on himself. Nonetheless, he extended his feet down to the floor from where he'd been hovering. He laid the voluminous white cape over Goten, preparing to leave him, and suddenly frowned. Would it be safe to leave the child? Was he choosing one son over the other?
Confidence filled him, coming from Nail; Dende had had a connection with him, Dende was God of the Earth; Dende would watch over the child. The part of him that was Nail was certain. It was settled, then; Goten yawned in his sleep, and put his thumb into his mouth. Piccolo left the cave and took flight.
Eyes closed, concentrating on Gohan's ki, he took a direction. Capsule Corps. He'd had an inkling they had planned a some sort of prank on Vegeta; it was just possible that this was part of it, and he was overreacting. But something told him he wasn't; something told him that there was more afoot that night than anyone truly realized. The air was chill, and smelled of ozone. A nervous flock of birds on a course perpendicular to his fluttered around him, and he pushed his speed until the wind smarted against his eyes; it had been almost the behavior of birds before a hurricane or a windstorm, trying to grab hold of anything solid they could find in order to withstand the deluge--
Birds? In the night?
Piccolo stopped in the air and quickly pulled all his senses away from the conflict ahead of him and into the here and now. The birds passed around him, and he wheeled; and smelled now what he should have as soon as he awakened. Smoke. To his left, and behind, where he had come from; and then he saw, racing across the night forest, the low orange flickerings of forest fire.
Gohan's distress was becoming increasingly evident in his mind. The fire raced across the woods; this was no natural fire, Piccolo realized. No, and the coincidence with the incident at Capsule Corps was too much to accept. Someone was behind this. Someone with a knowledge of the Saiyans, and the instinct to seize an opportunity as it struck. And Piccolo found himself, after months of waiting in the woods with nothing BUT time, suddenly and utterly at a lack for it.
Snarling, he turned for the cave. No time, even, to make a decision; simply trust that the older son would come through; simply turn to the problem at hand. After all, he had made a promise. The fire blocked his way; eventually, there would be nowhere to go but through it, and hope the kid wasn't too badly hurt for Dende to tend. Assuming he could make it to the Lookout in time. Piccolo cursed having left his cloak in the cave; he had nothing to shield himself with, and no time to improvise. Hopefully Goten would instinctively find some use for it.
The smoke stung his eyes. Piccolo flew faster; down, closer to the trees. There was no going around it. It felt as if there were no air at all, so he stopped breathing. Just have to make it on what he already had in his lungs. For once and for all, the great champion Ma Junior roundly cursed Saiyans, babysitting, and all the annoyances of children that he could think of. It was getting very, very hot.
Gohan was fighting a losing battle. Surprisingly, with the new inches he'd put on, he was now approximately the same height as the prince; but Vegeta was wider, heavier, his physique mature. Not to mention the fact that Vegeta was thrashing wildly, at random; there was no predicting when an elbow would come crashing against his ribs, or his head slam against his shoulder. And Vegeta was far too far gone to pull any punches. His mother had gone to fetch Bulma; and although he was trying to keep calm, he felt terrified, utterly terrified. Vegeta was unconscious; he had never before found himself in a position where there was not even a theoretical way to end a threat to himself and others. It wasn't as if hitting Vegeta would do any good. Unless he were to kill him. No-- Gohan shook that thought away, horrified, as he took a shoulder to his ribs. That was not an acceptible thought. His mother was there. He would protect everyone. He would protect Vegeta. Like a marionette, Vegeta jerked again, and ki flew from his fingertips at the ground. The tree was still on fire. Gohan shut his eyes and prayed for it to stop, for him to stop, please, please, for Vegeta to just go to sleep, to stop. An elbow took him in the bottom of the ribcage, and he felt it crack.
"AAIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!"
Bulma's cry took him by surprise, and Vegeta's body jerked to the ground, flopping ignominiously in the dust. Bulma ran to his side, and Gohan barely mustered the awareness to throw out an arm to stop her, breathing hard as he clutched his injured chest.
"Stay back," he warned. "He's unconscious-- he could hurt you!"
"Gohan!" Bulma looked at him in shock. She was wearing a loose blue nightshirt, faded, and her hair was all askew; tension wracked her, and she seemed barely able to stand straight; she hunched towards Vegeta, unable to turn away. Gohan dropped his arm, and she straightened herself a little, then suddenly turned on him again, fierce. "What did you do to him?" she screamed, voice breaking.
Gohan didn't know what to say. His rib hurt too badly to stand; Vegeta must have broken two or three, and he could tell from the wooly feeling in his head that he'd been hit on the skull at some point too. The whole thing seemed so stupid, all of a sudden, and unreal; there wasn't even an enemy!
"Cherry soda," he said numbly, "And muscle relaxants. We don't know what happened."
"Who's 'we'?"
"... Ma..." he said. Where was his mother? Why wasn't she with Bulma?
"Well, he seems to be calming down a little," Bulma said. He allowed her to shove him aside, and kneel beside Vegeta. His ribcage was a sharp torment, as if knives stabbed him. He was barely able to breathe; and he felt hot all over. A fever? Or was it even his own sensations he was feeling?
"Pulse is... it's far too low... what kind of relaxers?" Bulma muttered, turning scientist.
"Bulma," said Gohan. Something was very wrong. Vegeta lay still on the ground, barely breathing, and behind them a tree was quietly burning itself down to ashes. His ki was rising. "Bulma!" Gohan said. Bulma looked around, Vegeta's limp wrist in her hand; panicking, he finally managed to unfreeze himself, to pull back into control of the scenario. This, at least, was something he could deal with; the monster's energy is rising. A friend is in danger. A little roughly, because he was in too much pain to care-- and not even entirely sure it was his own, this strange fire he felt racing down his veins-- he batted Bulma aside. She flew against the ground, and he was between them when Vegeta's back arched, his spiny hair flickering gold with energy; Gohan threw his hands into a block, knowing it wouldn't be enough, no time now to transform himself, and then the energy was on him and around him, coming through the barrier, he couldn't hold it, and then in truth he was on fire.
He blacked out, momentarily, from the sheer impact. It was nothing so focused as a Kamehameha or even a Gallic Gun, Vegeta had no control for that sort of direct attack; but it was every ounce of ki remaining in Vegeta's body, expelled into both of their bodies by some subconscious will to fight; a last-ditch maneuvre. When the fire was gone, Vegeta was spent; his chest barely rose, and the palms of his hands were singed. Gohan lay panting; he had been injured worse, much worse the year before; a concussion, broken ribs, perhaps a sprain in the left knee and a general beating would not be too much for his body to heal on its own, provided Bulma didn't kill him.
On the other side of him, he heard more than saw Bulma pull herself up to a seated position. She looked afraid, more afraid than he had ever seen her; she stared over him at Vegeta's body, dirty and pathetic, lying like a corpse. Blood dripped from his nose and tongue. She hesitated to go to him, glancing at Gohan.
"Go," he managed. "It's safe now."
Bulma ran to Vegeta's side, taking his hand in hers. Her face was very white, but motionless, as if she were afraid even of what she might betray if she moved any part of it. Gohan shifted uncomfortably on the ground; inside the house, he now noticed, Trunks cried on. Where was his mother?
High above the world, a blackened arm extended slowly above the lip of a white tiled floor. Shaking, the creature established its grip.
Some time passed.
Another arm, then, swathed in an incredibly dirty cape, rose, and deposited its burden; a small, unhappy, dark-haired child, smeared with soot and breathing unevenly. Son Goten, alive, and safe.
The arm dropped, and Piccolo hung from the edge of Kami's Lookout. His Lookout. He seemed to be having trouble remembering who he was; there was only fire, and more fire, and a child, and this place. But he remembered enough to know he was done now. He felt a deep sense of relief.
Is it time to pass out? He asked himself, and a voice inside him said, yes.
The fingers relaxed; Piccolo dropped from the sky like a stone. It was a long way down.