Chapter 18: The Breaking of the Fortress
In an empty barracks in an army base under seige, two figures moved beside one another, quickly and passionately, striking foot and fist, across the room and around it, leaving destruction in their wake. Bedding and splintered bunks littered the floor, as they did the floor of the previous rooms this violent dance had moved from. The woman's hair, disheveled and slept-on, flashed back and forth like great black snakes, trying to escape its ribbon. Her hands flashed as quickly, almost too fast for a human to move. The man-- he was too fast for a human to move, faster than her, his body barely moving as he blocked her attacks, landing his own. He was winning. Chichi's body, a great burn running down the side of her ribcage, was battered and bruised; the side of her face a ruinous, angry splotch; blood ran unnoticed from her lip. Her left arm was sluggish-- but still remarkably mobile, considering the knife slash that had left the forearm bone bare. Her sleeve was soaked black with the bleeding. Her energy was almost spent; still she forced her body to move at its full speed, feeding off of her desperation instead of her ki. Her only options were to fight or to perish.
Nonetheless, she was laughing, laughing in exultation. In that left hand was a rather small, rather nasty looking knife. The sort of knife an assassin would carry. And Tao Pai Pai was fuming.
He ducked low, evading the sharp knife thrust, taking the opportunity to try a sweep, and she jumped over him nimbly, her swollen ankle turning away his attempt to grab it; she stomped on his back, knocking him further, then landing nimbly. The ankle didn't seem to be bothering her anymore; and had she somehow gotten faster as she had grown tireder? Such thoughts bothered him. He knew he was stronger, more experienced; she couldn't even throw a simple dodon-pa attack. He turned, preparing his energy, but was already rushing in, knife threatening his hand, and he was forced to abort for the thousandth time. Yes, she had strategy, this woman; it had been a clever maneuvre that forced him to use a two-handed block, the sheer force of her left arm levering the knife out of his hand by the blade. She knew how to make sacrifices to gain the advantage. So did he.
He did not dodge the knife; he had the energy ready to hand, although not ready to throw at her. Instead he channeled it into the blade, giving it a final regretful glance.
Chichi yelped as the knife suddenly grew molten hot, and let go; it clattered to the floor, steel blackening in the new tempering, then shattered, too brittle from the heat. She glared at Tao Pai Pai. That advantage had been hard bought; soon she wouldn't be able to use the left arm at all, and the blood leaving her body was taking her strength with it. Her whole body felt raw, like a dish that had been scraped clean with steel wool.
Tao Pai Pai attacked. "We are alike, you and I," he said, smiling nonchalantly. "Cunning. Devious. We know how to get the job done, whatever it takes, you and I. In the time I have watched you, I have thought to myself-- were she not so weak, this is a woman to my liking."
Chichi winced under a painful hit to her gut, responding with a lucky shot to his knee. "Go to hell," she said. "I am nothing like you."
"Oh?" Tao laughed, nodding over his shoulder. "Tell that to him!"
Ten minutes had long since passed, but Vegeta still lay prone as he had since Tao stopped exerting his mind control over him. Perhaps the formula was well enough designed that it knew to wait for some cue from its creator. Chichi risked a glance at him, heart sinking.
"It was that ruthlessness that I saw in you," Tao continued, all the while attacking: "the hardness of your heart-- that led me to believe I could use you. As my instrument. My dear Chichi, I did not even have to prod you in the right direction! Give you time and you will be the undoing of all your friends-- just as you weakened your son!"
Chichi breathed heavily. She could not catch her breath. The attacks, the danger-- she could not think clearly enough to respond. Was what he was saying true? Was all of this her fault? She seemed to remember it being her fault-- but she had no time to consider it. Should she let him kill her, stop defending herself? Could it be that this was what she deserved?
"Neaaaaaauughhh!" She screamed, attacking him the more ferociously. A tiger-hand attack raked his face, and the whirling elbow of her left arm took him in the windpipe, staggering him even as exquisite pain blossomed down the bone, throbbing where it was exposed to air. She couldn't stand to see Vegeta's face, accusing her. Anything to get away from it, to stop him from playing with her mind. Using yet more reserves she did not have, she battered at his defenses, forcing him back, back towards the door. That was his strategy, she knew, and it infuriated her: make her mad, make her spend her energy, and he would take her by stamina. But for now, she could force him. Push him back. Into the hallway.
It was deserted there, too; all the troops had gone to fight some battle outside. Gohan, maybe? Had he found her at last?
The tide of battle turned her around, giving her a glance down a side hall. No- not deserted. There were two soldiers there, women-- deserters? Very well-- she took a blow to the head, but shook it off. She'd hope they didn't recognize her for the prisoner.
"Help me!" she called. "He's trying to kill me!"
She was totally unprepared for the response she got.
"Chichi!"
The voice behind the stunned exclamation was unmistakeably familiar. Chichi paused momentarily in her assault on the assassin, and could not resist turning to see-- could it be?
"Bulma! ? ?"
"Haa!" With a guttural yell that seemed to rip his throat, Tao Pai Pai sent an energy blast over her shoulder, sending the two blue-haired women scattering. One of them was Bulma; the other could almost have been her twin, but she staggered as she dove away from the blast, letting it catch her in the unbandaged leg. Chichi didn't recognize her.
"Get away! Get help!" Chichi shrieked, turning back towards Tao Pai Pai. Attack her friends, would he? She turned just in time to see his foot coming towards her face for the second time that day.
* * *
"Hold! Hold!" Gohan shouted frantically towards Tenshinhan, hoping they would hear him. "They'll kill my mother!"
"There is nothing to stop them from killing her anyway," Piccolo said, his voice curt; but there was a harsh, raw emotion behind it. "We can bring her back. She has never died yet."
Gohan's mind wavered; his sensei was right. Piccolo-san was always right about such things. But-- "No!" his voice cried out, strangled. Several of the soldiers looked up at him; he noticed them in some corner of his mind. He felt... lost, not understanding why he could not bring himself to listen to reason. Somehow he could not bear to think--
Then it all came clear. Piccolo was turning, ignoring his request for his own best interests; a fighter of his experience could understand the difficult emotions of a battlefield and distance them from a winning strategy. That was the sort of fighter Gohan knew he had never been, could never be. But wasn't this his battle, after all?
"Piccolo, please," Gohan said, his voice strained. Piccolo turned, the patient tolerance of a teacher dealing with a recalcitrant but beloved student scrawled across his face for all the world to see. How to make him understand?
"I... I couldn't bear it." Gohan closed his eyes. He would not let the tears come. "I know it's a trap. I know she may already be dead. But if I... if they kill her... it would be on my hands. Just like-- just like back then--"
He opened his eyes. "I could not bear it, Piccolo," he said. "Please. Not now. Not both of them."
Piccolo hovered there, a wind playing at the edges of his cape. Gohan could watch the emotions warring across his face. Above them, like a message from heaven, the video feed played on; Chichi hung above them literally as her life hung in their hands. The immutable green figure was still, his body unreadable; only his eyes betrayed any inner conflict. Gohan held his breath; it came down to this moment. His future, the health of his spirit; wasn't Piccolo also his friend?
Then, as if someone inside of him had surrendered, Piccolo's face came together, and he turned away, letting his arms fall to his sides.
"Tenshinhan!" called the Namek, his great bass voice rebounding across the field. "Hold and wait!"
In the forest, the sounds of battle ceased; bringing to the fore the rumbling whine of the approaching aircraft.
Gohan felt a gratitude inexpressible in words towards his teacher. To have made the wrong strategic decision-- and he knew it was the wrong decision-- simply because his friend asked it of him; this was probably one of the hardest things he could ever have asked of a man such as Piccolo. Already it seemed to him that his teacher seemed haggard, struggling under the weight of the consequence of his decision even as he had made it.
"Thank you," Gohan breathed.
Piccolo did not turn. "Thank me later," he said. His nose twitched. "Gas. A tranquilizer."
Gohan looked up; the airplanes had come into range. Behind them trailed a rain of thick, smoky dust.
* * *
Chichi fell, slipping for a second into a strange unconscious dream that evaporated beyond memory as her head struck the floor painfully, to be followed by a brutal rain blows to her now unprotected stomach and torso. Clearly she was being beaten to death; but why was she so exhausted in heart and soul? Where--
The world slipped gradually into a foggy sort of focus. The man was Tao Pai Pai. He was going to kill her. Down the hall, the strange woman was keening piteously, and... shrinking? Bulma was shooting at them with a rifle, but somehow the bullets pinged from Tao's body. Was he partially metal, or just good with ki?
She pulled her legs in to protect her stomach, her arms over her head. Had to protect herself. Had to get up. Had to get up somehow. She almost laughed. With what strength? What had she using to fight with before, oxygen? No matter. Just get up. Get up, Chichi, get up!
Startlingly, she did.
Tao Pai Pai paused in his barrage of blows, then started again, aiming a shot at her head.
She blocked it with her left hand.
She knew she shouldn't have been able to do that; her left arm was too badly injured to hold against such a furious blow. But somewhere along the line she seemed to have lost all connection between her mind and her body. She couldn't even feel her limbs, and her heart sounded heavy and slow. Her mind was floating in a strange land; somewhere else, her body fought on, like a film she was watching.
Chichi watched the woman who was herself begin to move more swiftly. There, she knew that block; that was a Turtle Style kata-- yes, there was the dip and the two-stage attack. Surprisingly effective; it had scored a hit on him. She hadn't used that attack in years, hadn't realized she still remembered it. But what was this attack, though, that she was doing now? She thought she recognized it-- yes, from watching Gohan practice with Piccolo. It was one of her son's attacks. She remembered liking it; she must have somehow memorized it without noticing. A good attack, using his smaller size to advantage against a strong opponent; yes, Tao Pai Pai's arm was weakened now. Why wasn't her body doing anything about it? It was still attacking; beating down upon him, and blocking him much faster than she could remember moving since she had been only in her late teens. Faster even than that. As fast as she had ever seen a human move. All the fights she'd seen, all the training she'd had to follow them-- somehow they had broken past her consciousness straight into her body, making her as strong as she had ever been in her life. But it was not attacking intelligently; the arm was weak. She should attack him there, disable it completely. A throw she'd seen Goku use many times; that would do the trick. Why wasn't her body trying it? She had to get back! Back into control!
Like diving into a cold pool, Chichi suddenly broke through into full consciousness. Her senses came back to her in a burst of pain; ringing in her ears, she could hear Bulma cursing her gun for being out of bullets; she could smell the sharp warmth of Tao Pai Pai's rancid breath. Her heart was fluttering dangerously fast, and her neck was hot. She staggered under the assault of her senses, and for a moment her motion faltered. Her arm felt like molten lead. She couldn't move them. She was sinking down into pain and defeat... no! She had to keep control. She had Tao Pai Pai off balance, she couldn't let up now. Break the enslavement of the body to the rules of logic and physics; direct it to do what she wanted of it. Consequences later. Now!
Summoning all her anger, distancing herself from the screaming pain of every bruise in her body, she directed her muscles to try Goku's attack-- they complied. When she didn't think too hard about it, the movements flowed from her memory like water. There was a crack as Tao's shoulder came from his socket, and he howled. Now another kata-- make him block awkwardly with his left leg, and the right knee she'd been attacking since the battle started would be strained--
Tao Pai Pai wobbled in the extended block, his knee shaking. Chichi wheeled, forcing him to lean further-- and the assassin fell. Without waiting to think about the wisdom of her actions, she dove in and tackled him, grappling his flailing arm around. She kicked viciously at the knee, knocking his kneecap out of place, then reached into his coat. Her hand scrabbled blindly as he thrashed under her-- there! One more dart. She knew him, it was true-- there was a grain of truth to what he'd said about their similarities. He'd saved one more weapon. One more poison dart.
She whipped it forth, holding it at his neck. The point jabbed into his skin, denting it without actually piercing it. Acid bubbled from the tip, as if lusting after him. Sweat broke out on the assassin's forehead. Tao Pai Pai was suddenly very, very still.
* * *
Outside of the fortress, the hundreds of troops commanded by General Gao had pulled masks over their faces, shielding them from the effects of the gas, and pulled into positions surrounding the effectively surrendered warriors. Gohan stood in a daze, his aura still protecting him from their approach; Chaotzu, already downed, had been carried over to them, accompanied by an infuriated Tenshinhan, hands tied behind his back. The gently falling anesthetic dust blanketed all the noise of the clearing, and its dizzying effect on his head furthered the effect, until it felt like he was smothering in a very fluffy couch. Only Piccolo still stood straight; but his head was bowed, whether from the gas or from defeat, it was impossible to tell.
Gohan knew he would not hold out much longer. Soon, his mind would close up entirely. There was no sign of Kuririn or Yamucha; further to the rear, they must have been hit by the drug already. Soon he would be a prisoner. But at least he would not have caused the death of his mother as he had his father. At least he could die with his conscience that clear. He only wished-- he wasn't so helpless. It was humiliating, to stand here powerless, to be drugged, not even killed in battle. It was very... human.
Gohan forced his head upright. If he had to fall this way, at least he would hold out as long as he could. Perhaps transformed he would stand longer, and have that much to say to his father when he faced his humiliation upon meeting him in heaven. He gathered his energy to himself; the transformation was almost easy, now, after living in its skin for months. Painful, yes, but exhilarating; and if he did not do it in anger, he could control it. He forced his energy up past what his human side could bear, forcing his body's energy channels to expand, forcing his body to change-- he flickered gold, suddenly, and stood straighter, his head clearing. The soldiers drew back, forced by his aura, but also shocked at what they watched. Beside him, Piccolo raised his head, and turned to look at his student; all regret had been replaced with pride. Together, they would fall; but they would stand together for as long as it took.
* * *
Bulma threw the empty gun down, kicking it away with a curse. Damn it, why must they always face opponents who couldn't be defeated by technology? It wasn't fair! And Puar, lying there keening in agony-- what was she going to tell Yamucha? Why had she given those damned senzu beans away?
As Bulma was about to reflect that, seeing that Vegeta had somehow been captured, maybe she didn't need to make any kinds of apology to Yamucha after all, when Chichi stood up, miraculously, and suddenly began to move.
Her jaw dropped. Chichi? As much of a fighter as all that? She hadn't seen much of the battle, but from what she'd just witnessed, her friend had been losing. Badly. On the floor and about to be beaten to death, in point of fact. But now-- Bulma cocked her head. She'd seen enough tournaments to know a thing or two. Wasn't that one of Gohan's moves? Then a throw, and ah- whoops, wobbling there--
And just like that, he was down.
Bulma rushed forward, leaving Puar half-transformed in the hallway. Chichi had him by the neck.
"Bring a rope," she gasped, spitting blood from her mouth. "Tie him up. It's--"
"I know who he is," said Bulma, crossing her arms. Between saving the enemy soldiers, and Puar falling, and Yamucha completely failing her, not to mention Vegeta's illness, she had had about enough of mysteries. Here was an enemy she knew. Tao Pai Pai. Here was someone who had definitely caused more than his share of trouble for them already.
Bulma pulled the screwdriver from her purse. Chichi was looking down, concentrating on maintaining her hold on Tao. She glanced at the metal shaft once-- and then drove it home, deep, deep into Tao Pai Pai's chest.
Chichi had recoiled in horror. Shaking, wiping her hands nervously on her shirt, Bulma couldn't blame her. She had just killed a man-- an evil man-- but killed him in cold blood.
"How's that for being defeated by technology?" said Bulma.
Her opponent gone, Chichi seemed suddenly too fatigued to make any protest, or even to care. She collapsed heavily against the lintel of the door to the barracks, breathing weakly. Her arm was a mess of blood and tissue, cradled to her body. She seemed dazed, as if she could barely even keep the one usable eye she still had open. But Bulma felt no pity. Gazing past the wreck, she could see into the chaos of the next room-- and the dark-haired figure slumped there on the floor. Vegeta, at long last-- and perhaps too late.
Bulma glanced at the both of the piteous figures, thinking back over the events of the past three hours. Chichi had probably saved at least the three of their lives. With three quick strides, Bulma came forward to stand before her-- and then slapped her in the face, hard.
"Don't you ever pull a stunt like this again! What were you thinking! You idiot, what were you thinking!"
Chichi, her hand grasping her cheek, found her voice at last. "I... I'm sorry. Bulma, I'm so, so sorry." Her voice trembled from weakness.
"Sorry isn't good enough!" Bulma frowned, staring down at the pale woman. She honestly looked like she was about to die herself. Although that didn't forgive her crimes. "Why are you sending a looped feed of yourself to the outside of the base? Is it another part of this stupid, misguided master plan?"
"I... what?"
"Never mind," Bulma smirked. She jerked her screwdriver from Tao Pai Pai's chest in a gush of blood, then brandished it like a sword. "I Bulma Briefs, greatest assassin in the world," she kicked the unmoving body, "Will take care of it."
And she marched back to the circuit panel.
* * *
Gohan stood, head up straight and unflinching. Tenshinhan had long since fallen; he and Chaotzu were tied, bagged, captured. Even Piccolo's breath was ragged; the proud warrior's head had fallen three times to his chest, and soon he would no longer be able to keep himself upright. The soldiers were already moving in on him with chains and ropes. Still the soft rain of dust from the airplanes fell. Still no signs of Yamucha, Kuririn.
His golden aura was thready; the energy that sustained his transformation was keeping him from the effects of the sedative, but could not stop it working on his system. The Super Saiyajin form would keep him fighting for as long as he could sustain it, no matter the damage he took; and that included the toxins he was encountering. But once he grew too tired from the effects and dropped the aura, he would fall, and fall quickly.
He glanced up at the projection on the clouds, the image of his mother. His eyes must have been getting foggy. He could swear that she had moved in just that way only ten minutes ago. The gas was giving him deja vu.
Then his mother winked out.
The soldiers, moving about efficiently in their gas masks, processing the new hostages, hadn't noticed; Gohan squinted up at the clouds. The new image that was being projected was of the same room, the same angle-- but now instead of a cage, there was a cluster of shattered iron bars, and two men in military uniform, giving orders.
"She's gone," he whispered. Then the full implications hit him. "Piccolo! She isn't there! It was a recording-- a loop!"
Beside him, Piccolo was sagging; it looked like he was about to melt into his cape. Half lidded, he said: "Of course. Does this mean we fight now?"
Gohan wanted to soar up into that cloud. She had escaped. His mother had escaped. They were free!
With the last of his energy, he jumped into the sky. The projector was guttering off, someone having realized its function was no longer relevant. Gohan raised his arms to the sky, gathering energy.
"Masenko- haa!"
The blast obliterated the two duster planes, burning even the dust that remained of them into inert ashes. The drug stopped falling. From his new perspective, Gohan could see about half a mile off that many tanks and troops were coming from a great distance, coming slowly-- the army that the ruse of the tape had been buying time for. Flashes of light in their ranks were Yamucha and Kuririn-- not down after all, but delaying their arrival. A Kamehameha wave in the distance took out a row of soldiers; a flying flash battled a small fighter plane.
Gohan swept down; he could feel the drug leaving his system, slowly. Piccolo had fallen to his knees, though, and his friends were still far away.
A figure was making its way through the ranks of infantry-- one he recognized.
"General Gao," he said.
The man smirked behind his gas mask-- an almost indistinguishable squinting of the eyes.
"You can't win," he said. His voice was nasal from behind the mask, like an alien's. He seemed to be twitching. "One boy, even a flying boy, against an entire army? Your friends are gone. Surrender, and my soldiers will spare your life. You can't possibly defeat an entire army by yourself!"
Gohan let his feet touch the ground, alighting a mere five meters from the general. The wind from his aurora swept through the hair of the soldiers that were standing nearby; they rushed into a defensive formation around their general, but Gao stood his ground bravely against the apparation that stood before him-- this lanky, angry, somber-faced boy.
"My father did, once," he said.
"You refer to Son Goku," said the general, sneering. The golden wind was whipping through his hair. "A great man. A champion of the human race, and winner of the Tenkaichi Budokai. The strongest of us all, and conqueror of the Red Ribbon Army. Defeated that menace you're so fond of back there, didn't he?" He nodded his head towards the slumping Piccolo, then turned his sneer back onto the glowing figure he faced. "You, my boy," he said, "Are no Son Goku."
"No. He is Son Gohan."
The voice came from behind them; Piccolo had dragged himself up to a half standing position, although his face was still bent to the shadows as he bravely fought the slumber that was rising up to claim him.
The Namek raised his head. "He is stronger."
The general stood, livid, then turned, taking long strides across the dusty ground. As he passed through the troops, he shouted to them, "Attack!"
Gohan stood his ground as they began to surround him, impassive, watching Piccolo succomb at last and collapse, the light of his consciousness winking out. He would awaken soon, as would Tenshinhan and Chaotzu; already Gohan could feel his full power returning to him-- and with it his rage at what had been done. As the soldiers cocked their rifles, he began to yell.
The mere aura of his second transformation scattered them like paper in a hurricane.
* * *
"Something's happening out there," said Bulma, as she bound Chichi's arm. The younger woman was barely holding onto consciousness, and talking was good in such situations; she couldn't let her go into shock. "The barrage has started again."
"No," said Chichi. "Gohan."
"How do you know?" Bulma smirked skeptically.
"Just know..." Chichi said, then coughed. There was blood in it.
Bulma cursed herself for the lack of senzu beans. She might have been furious at Chichi, but she didn't want the woman to die. Puar, in cat form again now, was light enough to carry, but Chichi? Not to mention Vegeta? Not to mention that she was still lost. She needed to wake them up. Wake everybody up. There was no alternative but to walk out of here.
"Come on, talk to me," she said, cradling Chichi's swollen cheek in her hand. "What about Vegeta. Why hasn't he woken up? His pulse is steady now. You said he would be up."
"Tao said... should have woken... an hour ago. Some sort of signal..."
"Well, I tried shaking him, I tried talking to him..." Bulma sighed. "Only one thing I haven't tried, and it hardly seems appropriate, given the circumstances..."
Chichi looked decently scandalized, then tried to laugh, against the better judgement of her body, which decided to throw itself into a fit of weak coughing, leaving her dizzy and lolling. As Bulma watched, her eyes rolled themselves up into their head.
"Oh, the hell with this," muttered Bulma. Her shapeshifter was out of commission; she had fried the circuits fixing the video loop; Son Chichi seemed to be dying... or at least extremely fatigued... and her greatest strength lay there like a lump.
She rose, turning to look at the other casualty she'd been saddled with: Vegeta. Oh, she'd cried, she'd looked to his body, she'd checked everything she could. Vegeta was fine. Perhaps some of his brain cells had been fried by the poison after all-- whatever the reason, the stupid, beloved man just wouldn't wake up. He lay there, a hunk of solid muscle, a breathing stone on the floor. He refused to resolve himself into her Vegeta. She felt irrationally angry at him-- this was his fault. It was Chichi's fault. Damn it, it was everyone's fault. Why couldn't they just all behave themselves the way she wanted them to?
Bulma nudged the body with her foot. Then she nudged it harder.
"Get up, Vegeta," she said, knowing her voice was shrill and harsh, but not caring. "Get up, you lazy jerk! I come all this way looking for you, and all you can do is lie there? Who do you think you are? This isn't Planet Vegeta, you know. You aren't the king here. Get up and start pulling your own weight!" She ended on a high wail, almost a scream, her voice echoing down the empty hallway, resounding in the silence. There was no answer.
She gave him one last, ferocious kick in the ribs-- then sat down and put her face in her hands.
"Woman."
Bulma turned, jaw dropping. Vegeta's eyes were still closed. Had she imagined it? But no-- his lips were moving again, the voice barely a whisper through his parched throat.
"Can't you let me sleep in peace."
"Vegeta!" Bulma fell across his chest, hugging him. He wasn't moving, but that was him, his voice. All her anger had melted away, and she was weeping, ashamed to show her weakness in front of him, but unable to restrain tears nonetheless. "Vegeta." She couldn't seem to stop saying his name. She hadn't realized just how alone she was in the world without him, she realized. Goku, Yamucha-- they were one thing, but this man was another. In that moment she felt she would follow him anywhere, do anything for him; together, they would be their own world.
Vegeta cracked an eye open, straining to look over his own chin at the woman who wailed inconsolably on his chest. Yes... that was Bulma. He was so tired!
"Woman. Is someone dead?"
"No, Vegeta."
"Is someone dying?"
"No. No."
"Then stop crying. Nothing is wrong." He closed his one eye. The relief of closing it was a balm to his nerves. But the woman was still crying.
"What is it, woman? Can't you see I'm tired?"
"Nothing, Vegeta..."
"Don't nothing me." He forced the eye open again, trying to catch hers, but all he could see was a waterfall of blue hair. "What is wrong?"
"A... I need a way out of this place," Bulma said, sniffing. She tried to dry her tears.
Vegeta closed his eyes again. The brat was fighting to the north; he could feel the power nagging at his mind like a reminder of his failings. That would have to do.
Bulma lifted herself off of her mate, brushing her tears. Vegeta had stopped talking; clearly she had asked too much of him for the first waking. He was tired. He had been in a coma. It was understandable.
Then, like the moving of a mountain, Vegeta's arm lifted from his chest, drawing a glacially slow arc in the sky. It raised and straightened itself, then came to rest, pointing at a door in the wall in an oblique angle. Then, ponderously slow, the palm turned to face outward, four fingers pointing at the sky, the thumb turned in. Lightening gathered there, building, burgeoning, making the lights in the ceiling flicker.
The ki flickered from Vegeta's hand and darted eagerly towards the wall.
* * *
On the battlefield, chaos reigned. Kuririn and Yamucha had finally arrived, along with General Gao's reinforcements, and the two men gleefully picked amongst them, using their ki attacks sparingly as they knocked the soldiers senseless, dodging bullets to the horror and consternation of their opponents.
"It reminds me of eliminations at the Budokai," shouted Kuririn as he knocked the heads of two soldiers together, then casually hurled a small ball of ki up at a passing helicopter.
Yamucha nodded. He was panting a little more heavily than Kuririn, but still holding his own-- and the soldiers were admittedly ganging up on him more. They preferred to avoid the gleeful monk.
"Hey-- aren't you the Bandit?" asked one of the soldiers suspiciously. "Can I have your autograph?"
But the main area of the battlefield was the purveyance of great, apocolyptic beings. The graceful green being in the cape, scowling like a demon out of hell, had risen from the ashes of his drugged stupor to a raging fury; his arms grabbed the unwary from dozens of meters away, and reached up to grab planes from the sky. Even a glance from his eyes was deadly, and he moved like quicksilver; no defense stopped him. The three eyed goliath shouted the names of his attacks like arcane spells, leaving no survivors from those who approached; and the small, floating apparition at his side... well, those who approached him suddenly found themselves running in abject terror for no reason at all. And leading the forefront of the charge was a boy, long-legged and rangy, who threw off lightning like a thunder god; a child of pure rage, pure energy. To touch him was to be burned. Legions fell before his passing. He called down fire from heaven and brought it to bear against his enemies; an inhuman warrior beyond the call of thought or reason.
Upon these warriors, the defenses of the mountain were crumbling. Gao called them to retreat, pulling them back to the mountain-- those who had not already fled (or been knocked senseless) ran across the starlit clearing, pursued by the monsters they were fighting, fleeing to the security of their stone fortress.
Just as they reached it, the mountain exploded.
Great boulders flew hundreds of meters out of the side, and the earth shook. Dust coughed into the air, obscuring the sky, and a sheet of rock slid down in a great avalanche, thundering across the plain. Those who could, fled. Those who could fly, pulled back. Gohan, his mind still buzzing with the uncontrollable transformation, stood his ground, letting the rocks burn themselves up on the fringes of the energy that surrounded him, waiting for the dust to clear.
When it did, the army was gone; fled, downed, buried. And there was a great gaping hole bored straight into the dark center of the mountain.
The warriors approached it, cautiously.
"Taiyo-ken!" shouted Tenshinhan, and as the attack shot up into the air, the fighters shut their eyes-- and then opened them to the now-illuminated tunnel. The explosion had gone through two hundred or so meters of solid granite. And at the other end of it, a tiny, faraway white-gloved hand dropped to the floor, its work done.
"There, woman," muttered Vegeta. "Now will you let me sleep in peace?"
In an empty barracks in an army base under seige, two figures moved beside one another, quickly and passionately, striking foot and fist, across the room and around it, leaving destruction in their wake. Bedding and splintered bunks littered the floor, as they did the floor of the previous rooms this violent dance had moved from. The woman's hair, disheveled and slept-on, flashed back and forth like great black snakes, trying to escape its ribbon. Her hands flashed as quickly, almost too fast for a human to move. The man-- he was too fast for a human to move, faster than her, his body barely moving as he blocked her attacks, landing his own. He was winning. Chichi's body, a great burn running down the side of her ribcage, was battered and bruised; the side of her face a ruinous, angry splotch; blood ran unnoticed from her lip. Her left arm was sluggish-- but still remarkably mobile, considering the knife slash that had left the forearm bone bare. Her sleeve was soaked black with the bleeding. Her energy was almost spent; still she forced her body to move at its full speed, feeding off of her desperation instead of her ki. Her only options were to fight or to perish.
Nonetheless, she was laughing, laughing in exultation. In that left hand was a rather small, rather nasty looking knife. The sort of knife an assassin would carry. And Tao Pai Pai was fuming.
He ducked low, evading the sharp knife thrust, taking the opportunity to try a sweep, and she jumped over him nimbly, her swollen ankle turning away his attempt to grab it; she stomped on his back, knocking him further, then landing nimbly. The ankle didn't seem to be bothering her anymore; and had she somehow gotten faster as she had grown tireder? Such thoughts bothered him. He knew he was stronger, more experienced; she couldn't even throw a simple dodon-pa attack. He turned, preparing his energy, but was already rushing in, knife threatening his hand, and he was forced to abort for the thousandth time. Yes, she had strategy, this woman; it had been a clever maneuvre that forced him to use a two-handed block, the sheer force of her left arm levering the knife out of his hand by the blade. She knew how to make sacrifices to gain the advantage. So did he.
He did not dodge the knife; he had the energy ready to hand, although not ready to throw at her. Instead he channeled it into the blade, giving it a final regretful glance.
Chichi yelped as the knife suddenly grew molten hot, and let go; it clattered to the floor, steel blackening in the new tempering, then shattered, too brittle from the heat. She glared at Tao Pai Pai. That advantage had been hard bought; soon she wouldn't be able to use the left arm at all, and the blood leaving her body was taking her strength with it. Her whole body felt raw, like a dish that had been scraped clean with steel wool.
Tao Pai Pai attacked. "We are alike, you and I," he said, smiling nonchalantly. "Cunning. Devious. We know how to get the job done, whatever it takes, you and I. In the time I have watched you, I have thought to myself-- were she not so weak, this is a woman to my liking."
Chichi winced under a painful hit to her gut, responding with a lucky shot to his knee. "Go to hell," she said. "I am nothing like you."
"Oh?" Tao laughed, nodding over his shoulder. "Tell that to him!"
Ten minutes had long since passed, but Vegeta still lay prone as he had since Tao stopped exerting his mind control over him. Perhaps the formula was well enough designed that it knew to wait for some cue from its creator. Chichi risked a glance at him, heart sinking.
"It was that ruthlessness that I saw in you," Tao continued, all the while attacking: "the hardness of your heart-- that led me to believe I could use you. As my instrument. My dear Chichi, I did not even have to prod you in the right direction! Give you time and you will be the undoing of all your friends-- just as you weakened your son!"
Chichi breathed heavily. She could not catch her breath. The attacks, the danger-- she could not think clearly enough to respond. Was what he was saying true? Was all of this her fault? She seemed to remember it being her fault-- but she had no time to consider it. Should she let him kill her, stop defending herself? Could it be that this was what she deserved?
"Neaaaaaauughhh!" She screamed, attacking him the more ferociously. A tiger-hand attack raked his face, and the whirling elbow of her left arm took him in the windpipe, staggering him even as exquisite pain blossomed down the bone, throbbing where it was exposed to air. She couldn't stand to see Vegeta's face, accusing her. Anything to get away from it, to stop him from playing with her mind. Using yet more reserves she did not have, she battered at his defenses, forcing him back, back towards the door. That was his strategy, she knew, and it infuriated her: make her mad, make her spend her energy, and he would take her by stamina. But for now, she could force him. Push him back. Into the hallway.
It was deserted there, too; all the troops had gone to fight some battle outside. Gohan, maybe? Had he found her at last?
The tide of battle turned her around, giving her a glance down a side hall. No- not deserted. There were two soldiers there, women-- deserters? Very well-- she took a blow to the head, but shook it off. She'd hope they didn't recognize her for the prisoner.
"Help me!" she called. "He's trying to kill me!"
She was totally unprepared for the response she got.
"Chichi!"
The voice behind the stunned exclamation was unmistakeably familiar. Chichi paused momentarily in her assault on the assassin, and could not resist turning to see-- could it be?
"Bulma! ? ?"
"Haa!" With a guttural yell that seemed to rip his throat, Tao Pai Pai sent an energy blast over her shoulder, sending the two blue-haired women scattering. One of them was Bulma; the other could almost have been her twin, but she staggered as she dove away from the blast, letting it catch her in the unbandaged leg. Chichi didn't recognize her.
"Get away! Get help!" Chichi shrieked, turning back towards Tao Pai Pai. Attack her friends, would he? She turned just in time to see his foot coming towards her face for the second time that day.
* * *
"Hold! Hold!" Gohan shouted frantically towards Tenshinhan, hoping they would hear him. "They'll kill my mother!"
"There is nothing to stop them from killing her anyway," Piccolo said, his voice curt; but there was a harsh, raw emotion behind it. "We can bring her back. She has never died yet."
Gohan's mind wavered; his sensei was right. Piccolo-san was always right about such things. But-- "No!" his voice cried out, strangled. Several of the soldiers looked up at him; he noticed them in some corner of his mind. He felt... lost, not understanding why he could not bring himself to listen to reason. Somehow he could not bear to think--
Then it all came clear. Piccolo was turning, ignoring his request for his own best interests; a fighter of his experience could understand the difficult emotions of a battlefield and distance them from a winning strategy. That was the sort of fighter Gohan knew he had never been, could never be. But wasn't this his battle, after all?
"Piccolo, please," Gohan said, his voice strained. Piccolo turned, the patient tolerance of a teacher dealing with a recalcitrant but beloved student scrawled across his face for all the world to see. How to make him understand?
"I... I couldn't bear it." Gohan closed his eyes. He would not let the tears come. "I know it's a trap. I know she may already be dead. But if I... if they kill her... it would be on my hands. Just like-- just like back then--"
He opened his eyes. "I could not bear it, Piccolo," he said. "Please. Not now. Not both of them."
Piccolo hovered there, a wind playing at the edges of his cape. Gohan could watch the emotions warring across his face. Above them, like a message from heaven, the video feed played on; Chichi hung above them literally as her life hung in their hands. The immutable green figure was still, his body unreadable; only his eyes betrayed any inner conflict. Gohan held his breath; it came down to this moment. His future, the health of his spirit; wasn't Piccolo also his friend?
Then, as if someone inside of him had surrendered, Piccolo's face came together, and he turned away, letting his arms fall to his sides.
"Tenshinhan!" called the Namek, his great bass voice rebounding across the field. "Hold and wait!"
In the forest, the sounds of battle ceased; bringing to the fore the rumbling whine of the approaching aircraft.
Gohan felt a gratitude inexpressible in words towards his teacher. To have made the wrong strategic decision-- and he knew it was the wrong decision-- simply because his friend asked it of him; this was probably one of the hardest things he could ever have asked of a man such as Piccolo. Already it seemed to him that his teacher seemed haggard, struggling under the weight of the consequence of his decision even as he had made it.
"Thank you," Gohan breathed.
Piccolo did not turn. "Thank me later," he said. His nose twitched. "Gas. A tranquilizer."
Gohan looked up; the airplanes had come into range. Behind them trailed a rain of thick, smoky dust.
* * *
Chichi fell, slipping for a second into a strange unconscious dream that evaporated beyond memory as her head struck the floor painfully, to be followed by a brutal rain blows to her now unprotected stomach and torso. Clearly she was being beaten to death; but why was she so exhausted in heart and soul? Where--
The world slipped gradually into a foggy sort of focus. The man was Tao Pai Pai. He was going to kill her. Down the hall, the strange woman was keening piteously, and... shrinking? Bulma was shooting at them with a rifle, but somehow the bullets pinged from Tao's body. Was he partially metal, or just good with ki?
She pulled her legs in to protect her stomach, her arms over her head. Had to protect herself. Had to get up. Had to get up somehow. She almost laughed. With what strength? What had she using to fight with before, oxygen? No matter. Just get up. Get up, Chichi, get up!
Startlingly, she did.
Tao Pai Pai paused in his barrage of blows, then started again, aiming a shot at her head.
She blocked it with her left hand.
She knew she shouldn't have been able to do that; her left arm was too badly injured to hold against such a furious blow. But somewhere along the line she seemed to have lost all connection between her mind and her body. She couldn't even feel her limbs, and her heart sounded heavy and slow. Her mind was floating in a strange land; somewhere else, her body fought on, like a film she was watching.
Chichi watched the woman who was herself begin to move more swiftly. There, she knew that block; that was a Turtle Style kata-- yes, there was the dip and the two-stage attack. Surprisingly effective; it had scored a hit on him. She hadn't used that attack in years, hadn't realized she still remembered it. But what was this attack, though, that she was doing now? She thought she recognized it-- yes, from watching Gohan practice with Piccolo. It was one of her son's attacks. She remembered liking it; she must have somehow memorized it without noticing. A good attack, using his smaller size to advantage against a strong opponent; yes, Tao Pai Pai's arm was weakened now. Why wasn't her body doing anything about it? It was still attacking; beating down upon him, and blocking him much faster than she could remember moving since she had been only in her late teens. Faster even than that. As fast as she had ever seen a human move. All the fights she'd seen, all the training she'd had to follow them-- somehow they had broken past her consciousness straight into her body, making her as strong as she had ever been in her life. But it was not attacking intelligently; the arm was weak. She should attack him there, disable it completely. A throw she'd seen Goku use many times; that would do the trick. Why wasn't her body trying it? She had to get back! Back into control!
Like diving into a cold pool, Chichi suddenly broke through into full consciousness. Her senses came back to her in a burst of pain; ringing in her ears, she could hear Bulma cursing her gun for being out of bullets; she could smell the sharp warmth of Tao Pai Pai's rancid breath. Her heart was fluttering dangerously fast, and her neck was hot. She staggered under the assault of her senses, and for a moment her motion faltered. Her arm felt like molten lead. She couldn't move them. She was sinking down into pain and defeat... no! She had to keep control. She had Tao Pai Pai off balance, she couldn't let up now. Break the enslavement of the body to the rules of logic and physics; direct it to do what she wanted of it. Consequences later. Now!
Summoning all her anger, distancing herself from the screaming pain of every bruise in her body, she directed her muscles to try Goku's attack-- they complied. When she didn't think too hard about it, the movements flowed from her memory like water. There was a crack as Tao's shoulder came from his socket, and he howled. Now another kata-- make him block awkwardly with his left leg, and the right knee she'd been attacking since the battle started would be strained--
Tao Pai Pai wobbled in the extended block, his knee shaking. Chichi wheeled, forcing him to lean further-- and the assassin fell. Without waiting to think about the wisdom of her actions, she dove in and tackled him, grappling his flailing arm around. She kicked viciously at the knee, knocking his kneecap out of place, then reached into his coat. Her hand scrabbled blindly as he thrashed under her-- there! One more dart. She knew him, it was true-- there was a grain of truth to what he'd said about their similarities. He'd saved one more weapon. One more poison dart.
She whipped it forth, holding it at his neck. The point jabbed into his skin, denting it without actually piercing it. Acid bubbled from the tip, as if lusting after him. Sweat broke out on the assassin's forehead. Tao Pai Pai was suddenly very, very still.
* * *
Outside of the fortress, the hundreds of troops commanded by General Gao had pulled masks over their faces, shielding them from the effects of the gas, and pulled into positions surrounding the effectively surrendered warriors. Gohan stood in a daze, his aura still protecting him from their approach; Chaotzu, already downed, had been carried over to them, accompanied by an infuriated Tenshinhan, hands tied behind his back. The gently falling anesthetic dust blanketed all the noise of the clearing, and its dizzying effect on his head furthered the effect, until it felt like he was smothering in a very fluffy couch. Only Piccolo still stood straight; but his head was bowed, whether from the gas or from defeat, it was impossible to tell.
Gohan knew he would not hold out much longer. Soon, his mind would close up entirely. There was no sign of Kuririn or Yamucha; further to the rear, they must have been hit by the drug already. Soon he would be a prisoner. But at least he would not have caused the death of his mother as he had his father. At least he could die with his conscience that clear. He only wished-- he wasn't so helpless. It was humiliating, to stand here powerless, to be drugged, not even killed in battle. It was very... human.
Gohan forced his head upright. If he had to fall this way, at least he would hold out as long as he could. Perhaps transformed he would stand longer, and have that much to say to his father when he faced his humiliation upon meeting him in heaven. He gathered his energy to himself; the transformation was almost easy, now, after living in its skin for months. Painful, yes, but exhilarating; and if he did not do it in anger, he could control it. He forced his energy up past what his human side could bear, forcing his body's energy channels to expand, forcing his body to change-- he flickered gold, suddenly, and stood straighter, his head clearing. The soldiers drew back, forced by his aura, but also shocked at what they watched. Beside him, Piccolo raised his head, and turned to look at his student; all regret had been replaced with pride. Together, they would fall; but they would stand together for as long as it took.
* * *
Bulma threw the empty gun down, kicking it away with a curse. Damn it, why must they always face opponents who couldn't be defeated by technology? It wasn't fair! And Puar, lying there keening in agony-- what was she going to tell Yamucha? Why had she given those damned senzu beans away?
As Bulma was about to reflect that, seeing that Vegeta had somehow been captured, maybe she didn't need to make any kinds of apology to Yamucha after all, when Chichi stood up, miraculously, and suddenly began to move.
Her jaw dropped. Chichi? As much of a fighter as all that? She hadn't seen much of the battle, but from what she'd just witnessed, her friend had been losing. Badly. On the floor and about to be beaten to death, in point of fact. But now-- Bulma cocked her head. She'd seen enough tournaments to know a thing or two. Wasn't that one of Gohan's moves? Then a throw, and ah- whoops, wobbling there--
And just like that, he was down.
Bulma rushed forward, leaving Puar half-transformed in the hallway. Chichi had him by the neck.
"Bring a rope," she gasped, spitting blood from her mouth. "Tie him up. It's--"
"I know who he is," said Bulma, crossing her arms. Between saving the enemy soldiers, and Puar falling, and Yamucha completely failing her, not to mention Vegeta's illness, she had had about enough of mysteries. Here was an enemy she knew. Tao Pai Pai. Here was someone who had definitely caused more than his share of trouble for them already.
Bulma pulled the screwdriver from her purse. Chichi was looking down, concentrating on maintaining her hold on Tao. She glanced at the metal shaft once-- and then drove it home, deep, deep into Tao Pai Pai's chest.
Chichi had recoiled in horror. Shaking, wiping her hands nervously on her shirt, Bulma couldn't blame her. She had just killed a man-- an evil man-- but killed him in cold blood.
"How's that for being defeated by technology?" said Bulma.
Her opponent gone, Chichi seemed suddenly too fatigued to make any protest, or even to care. She collapsed heavily against the lintel of the door to the barracks, breathing weakly. Her arm was a mess of blood and tissue, cradled to her body. She seemed dazed, as if she could barely even keep the one usable eye she still had open. But Bulma felt no pity. Gazing past the wreck, she could see into the chaos of the next room-- and the dark-haired figure slumped there on the floor. Vegeta, at long last-- and perhaps too late.
Bulma glanced at the both of the piteous figures, thinking back over the events of the past three hours. Chichi had probably saved at least the three of their lives. With three quick strides, Bulma came forward to stand before her-- and then slapped her in the face, hard.
"Don't you ever pull a stunt like this again! What were you thinking! You idiot, what were you thinking!"
Chichi, her hand grasping her cheek, found her voice at last. "I... I'm sorry. Bulma, I'm so, so sorry." Her voice trembled from weakness.
"Sorry isn't good enough!" Bulma frowned, staring down at the pale woman. She honestly looked like she was about to die herself. Although that didn't forgive her crimes. "Why are you sending a looped feed of yourself to the outside of the base? Is it another part of this stupid, misguided master plan?"
"I... what?"
"Never mind," Bulma smirked. She jerked her screwdriver from Tao Pai Pai's chest in a gush of blood, then brandished it like a sword. "I Bulma Briefs, greatest assassin in the world," she kicked the unmoving body, "Will take care of it."
And she marched back to the circuit panel.
* * *
Gohan stood, head up straight and unflinching. Tenshinhan had long since fallen; he and Chaotzu were tied, bagged, captured. Even Piccolo's breath was ragged; the proud warrior's head had fallen three times to his chest, and soon he would no longer be able to keep himself upright. The soldiers were already moving in on him with chains and ropes. Still the soft rain of dust from the airplanes fell. Still no signs of Yamucha, Kuririn.
His golden aura was thready; the energy that sustained his transformation was keeping him from the effects of the sedative, but could not stop it working on his system. The Super Saiyajin form would keep him fighting for as long as he could sustain it, no matter the damage he took; and that included the toxins he was encountering. But once he grew too tired from the effects and dropped the aura, he would fall, and fall quickly.
He glanced up at the projection on the clouds, the image of his mother. His eyes must have been getting foggy. He could swear that she had moved in just that way only ten minutes ago. The gas was giving him deja vu.
Then his mother winked out.
The soldiers, moving about efficiently in their gas masks, processing the new hostages, hadn't noticed; Gohan squinted up at the clouds. The new image that was being projected was of the same room, the same angle-- but now instead of a cage, there was a cluster of shattered iron bars, and two men in military uniform, giving orders.
"She's gone," he whispered. Then the full implications hit him. "Piccolo! She isn't there! It was a recording-- a loop!"
Beside him, Piccolo was sagging; it looked like he was about to melt into his cape. Half lidded, he said: "Of course. Does this mean we fight now?"
Gohan wanted to soar up into that cloud. She had escaped. His mother had escaped. They were free!
With the last of his energy, he jumped into the sky. The projector was guttering off, someone having realized its function was no longer relevant. Gohan raised his arms to the sky, gathering energy.
"Masenko- haa!"
The blast obliterated the two duster planes, burning even the dust that remained of them into inert ashes. The drug stopped falling. From his new perspective, Gohan could see about half a mile off that many tanks and troops were coming from a great distance, coming slowly-- the army that the ruse of the tape had been buying time for. Flashes of light in their ranks were Yamucha and Kuririn-- not down after all, but delaying their arrival. A Kamehameha wave in the distance took out a row of soldiers; a flying flash battled a small fighter plane.
Gohan swept down; he could feel the drug leaving his system, slowly. Piccolo had fallen to his knees, though, and his friends were still far away.
A figure was making its way through the ranks of infantry-- one he recognized.
"General Gao," he said.
The man smirked behind his gas mask-- an almost indistinguishable squinting of the eyes.
"You can't win," he said. His voice was nasal from behind the mask, like an alien's. He seemed to be twitching. "One boy, even a flying boy, against an entire army? Your friends are gone. Surrender, and my soldiers will spare your life. You can't possibly defeat an entire army by yourself!"
Gohan let his feet touch the ground, alighting a mere five meters from the general. The wind from his aurora swept through the hair of the soldiers that were standing nearby; they rushed into a defensive formation around their general, but Gao stood his ground bravely against the apparation that stood before him-- this lanky, angry, somber-faced boy.
"My father did, once," he said.
"You refer to Son Goku," said the general, sneering. The golden wind was whipping through his hair. "A great man. A champion of the human race, and winner of the Tenkaichi Budokai. The strongest of us all, and conqueror of the Red Ribbon Army. Defeated that menace you're so fond of back there, didn't he?" He nodded his head towards the slumping Piccolo, then turned his sneer back onto the glowing figure he faced. "You, my boy," he said, "Are no Son Goku."
"No. He is Son Gohan."
The voice came from behind them; Piccolo had dragged himself up to a half standing position, although his face was still bent to the shadows as he bravely fought the slumber that was rising up to claim him.
The Namek raised his head. "He is stronger."
The general stood, livid, then turned, taking long strides across the dusty ground. As he passed through the troops, he shouted to them, "Attack!"
Gohan stood his ground as they began to surround him, impassive, watching Piccolo succomb at last and collapse, the light of his consciousness winking out. He would awaken soon, as would Tenshinhan and Chaotzu; already Gohan could feel his full power returning to him-- and with it his rage at what had been done. As the soldiers cocked their rifles, he began to yell.
The mere aura of his second transformation scattered them like paper in a hurricane.
* * *
"Something's happening out there," said Bulma, as she bound Chichi's arm. The younger woman was barely holding onto consciousness, and talking was good in such situations; she couldn't let her go into shock. "The barrage has started again."
"No," said Chichi. "Gohan."
"How do you know?" Bulma smirked skeptically.
"Just know..." Chichi said, then coughed. There was blood in it.
Bulma cursed herself for the lack of senzu beans. She might have been furious at Chichi, but she didn't want the woman to die. Puar, in cat form again now, was light enough to carry, but Chichi? Not to mention Vegeta? Not to mention that she was still lost. She needed to wake them up. Wake everybody up. There was no alternative but to walk out of here.
"Come on, talk to me," she said, cradling Chichi's swollen cheek in her hand. "What about Vegeta. Why hasn't he woken up? His pulse is steady now. You said he would be up."
"Tao said... should have woken... an hour ago. Some sort of signal..."
"Well, I tried shaking him, I tried talking to him..." Bulma sighed. "Only one thing I haven't tried, and it hardly seems appropriate, given the circumstances..."
Chichi looked decently scandalized, then tried to laugh, against the better judgement of her body, which decided to throw itself into a fit of weak coughing, leaving her dizzy and lolling. As Bulma watched, her eyes rolled themselves up into their head.
"Oh, the hell with this," muttered Bulma. Her shapeshifter was out of commission; she had fried the circuits fixing the video loop; Son Chichi seemed to be dying... or at least extremely fatigued... and her greatest strength lay there like a lump.
She rose, turning to look at the other casualty she'd been saddled with: Vegeta. Oh, she'd cried, she'd looked to his body, she'd checked everything she could. Vegeta was fine. Perhaps some of his brain cells had been fried by the poison after all-- whatever the reason, the stupid, beloved man just wouldn't wake up. He lay there, a hunk of solid muscle, a breathing stone on the floor. He refused to resolve himself into her Vegeta. She felt irrationally angry at him-- this was his fault. It was Chichi's fault. Damn it, it was everyone's fault. Why couldn't they just all behave themselves the way she wanted them to?
Bulma nudged the body with her foot. Then she nudged it harder.
"Get up, Vegeta," she said, knowing her voice was shrill and harsh, but not caring. "Get up, you lazy jerk! I come all this way looking for you, and all you can do is lie there? Who do you think you are? This isn't Planet Vegeta, you know. You aren't the king here. Get up and start pulling your own weight!" She ended on a high wail, almost a scream, her voice echoing down the empty hallway, resounding in the silence. There was no answer.
She gave him one last, ferocious kick in the ribs-- then sat down and put her face in her hands.
"Woman."
Bulma turned, jaw dropping. Vegeta's eyes were still closed. Had she imagined it? But no-- his lips were moving again, the voice barely a whisper through his parched throat.
"Can't you let me sleep in peace."
"Vegeta!" Bulma fell across his chest, hugging him. He wasn't moving, but that was him, his voice. All her anger had melted away, and she was weeping, ashamed to show her weakness in front of him, but unable to restrain tears nonetheless. "Vegeta." She couldn't seem to stop saying his name. She hadn't realized just how alone she was in the world without him, she realized. Goku, Yamucha-- they were one thing, but this man was another. In that moment she felt she would follow him anywhere, do anything for him; together, they would be their own world.
Vegeta cracked an eye open, straining to look over his own chin at the woman who wailed inconsolably on his chest. Yes... that was Bulma. He was so tired!
"Woman. Is someone dead?"
"No, Vegeta."
"Is someone dying?"
"No. No."
"Then stop crying. Nothing is wrong." He closed his one eye. The relief of closing it was a balm to his nerves. But the woman was still crying.
"What is it, woman? Can't you see I'm tired?"
"Nothing, Vegeta..."
"Don't nothing me." He forced the eye open again, trying to catch hers, but all he could see was a waterfall of blue hair. "What is wrong?"
"A... I need a way out of this place," Bulma said, sniffing. She tried to dry her tears.
Vegeta closed his eyes again. The brat was fighting to the north; he could feel the power nagging at his mind like a reminder of his failings. That would have to do.
Bulma lifted herself off of her mate, brushing her tears. Vegeta had stopped talking; clearly she had asked too much of him for the first waking. He was tired. He had been in a coma. It was understandable.
Then, like the moving of a mountain, Vegeta's arm lifted from his chest, drawing a glacially slow arc in the sky. It raised and straightened itself, then came to rest, pointing at a door in the wall in an oblique angle. Then, ponderously slow, the palm turned to face outward, four fingers pointing at the sky, the thumb turned in. Lightening gathered there, building, burgeoning, making the lights in the ceiling flicker.
The ki flickered from Vegeta's hand and darted eagerly towards the wall.
* * *
On the battlefield, chaos reigned. Kuririn and Yamucha had finally arrived, along with General Gao's reinforcements, and the two men gleefully picked amongst them, using their ki attacks sparingly as they knocked the soldiers senseless, dodging bullets to the horror and consternation of their opponents.
"It reminds me of eliminations at the Budokai," shouted Kuririn as he knocked the heads of two soldiers together, then casually hurled a small ball of ki up at a passing helicopter.
Yamucha nodded. He was panting a little more heavily than Kuririn, but still holding his own-- and the soldiers were admittedly ganging up on him more. They preferred to avoid the gleeful monk.
"Hey-- aren't you the Bandit?" asked one of the soldiers suspiciously. "Can I have your autograph?"
But the main area of the battlefield was the purveyance of great, apocolyptic beings. The graceful green being in the cape, scowling like a demon out of hell, had risen from the ashes of his drugged stupor to a raging fury; his arms grabbed the unwary from dozens of meters away, and reached up to grab planes from the sky. Even a glance from his eyes was deadly, and he moved like quicksilver; no defense stopped him. The three eyed goliath shouted the names of his attacks like arcane spells, leaving no survivors from those who approached; and the small, floating apparition at his side... well, those who approached him suddenly found themselves running in abject terror for no reason at all. And leading the forefront of the charge was a boy, long-legged and rangy, who threw off lightning like a thunder god; a child of pure rage, pure energy. To touch him was to be burned. Legions fell before his passing. He called down fire from heaven and brought it to bear against his enemies; an inhuman warrior beyond the call of thought or reason.
Upon these warriors, the defenses of the mountain were crumbling. Gao called them to retreat, pulling them back to the mountain-- those who had not already fled (or been knocked senseless) ran across the starlit clearing, pursued by the monsters they were fighting, fleeing to the security of their stone fortress.
Just as they reached it, the mountain exploded.
Great boulders flew hundreds of meters out of the side, and the earth shook. Dust coughed into the air, obscuring the sky, and a sheet of rock slid down in a great avalanche, thundering across the plain. Those who could, fled. Those who could fly, pulled back. Gohan, his mind still buzzing with the uncontrollable transformation, stood his ground, letting the rocks burn themselves up on the fringes of the energy that surrounded him, waiting for the dust to clear.
When it did, the army was gone; fled, downed, buried. And there was a great gaping hole bored straight into the dark center of the mountain.
The warriors approached it, cautiously.
"Taiyo-ken!" shouted Tenshinhan, and as the attack shot up into the air, the fighters shut their eyes-- and then opened them to the now-illuminated tunnel. The explosion had gone through two hundred or so meters of solid granite. And at the other end of it, a tiny, faraway white-gloved hand dropped to the floor, its work done.
"There, woman," muttered Vegeta. "Now will you let me sleep in peace?"