A few production notes: The second illustration of this part was done using a tablet, and the third was colored by Pinkuh of Pink Fox Studios. The manga was done with pencil this time, in case any wonder at the medium.
The Variation Elements
1.5: Saying Nothing Do't
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
saying nothing do't?
Prithee, why so mute?
-- Song, Sir John Suckling
"-ly will save me some time. It's quite amazing you found it... just lying under a bush?"
He sat on the floor, back leaning against the couch, and after shifting it back and forth in his hands, set it on the floor to roll it to the man, the dual stars within orbiting one another as they traveled.
"It was Puar who found it; she has more of an eye for detail." Roguish grin, "When we were kids, she used to cuddle up to old ladies and steal their jewelry. Things that shine draw her attention. It wasn't exactly just laying there under a bush; it must have been there for a while. It was partially sunken into the dirt and covered in leaves."
He was standing. The tip of his drawn sword stopped the object's rolling motion and, separating his feet, both hands on the hilt, he made as though a golfer giving a ball a final tap to win the cup, and returned it rolling back the way it came.
"I'll... be leaving by the end of the month."
The rolling was again countered by the back of a hand which, though it still had the somewhat shorter fingers of a child, had mildly disfigured knuckles from a history of abuse. These same knuckles were prone to ache in bad weather, or under times of personal emotional stress. They ached often, now, for both reasons.
The object was flicked to commence its pacing trek..
"How long do you suppose you'll be gone?"
The sword tip again caught it with a klink of metal against an unknown, glasslike material. Now it was rolled in a much shorter pace as the blade passed it back and forth like a puck in a hockey rink.
When it was finally released, a squeal of delight sounded and five chubby fingers closed around the rolling object, lifted it from the ground and drew it up to a wet, gaping mouth.
"None of the other six are anywhere near by... that must have been the closest one." A beeping was heard as radar was consulted, "The next one is at least seven provinces away. I really want to find the Four-Star, and I don't know how many I'll need to see before I come across it... But add to it at least two weeks of tracking down our winter meat... I could be gone for a month or so, maybe. Give or take a week. Oh, make sure he doesn't swallow that; I'm not worried if he'd choke so much as eventually having to give it back again once his system finds it unusable."
A surprised chuckle, "I can't believe you said that."
A shrug, "It's only natural. Once one has gutted most of their own meat since they were young, one tends to be come quite intimate and familiar with what's inside one's own body."
A small, drooling set of gums were pried open and the amber object was removed by a thumb and forefinger, "Ow. He doesn't have any teeth yet and already it hurts when he bites. You know, Bulma told me it took Trunks a long time to start growing his teeth in, too."
"Mother says the same thing about me." A twitch of a cheek in either resignation or some mild irritation, "I'm assuming it's an inherent Saiya-jin trait, then."
The pudgy infant body was lifted from the wooden floor for better inspection, "His mouth's not the only thing he got from his Saiya-jin side. His hair, his face, everything. He's the spitting image of his father."
No reply was given.
After a furtive glance that was just as quickly redirected to the fat, drooling, endearing creature in his outstretched arms, "You think about him a lot?"
Answer dull, distanced, "All the time. How can I not?"
"Yeah...," a small nod of personal, sympathetic understanding, "It's really a different world when he's not in it." Expression too stern and serious to be actually looking at the cooing infant, not bothering with subtleties, as he possessed none, "You blame yourself?"
Consideration, this time. Not without a note of bleached sadness, almost untraceable save the cement-heaviness to the words, "In a way. I do need to take responsibility for my... transgressions. And it is in many ways my fault he died." Time was taken to pick words that felt most appropriate, "But he didn't blame me for it, you know... he didn't blame any of us." Eyes were closed tightly, head tilted back so that dark hair rested on the couch cushions, "But god, if I could have given my life to keep him from going, I would have, right then, no thoughts. I wanted to die when he died. I really did. I don't think you were close enough to hear me, but after Trunks... and Vegita...," a shoulder, with the white specklings of bizarre, translucent scarring was caressed, "I just wanted Cell to end it. I think I told him to just hurry up and do it, so that I could be with him again."
"Hn. Ever mention any of this to your mother?"
A minute shake of the head, eyes wide, gazing at something distant and unattainable, "No. I haven't talked much to her about anything, really..." A frown developing in his brow, "It's strange but though we live in the same house, and eat every meal together, I don't think I've had an actual conversation with her outside of weather or immediate things in weeks. And... I can't tell her things like that. I had to be the one to tell her that her husband was dead. You should have seen her... when she opened the door and saw me standing there she looked so relieved. If I was alive, after all, of course he would be too. She even managed to get in a few words about how filthy and ragged my clothes were before I managed to get her to listen to me. She's never asked for further details." Heavier, still, "I think she likes me more when I don't say very much..."
No immediate reaction was given. Consideration was a possible cause. Digestion. The reply, calm and casual, "You still think about dying?"
A secretly bated breath, the gurgling of the young.
"It... it wouldn't really be right, you know?" A cheek was twitched in a strange, misty half-grin, "Ungrateful, is what it would be. You're concerned I might be thinking of suicide? I guess I can appreciate the concern, but he gave his life so that I could keep mine. To kill myself, it would mean making his death in vain. His sacrifice would have been for nothing."
It was the other's turn to not reply.
Realizing the question hadn't been entirely answered, "Yes. I still think about dying. About as much as I think about him dying. But who wouldn't, you know? I admit I'm not always as happy as I act... Everyone thinks about ending it at some point or another. But even when I'm thinking about ways to do it... Self destruction? Drowning? Wrist-slitting? Even when I'm two steps away from just deciding to do it, right then and there, I... Well, I realize that I really don't want to. I mean, Mother would be crushed, Goten would grow up not remembering me... Piccolo-san would just be disappointed... It would only cause so much more trouble that, even if I am to blame for... Well, then I at least owe it to everyone to not make it even more complicated by going off and joining him. I said I was going to take responsibility for myself, and killing myself would be doing anything but."
Silence crawled through the room in pushy, rolling movements, not holding still.
Finally, a hand came to rest on a crown of untamable black locks, ruffling the hair affectionately, "You're a good kid." Was all that was said, the only amendment being, "But everyone knows the quickest way to go about it is to kick Vegita in the crotch and tell him he's an ass."
She was watching him through his reflection in the window over the sink as she tackled the weighty task of washing the dishes made by the entire party of guests she'd been growing accustomed to (it was nice having guests in the house; made it seem less lonely and it certainly was full of distractions.)
"What are you looking at?" She asked him, realizing he, too, was looking out a window, his face nearly pressed against the glass until his wet, green eyeballs threatened to make an interesting smear on the window pane.
"It's snowing outside." He said, almost dully. "He said at dinner that it would snow tonight, and it's three hours later, and it's snowing." (His lips were held closer together, making 'would' into 'vould'.)
She didn't answer immediately, instead insuring a particularly stubborn spot of semidried tomato sauce was removed as she considered, "He's good at telling the weather. He's been doing it for years... His father taught him how."
She didn't know if the comment had been meant to prick him or not.
"I... guess I've heard of the talent before. It shouldn't be surprising someone raised in the secluded mountains would pick up on weather patterns." He seemed quite relieved about this, and she gave a little smile to herself.
"My father has his own personal meteorologist," he said, which made her frown again, "And his own network of satellites." He pronounced 'network' as 'netvork'.
Not finding this particularly interesting, she went on scrubbing, choosing for once to keep her comments to herself.
"He has a lot of other things, too, and I'm sure-"
"I'm sure he does," she said mutely.
The man seemed to enjoy hiding his suggestions of ignorance by offering what he had in his kingdom to make up for it. For the past week now it had almost become a routine with him. A few days back, when the telephone had gone dead, he had been surprised that she asked her son to fix it instead of one of the two full grown men. When the boy, after taking the entire thing apart and in a matter of minutes, had solved the problem, he was quite quick to insure her that his father had some of the best technicians in thirty counties at call twenty-four-hour-a-day.
Yesterday, he had seen Yamcha flying (with his chi, not in a jet car) and, after being mocked quite harshly by the other man for his own inability, he gave in to elaborately depicting of the many forms of air-transportation available in Blue Monarch...
Actually, she felt sort of sorry for him in that, for in return Yamcha told him quite a few things he could do with his modes of transportation with enough words that she turned a few shades greener and had ended up bawling them both out so loudly that Gohan had come down the hall to see what the commotion was. (She had quickly sent them both out of the house to argue and for good measure bawled out her son, too, for abandoning his studies and sending him, quite startled, right back down the hall to his room with arm extended, finger pointed, expression grim.)
... to think back on it now, she was quite embarrassed, really. Though Yamcha was a veteran of her tongue-lashings, she'd never really yelled at Jondalar before... And in truth, she had been intentionally picking at the misbegotten prince more out of spite for his queer knack of finding his way into her thoughts as something comparable to her former husband. It wasn't fair to compare them! It wasn't fair as her late husband wasn't even there to defend his reputation, having died to keep loved ones such as herself still alive to enjoy the next breath of air and next sunrise for him, as he never would again-
She found herself hauling over her shoulder, "You could at least bring me over the last dishes from the table!"
She knew, full well, that every single one of the males she'd fed that evening, and every evening before, had attempted doing the dishes, at which she had chased them way immediately.
She was in a bit of a rage. She knew it, too, as she sometimes did, but she also wasn't in any fit state to control it, really and... well, it also felt sort of good. She hadn't had the excuse to scream at anyone in... well, since Goku had been around to bear the brunt of it with and there she was going again thinking back on him every time Jondalar was involved, it wasn't fair, it wasn't!
She threw away the plate she had been cleaning (or rather, the two halves) and turned to lean her rear against the counter as she sucked at the red beads oozing from her finger, giving the floor boards the glaring of their life though the emotions she was spiraling through was impairing her vision enough that she knew her eyes were brimming and-
She stared, absolutely speechless, as Jondalar finished rubbing the dirty spoon on his silk shirt, leaving a spot. He smiled helplessly, "I've been an absolute pain, haven't I? Constantly talking about my father?" He asked, shifting the spoon from one hand to another, looking down at it, turning it over, considering it, "You know, I'm not even proud of him really, so... I apologize... I guess it's," he was grinning in a more emotional way, as though on the verge of either laughing or possibly crying, "I guess it's my childish way of trying to impress you."
She continued to keep her expression one of distaste; she had already yelled at him... -- well, if he was going to end up marrying her, he would have to be able to withstand a certain amount of her temper; perhaps it was a good thing to introduce him to it now.
"So...," he went on, with more conviction, "So, instead of pressing onward with the Emperor's many assets, I shall now show you a talent of my very own, of which I can proudly say I taught myself."
She continued to scrutinize him as he breathed into the spoon's curve as though trying to polish it (or check his breath, she supposed...)
"And what exactly are you doing?" She demanded irritably.
He raised the spoon to his face...
And hung it on his nose.
Then put his hands on his hips. "My father vasn't terribly impressed by it when I did it as a kid, but... I still find it terribly clever, no?"
Slowly her eyebrows raised as she realized just what he... That he was... At a time like this-!
She didn't even realized the footsteps were approaching until Yamcha had strolled right across the room, his eyes facing forward, Puar draped over one shoulder. He didn't pause as he passed, and as he exited the room through another door only said, "Got something on your face, there, Jon."
"Thanks." The prince said, not taking his eyes off hers.
And then, once the comprehension had finally reached her brain, she laughed. It started small, a series of exploding breaths. Then, a chuckle. But as he continued to stand there, proudly, hands on hips, spoon on nose... she gave a real laugh. A quiet, lurching laugh, the likes of which reached into her gut and made it hurt like something was being tugged at each time she exhaled. She wrapped her arms under her ribs and leaned over until she realized her bottom was on the ground and the tears that had been in her eyes were now on her cheeks (more toward her chin...) and... She hadn't laughed with such strain since she'd had a whole, stable, loving family. But by god, it really wasn't that funny, but... it was something so small that...
When she finally ran a sleeved arm over her eyes, she realized the spoon had long since fallen from the prince's nose, as he was now seated, his chair turned to face her, chin in his hands, his lips drawn back in a smile that... Reminded her of Goku. Shameless and sincere and amused. It was different from his other calculated smiles; it wasn't the smile of a prince. It was the smile of some young man, watching some young woman laugh.
"I think this is the happiest I've ever seen you," he said.
She couldn't wipe the last of the smile from her face, though she stood very quickly, straightening her skirt and said only, "I could say the same for you." Turning back to the dishes before he tried telling her how beautiful she was when she laughed, or how radiant her smile was...
... why had she been mad again, now...?
She felt so warm inside right then that it was as though she were leaning into Goku's warm chest, with both of his strong arms around her.
She wondered... Would he condone her remarrying? Would he want her to drive herself to depression for the rest of her life? It didn't sound like him so... Would... would he want her to...
"It's getting dark out, and the snow is only going to get thicker." Was all she said, and the conflict in her mind didn't reach her voice which had mellowed from enraged widow to poised matriarch, "You should get to your house. I'll see that Gohan shovels a walk in the morning."
"Ah... all right...," he said, sounding confused and possibly hurt by the abrupt dismissal.
Well... well, he would just have to deal with it right now, because she had much thinking to do.
Damn. God damn. Godammit.
She glowered at the computer, wishing she could just hit it, as she often did with the organic beings around her that drove her to madness with their inconsiderateness, with their constant talking, with their many, many priorities, none evolving around her, none wanting to help her, dammit, dammit, dammit...
The screen had frozen. She would have to turn it off manually which entailed, since it was large enough to fill a room, walking out the door,down the hall to the power box and flipping the switch to turn off the electricity in the whole room. All the effort of it would, instead of being productive, cause her to lose an estimated seven hours of hard work.
She... hated today.
She hated yesterday.
She hated every day.
"Ksh!"
She whirled around, "Get out of here!"
The small being she had unleashed her wrath at cringed away, clutching his Night-Night to himself, and cowered against the door way. She knew she should feel bad about this at least; her son, after all, hadn't caused her computer to freeze itself, nor was it her son's fault she had been too engrossed in her project to remember saving changes until only now, when it was too late.
She was not one to find fault with herself easily, though, and unwilling at the moment to take responsibility for yet another mistake she had to answer for, she grew angry at the cause of her new vexation, "Go find your father!" She said, turning back to her screen, fingers hovering uselessly over the keyboard in hopeless hope that the problem would only be temporary.
After a few moments of trying desperate escape commands, she turned back around to perhaps apologize, expecting to see her son's expression drawn in a childlike display of utter distress, with tears and blubbering... but he wasn't behind her. He had left without a sound.
Well... good.
She pondered. She stewed. She tried to do anything that might revive her program. She stalled, not wanting to have to actually be the one to shut it down and lose everything. She hated. She...
She took a deep breath and slowly pushed her chair away, using a thumb to push some hair back out of her eyes.
She hadn't liked the project anyway.
Leaving the room, she didn't bother to turn the power off in the room; let it sit there in eternal stillness and rot.
She paced the halls, traveling down the elevator, thumb and forefinger to her chin, wondering if perhaps this wasn't a divine sign from the gods (a brief flash of the chubby face of the Dende she had first met on Namek) that she give up her current endeavors and try something new. Her company hadn't released any truly revolutionary inventions in quite some time, and the data she had just lost had only been for a mildly altered newer version of a sports car that could sustain depths of ten miles underwater.
The last project she had actually taken pride in was working on the fully mechanical Jinzouningen Juuroku-gou, which had been somewhat like creating life (causing a conscience-bothering respect for the genius of Dr. Gero). But she hadn't actually created him so much as worked on what was already created. Using someone else's base.
Dammit, how was it that an evil maniac was more genius than her!? Juuroku-gou hadn't been the most complex thing he had ever created, either. Like the being that had destroyed Juuroku-gou. Cell.
How far away was the science of Capsule Corporations from creating actual, organic life forms, with their own, prefabricated blood and scientifically knitted genes and phenomenal, engorged chi? She, despite all her pride, all her skill, all her innovations, knew deep down that it would take her a few life times to come across understanding of such exact science. She wondered if even her father would be able to... Perhaps he would, had he a care to, but she would certainly never ask him. He was a genius of the likes the world had and never would see again, but in his own, good natured way kept his secrets hidden from all minds but his own.
She chewed out a cleaning robot as it dusted the floor until its emotion-chips overloaded and it broke down into a simulated expression of sobbing.
Her father had programmed it to do that. Mad man.
What had she actually created that was any use?! Not the unity of the entire corporation, not with the help of her father, but what had she personally, without aid contributed to this world?
The Dragon Radar. Which she had built when she was sixteen. It had been over two decades since then, and she had nothing more to show for it. Damn!
As she stormed, she wondered. What competition was there? Aside from her father, were there others out there that would eventually come up with more, better, greater appreciated submissions of science?
Gero was dead now, thank god, his lab was destroyed, thank god (she wouldn't trust it to remain standing, in case she give into the madness and explore it and adopt some of his own projects.)
Gohan. He would be scientifically formidable in the future.
For now, he wasn't putting his mind to invention. He wasn't an output. Just an input.
... But he already had every blueprint and manual her company had created memorized with that nasty little photographic memory his mother had molded into him, as well as all of the material that had not been meant for eyes other than her and her father's. Yes, the family easily and willingly trusted him with such knowledge, but how old would he be before he took that "Great Scholar" ambition and plunged headfirst into the science world?
In that little head of his, he already had the plans of the entire Capsule Corporation's infrastructure, their manufacturing needs, their exact sciences, as well as quite a few other competing companies' information, which he acquired during his studies of modern economics. He could build a company right then and there, and it would be an instant competitor with the elite of the business world.
She recalled watching him once on the computer, while he was typing a practice thesis. His hands moved almost too fast for her to see and the computer wasn't able to scroll out the words he was typing rapidly enough. Every few seconds his speed-hazed digits must have typed the Save key command, because he wasn't particularly distressed when the computer suffered the exact problem her own had that day: it froze.
He had looked up at it for a second (these fighters, with their impossible, inhuman speed often failed to understand the physical limitations of the things around them.) Then, after the error dawned on him, he simply splayed his fingers over the keyboard, there was a spark, and instantly the computer shut itself off, then started turning back on again.
When she had asked what he had done, he simply answered, "I just short circuited it; I used my chi to cause friction, and the friction caused static. The static made a small power surge in the computer making it flicker off, then back on again. Sort of like how house lights flicker when there's a lightning storm outside." And he went right back to work, a bit colored in the cheeks at the unwanted extra attention.
She had simply thought it clever at the time, maybe perhaps a little jealous that she couldn't do something like that, but now...
Now, she quite suddenly realized something like that could be marketable. What, she wondered, were other uses that chi could be put to...?
Her bitter mood quite instantly forgotten, she headed for storage, her powerful mind going back six years to when she had packed away the pieces of the scouter she had plucked from the corpse of Goku's older brother.
It seemed that recently, with the immediate lack of threat and thereof means of permanent separation by death, his mother seemed much less distressed about him leaving the house on extended periods so long as the majority of his time was spent safe within the walls of her house with his other, much less dangerous hobbies.
Today, for instance, he had vanished early in the morning, vaulting out his window the instant he had felt that familiar old chi appear nearby like the distant sound of an old guitar string. He had scrawled a note (he was responsible, and would have liked to tell her personally that he was leaving, but didn't want to tempt fate too much by offering her the opportunity to tell him he couldn't go.)
It was evening, now; the sun was beginning to settle just at the topmost leaves of the trees like a gleaming orange egg in a giant nest, and she wasn't even watching out the window in anticipation. The past four or so times this had happened, he had merely to walk into the house and politely announced his return, to which she would only welcome him and tell him to wash his hands.
She never asked where he had gone, or what he had done. Subsequently, he had taken the hint to not offer such information. She knew he was with Piccolo-san; (he wasn't covert with the fact) the company he kept was plainly stated so in his notes. But aside from that, perhaps to show her disapproval, perhaps because she feared the answer, perhaps even because she didn't really care, but she never asked. He could just as well have gone outside to make sure the sky was still way up there and the ground was still below it and had returned with little more to share than such facts.
Despite, not one prone to terribly lasting fits of depression outside of typical preadolescence, he was actually feeling remarkably happy on the occasion; he loved the company he was in. He couldn't help it. It wasn't in-depth conversation, it wasn't even really interacting it was just... Existing and talking about technicalities of chi manipulation, comparing skills both on and off the battle field.
(At his request, his Namekian mentor had tested the limits of his ability to stretch his limbs -- his arms alone could almost get up to a mile by his estimation! It was amazing what sort of physical manipulation the man was capable of, both with his own matter and the very matter around him. Just that day he had, by merely extending a four-fingered hand, created a new gi that fit his little body perfectly, fashioned exactly as he had requested, one with longer sleeves to suit the winter.)
He and the familiar presence of his mentor glided down from the steel gray sky.
He turned to call back over his shoulder, through the increasing wind, "You'll be heading south soon, won't you." He couldn't really explain it, but it wasn't a question, because he already knew the answer.
The Namekian, his ancestors having adapted to a planet with a constant exposure to a series of suns, had developed a very strong appreciation of warm weather. Though he was born into (and thus accustomed to) a planet that not only existed in the reach of a single sun, but also leaned farther away from it annually on a tilted axis, and though he had phenomenal chi to sustain him and impressive physical strength in which to tolerate even subzero temperatures... Piccolo hated the winter. The whole winter season.
"I will." Came the confirmation. Earlier that week, when he had gone to visit, the waterfall his mentor was fond of had already begun to develop ice along the edges, and the banks of the river had frozen solid beneath the skin of snow that was beginning to develop on the land. That was the annual signal taken to vacate the area until it thawed.
The boy grinned as he rotated to face the other (flying was a much easier way of holding a conversation; with no ground to restrain your movements, you could be talking to someone and realize you've been orbiting one another likes moons around a planet.) "I might be leaving soon, too." He said, "I'm going to find Father's four-star-ball... And get the winter hunting done. Maybe... since I'll be looking over the planet for the Dragon Balls... I'll possibly run into you."
He made a point to not sound too presumptuous about his welcome. He knew his mentor would love a visit, but just so, he would never admit to it. Wording had to be put carefully when broaching the subject to avoid prompting the man to force out a tirade of verbal (and, if pushed enough, physical) beratings about how much he preferred the company of himself than any brat and so on, and so forth. (He could often get to sound like Vegita-san, though the rudimentary understanding redeemed him. The boy, after all, knew his Namekian elder liked him, whereas the the situation with the Saiya-jin prince varied by his current mood which, unfortunately, had been quite demanding of late.)
They were spiraling closer to the ground, now, until the eventuality of the ground rising toward them met their feet.
"Hn." Came the tall man's reply (it was what the boy classified as the equivalent of Vegita-san's "Ksh." A somewhat mix of acknowledgment, dismissal and consideration all in one.) It was nice that he went on to say more, though; it was very difficult at times getting actual words out of his mentor. "I don't imagine you would want to do traveling in the garb your mother dresses you in."
He splayed his long green fingers over the boy's head and bared his fangs for a split second (it was a look that could turn hair gray, but the boy only stood still in quiet, curious expectation.) It felt like nothing more than a mere tug at his gi, and a small flash of light that felt quite different than what he would have classified as chi (Namekians and their sorcery...) The frayed edges and ribboning shreds of his clothes -- damaged in fashions that could have been caused by numerous possible activities -- were now repaired as though brand new.
It was times like these that the boy almost wanted to throw his arms around his mentor like a small child and howl "Thank you!"; he didn't know why such inclinations still came to him, as he had never done such a thing (and gotten away with it unscathed, at least.) But... despite all the gruffness, all the lectures and rough angles... He had still given the boy a new gi, with no other reason than that he had wanted to.
The man went on as, his work done, he folded his arms over his chest, conjuring up for himself his cowl and turban to ward off the invading cold, "If you do end up occasioning to locate me during your travels, I might supply you with another... if you survive the beating I give you for it."
Gohan only grinned broadly (it felt strange and relieving; he hadn't smiled much recently.) He knew, after so much time passing, to interpret the message as, "If you come visit me, and I'll give you gifts so long as we get to spar a little." If anything, it was his Namekian friend's way of trying to entice him to visit. To lure him.
He had learned at a very young age how to translate the messages given by his peculiar friend, being able to look through the surface-nastiness to catch the subtle allowances beneath. During the year they had trained together, he'd become used to gleaning"Good night" from "Enjoy sleeping while you can. I'll likely end up killing you tomorrow." With such devotion to the Namekian, he could only on a critical level acknowledge to himself that a normal healthy human would not have grown accustomed to threats of extreme violence and pain as a means of affection. Cest la vie...
Of course, despite the quasi-harmlessness, there still would be that requirement to spar... It was the toll paid for the older man's company. It would, very likely, only end once the two of them were too exhausted to continue (or, rather, the Namek was too exhausted to continue. If it was annoying to the mentor that the boy was so much stronger than himself, it was possibly more so for Gohan, who had never wanted to raise to the tier of power he had attained, had been the last to realize he had attained it, and had yet to verbally acknowledge the fact that he had.)
The boy didn't bother saying good bye; it always ended up making him feel awkward as his mentor wasn't fond of replying to it with anything other than some derisive sound before jettisoning his chi and vanishing over the trees.
As he turned to go inside, he enjoyed the security of being able to turn his back on the high level of chi behind him and trust that he wouldn't be attacked or punished for it... Though that the thought had even entered his head with someone as trustworthy as Piccolo only made him more aware of how much Vegita's steel hand of influence was making him just that much more tense and nervous despite the very large lack of possible threats...
As he walked down the hall of his house, through the living room, he didn't pause to listen as Yamcha berated and mocked Jondalar for the surprise he had apparently felt about Gohan's ability to fly. Hn... he really had just taken off and returned without consideration that the prince might have been watching that morning; there were windows all over the house... It was almost relieving in a way; one less dirty little secret he would have to try keeping in relation to his many inhuman abnormalities.
Despite the rolling turmoil of nervous energy that was collecting in his stomach, so much that it made his whole body ache and past injuries weigh down his limbs, he managed to very quietly close his door, and just as quietly cross the room and sit down at his desk.
As he commenced to get out all the homework he would have been required to do throughout the course of the next month or so (he wanted to get it done before he left), he pondered on this increasing state of hypertension he'd been experiencing. It had been just as bad waiting for the Cell Games to begin... or waiting for the Jinzouningen to appear... or waiting for Father to return home from Namek... or during the whole escapade on Namek... or the year previous that, awaiting the Saiya-jin....
In retrospect, he really hadn't been relaxed in more years than he could remember
For an eleven year old, that was a considerable feat.
Deciding to put such thoughts down before they started burning their own path out of his head, he decided to pull an all-nighter on homework and retrieved the Geheimnis Tagebuch instead.
"Father, I'm here, putting in an honest effort to-"
"I don't know where I went wrong. You're supposed to be my heir and yet you still don't have the balls that I have in one of my fingers-"
"I don't want to know about the balls you have in your fingers-"
"Gutless worm-"
"Father, I'm not going to demand that she and her entire family just pack up and leave-"
"I don't suppose you ever will make demands; you're lucky that woman already has a few whelps to build from, as it's not likely you-"
"Oh for the love of - Father, I'm not sterile."
"Hrm. I think your girlfriend would have something to say about-"
"Oh, kami, Genevah's not there, is-"
"She seems to feel you've had quite a bit of failing under the sheets-"
"Oh, dammit, Father, don't listen to anything that monster has to say; lies, poison to the ears-"
"Nice to know you still have your princely charm when talking about the ladies, Yondalar-"
"Listen to me, old man, that so-called Lady-"
"Old man? Ho ho, so there is a tiny bit of gumption in you; it's that little bit of backbone that makes me not disown you and simply-"
"Father! I don't care, for once in my life I wish you would just-"
"Listen, son, I'm a very busy man and don't have time to have these patriarchal squabbles with you -"
"Are you listening to a word I'm saying?"
"- so I'll make myself clear. If you insist on this long, drawn-out wooing of the woman-"
"Just answer me, is Genevah there?"
"- then I want her and her own to at least dwell within the walls of my castle for at least a week or so; get to know the in-laws and such-"
"Is that devil there? I'll strangle-"
"- so, until I hear from you, telling me when I can expect my son and my guests to visit an aging old men, so I can prepare the guest rooms-"
"Just don't listen to a single word that maniacle-"
"- good bye, son."
Click.
"Father? Dammit, Father!"
"Meow."
"Problems with the influential family, Jon? Maybe you should head home and straighten in out."
"Thank you, no." Jondalar snapped, still glowering at the phone.
(FFN readers will not be able to view this scene, as it is in manga format. Consult my current website.)
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