Undiscovered Territory
CHAPTER THREE: Bottled Up
A warm floor. He had presence of mind enough to decide that this was unusual, though he wasn't quite sure why he thought it was so. What was normal supposed to be under these circumstances, anyway? He didn't have enough experience in such matters to know that, and in all honesty, he doubted that he ever wanted to have that much experience.
He blinked his eyes open, and the world appeared foggy and grey. Perhaps it was, though it could have been just his vision. One didn't immediately emerge clear headed from a bout of unconsciousness. At least he didn't think so. It sounded like one of those things that just made sense.
Gradually his head cleared, and he was able to definitively determine that while his surroundings were not foggy, they were indeed grey. The next thing that registered in his mind was pain. In his shoulder, in his back, in his ankle . . . But most of all in his leg. He tentatively reached down to touch the pained area, and was cognizant enough now to be disgusted and horrified when his fingertips actually touched the inside of the leg. Hurriedly, he pulled his fingers away, and they came away coated in a thick, purplish substance. Blood. Yes, that was right. A ki blast had burned right through . . . and he'd been carried to wherever this was . . .
The last traces of fog instantly evaporated from his brain as the memory triggered. Scargo! He bolted upright, frantically whipped his head about in search of his brother, and only calmed slightly when he saw him lying several feet away. Nobody else was around, so this was the perfect time to check on him. Not that it would have mattered to Dende if anyone had been. Concern often outweighed practicalities.
With much effort, Dende dragged himself across the floor. His wounds were something that he ought to tend to, but they were of secondary importance. First priority was reserved for Scargo.
He stopped next to his brother's head, and laid a hand upon his neck, though there was a grinding protest in his shoulder. Scargo's skin was warm, and a pulse ran beneath it. Dende sighed in relief, even though he'd known all along that Scargo was fine. Really he had; it was just nice to feel it for himself. More reassuring that way.
And now that his rightness had been confirmed, it was time to take appropriate action.
Dende laid his other hand upon Scargo's head, and closed his eyes, concentrating. A warm, tingling sensation swept through him, pooling in his hands. Had his eyes been open, he would have seen himself enveloped in a soft yellow glow. His mind probed through Scargo's body, searching instinctively for the injury that had felled him.
Dende found the spot quickly, and he poured his power into the void which marked the wound. Even though his hands did not touch it, he could sense it filling, knitting back together until it reached the point where not even he could tell that it had ever been empty.
Smiling, he opened his eyes and lifted his hands. As Scargo stirred, Dende said a silent thank-you to Saichorou for awakening the healing power within him; he had never forgotten or taken for granted what a blessing that was. The power to heal, to help those in need.
Scargo's eyes blinked open, and the younger Namek bolted to his feet. "What . . . Where . . . Dende . . ."
"Are you all right, Scargo?" Dende asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Um . . . y-yes," Scargo replied, examining the burn-edged hole in his clothing that was the remnant of the ki blast he had suffered; he looked up. "You healed me?"
Dende nodded, and then frowned at the look that his brother was giving him. He glanced down at himself as he realized the concern. For a moment, he had almost forgotten his own injuries. "I'm all right, Scargo. I doubt it's as bad as it looks."
"You should heal yourself." Worry sparked in Scargo's eyes. "Your leg is bleeding really badly."
Shaking his head, Dende sighed. Healing oneself was a very tricky business. It was power that he drew from within himself that he used to repair wounds, pouring it into another. To heal himself, he would effectively be drawing power he already had, and giving back to himself. The loop simply did not work, unless one was very experienced with the craft. Dende had not truly treated many serious injuries since the Frieza incident, and was therefore quite sure that he would be able to use such an advanced technique.
But Scargo's saddened face, with upward-angled wrinkles between his eyes broke his resolve not to try. He managed to manoeuvre himself into a sitting position, left leg extended in front of him. In preparation, Dende flexed his fingers before placing them over the bloody hole. Here went nothing.
The void was easy to find, he had never anticipated that to be the problem. Next, he called upon his power, fed it into his hands. With a final, hopeful breath, he guided it into the void.
If it was working at all, he could feel no sign of it. The same pain that had throbbed through the limb earlier did not recede, the flesh did not knit. Sweat forming upon his brow, he guided the power to more specific parts of the wound: the blood flow outlet, and the outer edges where the flesh was torn.
He was surprised to get an encouraging sign. The leaking blood began to cease its flow, and he could feel his skin stretching to cover the hole. Though it was an admittedly creepy sensation like insects crawling all over him, he could not help but be glad he could feel it. Perhaps he could do this, after all.
But no. Self-healing was proving to be too strenuous a task. He cut off the channel, and set his hands on either side of him on the floor. "That's it, I think. There isn't anymore I can do right now."
Scargo opened his mouth to say something, but Dende shook his head, calling for silence. Instead, the both of them took the opportunity to finally examine their surroundings in full.
Though there was not much in their immediate vicinity, things were cluttered about the room several yards away. A great number of tables, obviously bolted into the floor, were covered to their very edges and even slightly beyond by all manner of tubes and containers. Many of these containers were empty, but others contained liquids of various colours, some which bubbled while others did not, and still others seemed to have partially solidified substances clinging to both inside and outside of their homes.
But not all of the tables held such things. Upon some of them rested strange-looking tools, a few of which seemed almost recognizable. The majority of them, however, were of such a variety that Dende probably did not want to know their function. Large consoles and screens lined the walls, and masses of paper were scattered across the floor. Whatever this room was used for, its owner apparently did not put much stock in cleanliness.
And they were able to see all this plainly, Dende realized, blinking in surprise; there were no walls or bars inhibiting their view. But they were prisoners, were they not? Surely they would not be deposited in a place with no restraints. How much sense would that make?
Despite his misgivings, this was an opportunity which they could not afford to waste. He turned to Scargo. "Come on. Let's get out of here."
At Scargo's nod, Dende strenuously climbed to his feet, his left leg wobbling, still wounded inside, and now reminding him that the ankle was twisted as well. At least the ankle injury was not serious. He limped toward the door on the other side of the room, but first ran into a rather unpleasant surprise.
A bright flash of red light surrounded him, somehow managing to make the searing heat that tore through his body even more intense. It seemed to dig deep into every nerve, ripping, tearing until . . .
Abruptly, he was jerked backward. The pain still lingered, but mercifully was only a shadow of its previous intensity. Breathing heavily, Dende sank back to the floor.
Scargo immediately knelt beside him, eyes wide with worry. "Are you okay, Dende? What happened, there?"
Dende swallowed, his throat dry and almost catching. By Porunga, he needed water! Still, he managed to answer. "I . . . yes. I-I'm fine. Everything just . . ."
Frowning, Scargo turned his head toward the door, and tentatively extended one finger. A wall of red light sprang up, and he pulled his finger back with a hiss, sticking it into his mouth in an obvious attempt to dull pain; the red light dropped out of existence once more. The situation was clear, now.
"A barrier," Dende said, trying to keep a sense of hopelessness out of his tone, though sure that he was doing a poor job of it. They really were trapped. He exchanged a look with Scargo. "We can't get out."
"Glad to see that you have figured that out," came an unexpected voice. Both Dende and Scargo jumped and whipped their heads around to face the speaker. "They all do, eventually, after thinking that they'll have an easy escape."
The speaker moved closer, and Dende unconsciously shrank backward. It was tall and slim, with bright yellow skin, and slanted eyes that evidently had no irises or pupils, simply a flat pastel blue. Something about the figure's body shape reminded him of Bulma and several other humans that he had seen back on Earth, so he decided that it must be a female.
For a moment, the speaker stopped, looking about the room with her face wrinkled in disgust. "Ugh. Look at this place. Looks like a hundred experiments exploded in here." She crossed her arms over her chest. "I allow my technicians to have the lab to themselves for a few days, and this is what happens! Brainless incompetents. This is no way to run a research lab; they will be punished severely for this."
Dende watched as she picked her way through the room, trying unsuccessfully to cross it without stepping in anything. If this were truly the room's owner, he definitely was wrong about her commitment to cleanliness; she looked downright enraged at the mess. And if this was how she reacted to clutter, Dende was sure that he and Scargo would not want to stick around to find out how she reacted to anything else.
Unfortunately, they had no choice.
Finally, she stood in front of them, a foot or two away from the barrier, tilting her head curiously. "Now what do we have here?" She peered at them more closely, causing Scargo to step backward, and Dende fought the urge to shrink back even more; her presence was unnerving. "Interesting. Looks like some gastropod relation, what with that green skin and those antennae. I shall have to check my records for species of your type and see what information has already been gathered." Glancing about the room, her face wrinkled once more, and its curious expression gave way instead to annoyance. "It will be something productive to do while I have my worthless technicians clean up this mess they made." She turned to look at them again, thin lips stretching into an unpleasant smile. "Then we shall see what studies will have to be performed on you. So until then, children . . ."
It wasn't until the speaker left the room that Dende realized he'd been holding his breath. He let it out heavily, the tingling fear in his belly causing it to shake as it left him. Studies to be performed on them . . . While Nameks had long ago cut off their dependence on technology - they were largely a sorcery and agricultural-based people these days - they still knew enough about basic scientific concepts. After all, caring for and nurturing plants required as much science as anything else, so such things were not alien. Studies could either be painless, or torturous. Judging from the scientist's demeanour, Dende had a feeling that it would be the latter in their case.
"Dende, what are we going to do?" Scargo inquired nervously. "I don't like the sound of what that person said."
Dende cast an apologetic glance upon his brother. He wished that he could think of something more encouraging to say, but all that came out was, "Neither do I, Scargo. But I don't know if there's anything we can do about it."
CHAPTER THREE: Bottled Up
A warm floor. He had presence of mind enough to decide that this was unusual, though he wasn't quite sure why he thought it was so. What was normal supposed to be under these circumstances, anyway? He didn't have enough experience in such matters to know that, and in all honesty, he doubted that he ever wanted to have that much experience.
He blinked his eyes open, and the world appeared foggy and grey. Perhaps it was, though it could have been just his vision. One didn't immediately emerge clear headed from a bout of unconsciousness. At least he didn't think so. It sounded like one of those things that just made sense.
Gradually his head cleared, and he was able to definitively determine that while his surroundings were not foggy, they were indeed grey. The next thing that registered in his mind was pain. In his shoulder, in his back, in his ankle . . . But most of all in his leg. He tentatively reached down to touch the pained area, and was cognizant enough now to be disgusted and horrified when his fingertips actually touched the inside of the leg. Hurriedly, he pulled his fingers away, and they came away coated in a thick, purplish substance. Blood. Yes, that was right. A ki blast had burned right through . . . and he'd been carried to wherever this was . . .
The last traces of fog instantly evaporated from his brain as the memory triggered. Scargo! He bolted upright, frantically whipped his head about in search of his brother, and only calmed slightly when he saw him lying several feet away. Nobody else was around, so this was the perfect time to check on him. Not that it would have mattered to Dende if anyone had been. Concern often outweighed practicalities.
With much effort, Dende dragged himself across the floor. His wounds were something that he ought to tend to, but they were of secondary importance. First priority was reserved for Scargo.
He stopped next to his brother's head, and laid a hand upon his neck, though there was a grinding protest in his shoulder. Scargo's skin was warm, and a pulse ran beneath it. Dende sighed in relief, even though he'd known all along that Scargo was fine. Really he had; it was just nice to feel it for himself. More reassuring that way.
And now that his rightness had been confirmed, it was time to take appropriate action.
Dende laid his other hand upon Scargo's head, and closed his eyes, concentrating. A warm, tingling sensation swept through him, pooling in his hands. Had his eyes been open, he would have seen himself enveloped in a soft yellow glow. His mind probed through Scargo's body, searching instinctively for the injury that had felled him.
Dende found the spot quickly, and he poured his power into the void which marked the wound. Even though his hands did not touch it, he could sense it filling, knitting back together until it reached the point where not even he could tell that it had ever been empty.
Smiling, he opened his eyes and lifted his hands. As Scargo stirred, Dende said a silent thank-you to Saichorou for awakening the healing power within him; he had never forgotten or taken for granted what a blessing that was. The power to heal, to help those in need.
Scargo's eyes blinked open, and the younger Namek bolted to his feet. "What . . . Where . . . Dende . . ."
"Are you all right, Scargo?" Dende asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Um . . . y-yes," Scargo replied, examining the burn-edged hole in his clothing that was the remnant of the ki blast he had suffered; he looked up. "You healed me?"
Dende nodded, and then frowned at the look that his brother was giving him. He glanced down at himself as he realized the concern. For a moment, he had almost forgotten his own injuries. "I'm all right, Scargo. I doubt it's as bad as it looks."
"You should heal yourself." Worry sparked in Scargo's eyes. "Your leg is bleeding really badly."
Shaking his head, Dende sighed. Healing oneself was a very tricky business. It was power that he drew from within himself that he used to repair wounds, pouring it into another. To heal himself, he would effectively be drawing power he already had, and giving back to himself. The loop simply did not work, unless one was very experienced with the craft. Dende had not truly treated many serious injuries since the Frieza incident, and was therefore quite sure that he would be able to use such an advanced technique.
But Scargo's saddened face, with upward-angled wrinkles between his eyes broke his resolve not to try. He managed to manoeuvre himself into a sitting position, left leg extended in front of him. In preparation, Dende flexed his fingers before placing them over the bloody hole. Here went nothing.
The void was easy to find, he had never anticipated that to be the problem. Next, he called upon his power, fed it into his hands. With a final, hopeful breath, he guided it into the void.
If it was working at all, he could feel no sign of it. The same pain that had throbbed through the limb earlier did not recede, the flesh did not knit. Sweat forming upon his brow, he guided the power to more specific parts of the wound: the blood flow outlet, and the outer edges where the flesh was torn.
He was surprised to get an encouraging sign. The leaking blood began to cease its flow, and he could feel his skin stretching to cover the hole. Though it was an admittedly creepy sensation like insects crawling all over him, he could not help but be glad he could feel it. Perhaps he could do this, after all.
But no. Self-healing was proving to be too strenuous a task. He cut off the channel, and set his hands on either side of him on the floor. "That's it, I think. There isn't anymore I can do right now."
Scargo opened his mouth to say something, but Dende shook his head, calling for silence. Instead, the both of them took the opportunity to finally examine their surroundings in full.
Though there was not much in their immediate vicinity, things were cluttered about the room several yards away. A great number of tables, obviously bolted into the floor, were covered to their very edges and even slightly beyond by all manner of tubes and containers. Many of these containers were empty, but others contained liquids of various colours, some which bubbled while others did not, and still others seemed to have partially solidified substances clinging to both inside and outside of their homes.
But not all of the tables held such things. Upon some of them rested strange-looking tools, a few of which seemed almost recognizable. The majority of them, however, were of such a variety that Dende probably did not want to know their function. Large consoles and screens lined the walls, and masses of paper were scattered across the floor. Whatever this room was used for, its owner apparently did not put much stock in cleanliness.
And they were able to see all this plainly, Dende realized, blinking in surprise; there were no walls or bars inhibiting their view. But they were prisoners, were they not? Surely they would not be deposited in a place with no restraints. How much sense would that make?
Despite his misgivings, this was an opportunity which they could not afford to waste. He turned to Scargo. "Come on. Let's get out of here."
At Scargo's nod, Dende strenuously climbed to his feet, his left leg wobbling, still wounded inside, and now reminding him that the ankle was twisted as well. At least the ankle injury was not serious. He limped toward the door on the other side of the room, but first ran into a rather unpleasant surprise.
A bright flash of red light surrounded him, somehow managing to make the searing heat that tore through his body even more intense. It seemed to dig deep into every nerve, ripping, tearing until . . .
Abruptly, he was jerked backward. The pain still lingered, but mercifully was only a shadow of its previous intensity. Breathing heavily, Dende sank back to the floor.
Scargo immediately knelt beside him, eyes wide with worry. "Are you okay, Dende? What happened, there?"
Dende swallowed, his throat dry and almost catching. By Porunga, he needed water! Still, he managed to answer. "I . . . yes. I-I'm fine. Everything just . . ."
Frowning, Scargo turned his head toward the door, and tentatively extended one finger. A wall of red light sprang up, and he pulled his finger back with a hiss, sticking it into his mouth in an obvious attempt to dull pain; the red light dropped out of existence once more. The situation was clear, now.
"A barrier," Dende said, trying to keep a sense of hopelessness out of his tone, though sure that he was doing a poor job of it. They really were trapped. He exchanged a look with Scargo. "We can't get out."
"Glad to see that you have figured that out," came an unexpected voice. Both Dende and Scargo jumped and whipped their heads around to face the speaker. "They all do, eventually, after thinking that they'll have an easy escape."
The speaker moved closer, and Dende unconsciously shrank backward. It was tall and slim, with bright yellow skin, and slanted eyes that evidently had no irises or pupils, simply a flat pastel blue. Something about the figure's body shape reminded him of Bulma and several other humans that he had seen back on Earth, so he decided that it must be a female.
For a moment, the speaker stopped, looking about the room with her face wrinkled in disgust. "Ugh. Look at this place. Looks like a hundred experiments exploded in here." She crossed her arms over her chest. "I allow my technicians to have the lab to themselves for a few days, and this is what happens! Brainless incompetents. This is no way to run a research lab; they will be punished severely for this."
Dende watched as she picked her way through the room, trying unsuccessfully to cross it without stepping in anything. If this were truly the room's owner, he definitely was wrong about her commitment to cleanliness; she looked downright enraged at the mess. And if this was how she reacted to clutter, Dende was sure that he and Scargo would not want to stick around to find out how she reacted to anything else.
Unfortunately, they had no choice.
Finally, she stood in front of them, a foot or two away from the barrier, tilting her head curiously. "Now what do we have here?" She peered at them more closely, causing Scargo to step backward, and Dende fought the urge to shrink back even more; her presence was unnerving. "Interesting. Looks like some gastropod relation, what with that green skin and those antennae. I shall have to check my records for species of your type and see what information has already been gathered." Glancing about the room, her face wrinkled once more, and its curious expression gave way instead to annoyance. "It will be something productive to do while I have my worthless technicians clean up this mess they made." She turned to look at them again, thin lips stretching into an unpleasant smile. "Then we shall see what studies will have to be performed on you. So until then, children . . ."
It wasn't until the speaker left the room that Dende realized he'd been holding his breath. He let it out heavily, the tingling fear in his belly causing it to shake as it left him. Studies to be performed on them . . . While Nameks had long ago cut off their dependence on technology - they were largely a sorcery and agricultural-based people these days - they still knew enough about basic scientific concepts. After all, caring for and nurturing plants required as much science as anything else, so such things were not alien. Studies could either be painless, or torturous. Judging from the scientist's demeanour, Dende had a feeling that it would be the latter in their case.
"Dende, what are we going to do?" Scargo inquired nervously. "I don't like the sound of what that person said."
Dende cast an apologetic glance upon his brother. He wished that he could think of something more encouraging to say, but all that came out was, "Neither do I, Scargo. But I don't know if there's anything we can do about it."