The wind whistles above the clear blue ocean, water curling upwards towards it. It swirls around tall buildings; dives under fast moving vehicles; burns in some places, freezes in others. Finally, as it always does, the wind finds it way to one lonely island out far from land.

Sitting neatly on the island is a small hut, small but still taking up a significant part of the tiny piece of land. Once there had been a bright house standing on this ground, where a ramshackle hut built out of wood cut down from the tropical plants that usually grew near the seaside.

The wind curls around the hut in a protective manner, tying ribbons round it as it draws closer. Inside the hut it shoots, through the cracks and the open door that is never locked, to where an old friend waits. Wind - ancient as time but faster than most can comprehend - has never before noticed any living creature.

This one is different though; this one has been here for centuries yet is still capable of outrunning the very wind itself. It curls around the frail body, swirling upwards, catching the torn fabric that clothes the figure only enough for decencies sake. The wind plays with its short white beard, twisting the hairs as a lover might.

This creature that once was a man, once was a father, once was a warrior. This creature is the only friend that the wind ever knew; it is devoted to him, as he is devoted to it. A lip curls upwards into something resembling a smile, skin cracked and dry.

The water that it drinks comes from the wind.

The food that he eats finds its way to him by way of the wind.

His only friend.

His only remaining friend.

An old hand stretches out, fingers caressing the moving air.

Somewhere out there lie other friends; friends who's names are as faded as his own. Who they were; what they did; how they came to leave him - it was all hidden from him. All that he knew was that they were his friends at one point. Now there was only the wind.

Fingers collapsed into a fist, clenching so hard that the skin of his knuckles turned white.

There were no names. No names at all, not even for himself.

Legs creaked and groaned, complaining as the figure straightened up. The bones were old and weary but he persevered. The problems were strong but he was stronger, his will a hardened diamond.

All that he knew was that he was old yet did not die.

Arms dropped to his side, one leg lifted and moved forwards slowly.

All that he knew was that he was tired yet he did not die.

The foot dropped firmly against the grassy earth that carpeted his home, the other leg lifted and swung forwards.

All that he knew was that there were answers buried in his mind.

Arms reached out and threaded through the wind, stroking it as a master would his pet.

All that he knew was that he needed the answers.

His face finally lifted out of the shadows and left the dark safety of the hut. The sun burned his eyes, seared his skin.

All he knew was that he was terrified.

The figure weakens, his shoulders slump, his bones groan, his will seems broken.

All he knows is that the sun is bright and he cannot face it.

As he did every day, the figure turns and steps back into the hut.

There was nothing for him out there.

Buildings shattered; birds fell from the sky; storms were brought down on continents, raging as the wind mourned for its only friend. Every day went the same - nothing could be done. The wind could only sustain him - it could not help him.

His feet weak, he stumbles inside, allowing light past him and someway into the room. The rays strain, picking out the shining of stones, grass, glass.

He stops.

Glass?

He bends down, old hands reaching for something that could not be there.

Smooth to the touch, slightly warm as if it had just been released.

The figure straightens up and turns, hands cradling the object as if it was more precious than all the treasures of the world.

As if it was a lifeline.

He turns, tears rolling down the wrinkled skin of his cheeks, and steps into the sun once again. It burns as it always does and always will. His hands raise upwards, the object catching the light.

He lowers his hands down over his face then pulls them away.

Eyes close.

The memories pour into his head - old synapses crackling with old information; faces appearing out of the darkness; a self rising up and claiming it's body again.

Eyes open.

Fists clench. Head rises. Bones and muscles protest for a moment, then shunt backwards as that diamond will plows right through them. Figure straightens and turns straight towards the sun.

The rays flash straight into him, bouncing off his gleaming hairless head, dancing and splintering as they hit the dark glass of the sunglasses. His muscles stretch and contract as he tests his body, assessing it.

He turns his head sharply, neck cracking, then swivels it around and smiles.

The wind swirls around him, prodding him curiously. He strokes it: It's alright; it's all going to be alright now.

Muscles stretch across his face, the Turtle Master Muten Roshi looks straight into the sun and grins.

There are still questions - much is missing. But he is in there, deep down, and with that to guide him, Roshi can find more.

The wind swirls away, all is well now. Besides it needs to get out of the way quickly.

The ground shakes beneath his feet, sand and dirt tearing off and twisting around him as Roshi called upon the energy he knows lies within him. Ki flows through his body once again, rejuvenating the old bones. His feet swing forwards, moving with ease now, and taking him towards where he knows the closest piece of land to be.

(And standing lightly on the ramshackle hut, a youth with pure green skin and pointed ears watches his progress with a contented smile.)

Onward the figure strides, browned body moving with more strength than he has had in centuries. And before him the ocean parts, water pouring upwards on both sides as if terrified to be in his way.

The old Master is back.

(OOC: Not the start of the series, though I do seem to imply it. This one just popped into my head one night, Muten Roshi is immortal but is that a blessing or a curse? Of course there are quite a few inconsistencies, for instance Android 18, Roshis sister and Korin are immortal (not sure about 18 actually) so why would he lose all contact with the outside world?

I assume if I ever get it into my head to continue on this I'd find ways of explaining it though I seem to be having trouble continuing anything I write. I swear I'll try and finish at least one story though: this, Sacrifices or another one I've got hiding on my PC.

Anyway suggestions, critiques and opinions would be greatly appreciated.

Thanks for reading.)