Sand Storm
By Elektra
Ratings: T for drinking, mild violence
Disclaimer: I write only for fun not profit. DBZ characters belong to Funimation, all Xmen mentioned belong to Marvel Comics, Frodo and others belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and Vertigo characters belong to D.C. Comics.
A/N: Italics indicate that characters are dreaming.
Summary: Two more revelations and an uncertain future to go…
Chapter 3
The king of dreams turned his attention to the scarred warrior.
"Desert Bandit," He began. To Yamcha he appeared as a man in a black gi with a white dragon emblem.
"You look for your life to have meaning. To be a part of something bigger than you."
Yamcha found himself standing in a nondescript government office. It was so much so that every time he looked away from an area, the décor would instantly vanish.
"Next!" A cranky voice called out.
Startled, Yamcha approached the windowed counter from where the voice emanated. He pulled out the plain gray metal chair provided for applicants and took a seat. The woman on the other side of the window was busily typing away on a computer while Yamcha twiddled his thumbs. For some strange reason, she refused to acknowledge him.
When she finally did look at him Yamcha let out a small gasp of recognition. The woman had plain brown hair and pale ordinary features. Her eyes were either brown or gray but he couldn't tell so maybe they were hazel. Her attire was most notable in that it completely lacked any style. She was dressed in a beige rayon blouse and navy blue blazer. Or maybe it was black. It was hard to tell under the fluorescent lighting.
The weirdest thing about her was how she reminded Yamcha of Bulma. Strike that. She didn't just remind him of Bulma, she was Bulma.
"Fill this out," She insisted in a voice that resembled Bulma's in no way whatsoever.
"Okay Bulma," he replied. She didn't seem bothered that he called her that, so he decided that he must be right.
Yamcha looked down at the incomprehensible form and couldn't decipher a word on it. What's more, he hadn't even a pen with which to write.
"Um. Excuse me," he asked hesitantly. The woman, now black-haired, stared at him through horn-rimmed glasses that she hadn't been wearing before. "Could I borrow a pen?"
Silently she slid a standard issue ballpoint pen towards him through an opening at the bottom of the window. He thanked her and began to fill out the form he couldn't read.
"What am I filling out anyway?" He queried.
"You're applying for a position on the 'team'. It's a prestigious position and we only require applicants who can make great contributions. Like him for instance."
She pointed across the room towards Krillin, who by the way, surprising looked like Krillin.
"Oh." Yamcha replied stupidly. He looked down at the form and saw that everything he'd so far written was gone, as in vanished. What's more, so had his pen.
"Um. Sorry, I just misplaced my pen. Can I have another?" He asked sheepishly.
"We're all out," she remarked sternly.
Yamcha felt a moment of despair. Then he reached behind his back and pulled out his sword.
"Can I write with this?"
The woman, who didn't really look like Bulma at all stared at him silently, then shouted, "Next."
"Wait a minute!" He begged. "I can contribute! I have a real sword!"
He tried scratching the windowpane with it to prove his point, and then realized it was only a dagger. In his embarrassment he hadn't noticed the person behind in him line was now standing next to him. The person rudely shoved Yamcha out of the chair and sat down in it.
Yamcha blinked in surprise. The man, no creature really, was small and troll-like. He had unkempt hair, a nasty warty nose and was dressed like a homeless derelict. The woman behind the counter smiled at him and exclaimed, "You're just the type we're looking for! Here, have a pen!"
The troll pulled his finger out of the nostril he had been picking and casually reached for the offering. His dirty hand "accidentally" caressed the woman as he took the pen.
Yamcha fought off a wave of disgust and got up. He folded up what was now his pocketknife and tried to stick it in his back pocket. He couldn't because, wouldn't you know, he was only wearing plaid boxers.
He was at first, completely mortified. Then he saw that no one was paying him any attention except Krillin, who was waving excitedly for Yamcha to join him. Yamcha shrugged and thought, "Why not."
He glanced one more time at the counter and saw that the window had been removed. Now the woman who didn't look like Bulma was French kissing the troll. Yamcha dejectedly made his way towards Krillin.
"Why," he asked his friend sadly, "does she always pick Vegeta?"
Betsy saw a Goth with spiky hair and a black leather trench coat. "Beautiful assassin. Waiting to become what you once were. Running from what you now are."
"I could kill you, you know," Betsy stated, as a matter of fact.
The dark haired man looked at her and asked, "Why don't you?"
"Because," she replied petulantly, "I don't look like me. If I were the old me, I could kill you and maybe Warren would love me more."
"Really?" The man asked, somewhat skeptically.
Betsy ignored him because all he did was ask stupid questions. Anyway, she was going to kill him as soon as figured out how to make herself back into the old Betsy, so it was best to ignore him until then.
She turned and faced reflection in a nearby mirror. With a small sigh, she rubbed at the tattoo over her eye. She stopped and examined the tips of her fingers for a moment. There was ink there. This time she scrubbed furiously at the mark and it came completely off.
She stared at her reflection in wonder. The tattoo was gone! There was however, a small piece of skin that was left hanging. She tugged at it and it easily came off. She continued to peel more skin until she removed her entire face. When she looked up she saw her old face.
Her body trembled with excitement as she tried to peel off the rest of her skin. It would not come off though. She gingerly tested the skin on her arm.
"Oh!" She exclaimed. "I'm made of plastic!"
With her spirits renewed she began hunting for replacement parts in the room. She found a large steamer trunk full of arms and legs and other useful body parts. She sorted through them until she found what she needed.
Switching body parts wasn't easy. She had to bang her hands against her joints until her limbs were loose enough to be pulled apart. Then, when she snapped the new ones in place, they didn't always fit. It was hard finding parts when you were missing one of your legs.
At last she had put herself together. One last glance in the mirror told her that everything was in place.
"I can kill you now!" She looked around but the man was gone.
With a shriek of anger she took off in search of her missing target. She searched high and low. She searched in all of her friend's houses. No one had seen the man anywhere. Finally, she came to Warren's house but the dark haired man was not there.
"Warren, I've come to kill that man. Have you seen him?"
"What man?"
"The one in your dreams of course. Don't you want me to kill him?"
Warren gave her a look of disgust. He ruffled his wings with annoyance and remarked, "You can't kill him, you still look like you and not like you at all!"
As confusing as that statement was, Betsy understood exactly what he said. She examined herself in a near by mirror and saw that he was right. She looked exactly as she had before the face peel and parts replacement. Anger and resentment filled her and she turned and stabbed her old lover.
Warren remained unharmed however and remarked, "You can't even kill me. You should just accept who you are and deal with it."
He pulled out the knife and dropped it at her feet. Then he left the room.
Betsy sank to the ground and began to cry.
"You were all once the lords and ladies of your realm, but now you walk alone. You each will have to choose whether to continue your solitary paths or join with others. Choose wisely." Then, turning to the half-ling he commanded "Ring-bearer," as he held out his hand. "I believe a wizard awaits your arrival. Will you join me?"
"What about the others?"
"It's no longer your concern. Come, Olórin awaits your arrival."
Frodo placed his small hand in the stranger's larger one and asked, "Who are you? You never told us you know."
The dark haired man answered. "Some call me Morpheus." And then Frodo's perception shifted a bit so that he was looking at a younger version of the stranger, only with white hair. "Others call me Daniel. You can call me either, it matters not." And as they faded away, he spoke so all could hear. "Either way, I'll see you in your dreams."
Four people suddenly snapped to attention as if they had fallen asleep. "Hey! Where's Frodo?" Yamcha began frantically looking around him.
"He was here a minute ago. Ororo, did you see him leave?"
"I am not sure Betsy. I think," she shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs. "Oh. Never mind." What ever it was that Ororo nearly remembered faded away.
"Shhh. People listen!" Piccolo demanded. Everyone was quiet, even the other patrons. "I think the storm has died down. Now is maybe our only chance!"
"What if it's not the right dimension?"
"Fool! Do you want to spend the rest of your days in dark bar? I'd rather be in the wrong dimension than here."
Yamcha gulped. He knew Piccolo was right. It was just that, well, he was afraid. Then, he looked into the eyes of Betsy and knew what he had to do.
"I don't want to be alone," he said to her.
"I don't either," she answered.
"Then let's do this together!"
He grabbed the beautiful woman's hand and headed out the door into the unknown. Piccolo and Storm followed closely behind them but as soon as they stepped out, the others were gone.
"Where could they have gone?" Ororo asked with a small touch of trepidation.
The normally fearless leader had been on shaky ground for too long. She forced herself not to breakdown as wind began to pick up.
"We don't have much time!" Piccolo shouted above the building winds.
"Piccolo, I am frightened!" She called out.
He turned and faced her. He could see the fear and uncertainty in her eyes. He knew her only briefly yet he could tell that these emotions rarely surfaced on her beautiful face.
He held his hand out to her. "Come with me, there's nothing to fear."
She stared into his deep green eyes and for a moment, a brief sensation of déjà vu washed over her. She hesitated only for a second and grasped his hand tightly. Piccolo gave her hand a small squeeze and led her into the tempestuous mystery.
The sand storm roared to life. It swallowed their shadowy forms rendering them barely visible to the eye. Bit by bit they faded until they vanished into their uncertain, but hopeful future.
End.