*Author's note – sorry this took so long, peeps. New school, new life, new problems…I'm in a serious adjustment phase. Don't worry, I'm not going to let this fic die anytime soon. I just may be a little slow. Keep the faith for me, alright? (Kudos to anyone who guesses that reference ~.^)

            Also at a personal request…eh, threat?...from a very good friend of mine, I'll be posting a new fic here shortly…a *completed* epic, for once. Just to give all of you a heads up.

            Well, that'll do for now…hopefully, I'll be back with all of you shortly.

Chichi wondered how long two grown men could possibly spend slamming one another into the dirt. Sparring, they called it. Ha.   

                Goku had been gone for who-knew-how-long…definitely since before she woke up. And that had been nearly two hours ago. The woman sighed heavily and continued to dice the carrots she'd bought for lunch. Come to think of it, Goku had been acting strange lately…

                Well, stranger than usual, she mused, and a slight smile tweaked her lips. There was no denying it – her husband was just plain weird. He had a tail like a monkey, he rode around on clouds, he could fly, he was probably the strongest man on the whole planet…

                …he was completely, utterly selfless. He'd believe anything you told him, he'd do anything to help you even if you were a complete stranger. You couldn't help but feel safe around him – he always made her feel as though no matter what went wrong, he'd be able to make it right. He loved to make people smile…he was most definitely the kindest man she'd ever met, even if he was a little goofy sometimes…

                …and she loved him for all of it.

                But the past few days, there had been something eating away at him. Something had been tugging the corners of his mouth down, something had been diluting his usually-lively expression. Something had been causing him to toss and turn all night, and wake up in the morning looking as though he'd run the gauntlet between sunset and sunrise. She didn't know what it was, and she hadn't asked – she didn't feel comfortable prying into his personal problems just yet. She figured he'd tell her when he felt like she should know.

                As if in response to her thoughts, she heard a door open…and heavy, tired tread coming into the kitchen. Chichi whirled to face him, her earlier, gentle smile maturing into a full grin –

                Which metamorphosed into a grimace when she saw him. He had a black eye. His gi was tattered at the front and covered in sand, of all things…good grief, he looked like he'd been in a war. "Goku," she said, her tone automatically shifting into 'warning mode' – "what happened?"

                "Um…sparring got a little rough?" Goku answered, grinning endearingly although he was obviously worn out.

                "A little rough? Goku, you look like you ran face-first into a brick wall or something."

                Her husband put one hand behind his head and laughed nervously. She'd already come to recognize that as a sure sign that he'd done something stupid. "Goku…" she chided, crossing her arms…

                "Aw, don't worry, Chichi. Nothing like that'll ever happen again."  

                "You'd better make sure it doesn't, mister," she rejoined, although she couldn't quite keep her lips from twitching. Boys will be boys, after all…especially that one.

                "An' now I think I need to get some rest – I'll see you in a couple hours, okay?"

                Chichi noded once, turning back to her cooking. Normally, she would have scolded him a little, just to keep up appearances – but whatever had been bothering her husband lately, she could find no trace of it now. And if a little battering was all it took to get her Goku back to normal, then she was all for it. "Don't sleep too long, Goku – you wouldn't want to miss lunch."

                Another short, merry laugh. "Don't worry, I'll be awake for that." Then, she heard him leave the room with a cadence of slow, dragging thumps.

*        *       *

It had been a long time since the youngest son of the demon king had slept. Not in all the moons since his unpleasant encounter with his greatest enemy – and his greatest source for personal scorn.

Piccolo, uncharacteristically giving in to a moment of weariness, was sitting on a bluff, one knee drawn up under his chin, the other leg dangling over the edge of the rocks. He was several hundred feet above the shimmering, moonlit sands of the desert – the air was almost painfully dry this high up – but he was unconcerned with heights. He wanted to be undisturbed, and very few people would come to bother him in such a place.

He had known better than to go home.

Even if he'd wanted to see his brothers again…which he didn't…he'd harbored no illusions as to how that reunion would run. And he didn't particularly care to dodge questions...or the occasional left hook. Phe, he didn't answer to them anyway. Or anyone.

The fact that he didn't know the vast majority of the answers either was completely irrelevant.

Lying was also out of the question…not because he doubted his ability to lie convincingly. Not because it would have weighed on his conscience; he believed that to be a foolish human sentiment, anyway. No, he couldn't lie because he knew full well that Tambourine would know he was lying.

And his older brother got entirely too much satisfaction out of seeing through fabrications the way most people saw through windows.

This being 'dead' – it's not such a bad idea. Makes me wonder why I didn't think of it sooner.

Actually…why hadn't he left before? He felt so much more at ease, now…and after a few moments, he knew why. Because he'd finally cut a string that had been binding him for far too long.

It had been literally years since he'd been afraid of them…but he had still gone along with whatever Cymbal had come up with. Oh, sure, he'd growl and complain…he'd been belligerent. He'd grown gradually more disrespectful – but he'd still followed. From habit.

And now that he'd broken that habit, he decided, he was free to do as he pleased. That thought was oddly reassuring.    

His eyelids started to droop, but he forced them back open. That was another of his habits…one that he also owed to his family. He couldn't close his eyes without feeling a flicker of panic in some deep, fenced off corner of his mind…the panic that any creature feels when he shifts from predator to prey. For that reason, he always fought sleep for as long as he could, giving into it only when he dropped from exhaustion – and even then, the brief times spent unconscious were more coma-like than soothing.

                And he never, never slept somewhere easily visible…

                He had long since learned his lesson about dozing in the open. It was one that his brothers had driven into him in their usual, stern manner…which was assurance enough that he'd never forget it.

                The specific event came to mind, still clear and crisp as a freshly-painted sign, and he made a halfhearted attempt to push it back into his subconscious where it belonged.

                Even though he knew that he'd end up remembering it, no matter what. Memories like that couldn't ever really go away.

*       *       *

                He regained his senses quickly when he felt cool, clawed hands jerk him upright – he was fully awake by the time a slap tore across his face. "You little idiot," a voice, Cymbal's voice, snarled. "What if I had been Son Goku, hmm?"

               

Piccolo tasted blood in his mouth, but resisted the urge to spit it out. He didn't intend to give the older demon the satisfaction. "I don't think I'd be any worse off," he shot back instead, doing his best to keep his voice level. As the shock of being woken in such a fashion wore off, he realized that Drum was holding his arms firmly behind his back. His stomach clenched – this was going to be bad.

                A low chuckle. "Probably not – but at least this way you'll learn something"

                And then it started.

                It wasn't a beating in the strictest sense of the word – the motions were too calculated for that. Cymbal knew exactly what and where to hit in order to hurt, but not kill. Piccolo knew from the outset that he wasn't going to die – not this time, anyway – no matter how inviting that option might seem later. He did not scream.

               

As suddenly as they had started, the blows stopped falling. He allowed his head to hang limply against his chest, only the occasional shudder betraying that he was still alive. Was it over? He made an unenthusiastic attempt to move, but the hands still held him tightly…painfully. He could feel blood dripping from the pressure of those fingers…no doubt drawn from claws pressed too hard against flesh.

"Tambourine," Cymbal said in a low, soft voice – Piccolo had not realized that his other brother was there – "I don't think that this is really getting the message home."

The other demon snorted. "It's your message, Cymbal. You deliver it," he hissed, sibilant voice faintly disapproving.

A low chuckle. "What's the matter – squeamish?"

"I prefer to think of it as being…reasonable."

An annoyed sound from Cymbal. "Come now – I know you have something to illustrate the point. He's so used to being slapped around that it just doesn't have as strong an affect on him anymore."

Piccolo heard the casual humor in Cymbal's voice, hated it.

"What would you have me to do?" Now, Tambourine sounded indignant. "I'm rather poor at shadow puppets."

Silence. Piccolo forced one swollen eye to open, and he saw that Cymbal was regarding Tambourine with a knowing smirk. "I'm sure you have something in mind."

The younger demon paused, his naturally slitted eyes narrowed still farther in thought. Finally, he nodded, stepping forth with seeming reluctance. "Very well…but I reserve the right to say I-told-you-so when blows up in your face.."

Drum wordlessly tightened his hold on Piccolo's arms, and Piccolo could feel Piano taking hold of his legs. Instinctively, he tensed, as though his body already knew what was going to happen to it.

One of Tambourine's long, supple hands came to rest on his shoulder – his touch was light like that of a butterfly. Piccolo wallowed in surprise for a heartbeat or so. What was going on? He had thought that this was going to hurt. Then he noticed that the hand, which had always been unnaturally cold before, was warm. Strangely warm. Getting warmer. Hot. Painfully hot. Then…burning. Still hotter. He could feel his flesh blistering beneath those light fingers, flaking, turning to ash. The cry that he'd successfully bitten back so far tore free of his throat. With the eye that wasn't swollen shut, he looked in horror at the spot that should have been burn black…and found that his skin was still perfectly whole.

Tambourine smirked mirthlessly at him. "You needn't worry about that much of it. I'm merely stimulating your nerve endings." His voice was composed, but full of irony as well.

He began to move his hand from left to right, across the young demon's collarbone. Piccolo had never imagined that such pain could be possible…the burn went to his bone…he had been burnt before, but the agony was supposed to fade after the first few moments as tissues and nerves were cauterized…this endured.

Only when he took a deep breath did he realize that he had been screaming.

The hand continued its motions slowly, methodically. It sought out his eyelids, his ears, the palms of his hands, and moved on…only to retrace those areas again as soon as the reality of how much it hurt had begun to fade. Eventually, he stopped thrashing because the feeling of recently singed flesh grinding and crackling as it bent was more painful than the effort was worth.

An eternity later, the pain had stopped. He didn't know how it was possible that he was still conscious…wasn't sure if he actually was. He could tell by the comforting, surrounding darkness that his eyes were closed; when he heard the sound of his own ragged breathing, he decided that he must look more dead than alive.

At this point, Piano and Drum withdrew their hands. He could hear the thud of his body hitting the ground, although he was beyond feeling.

Words fell on his ears like raindrops – he could barely make them out. Something about going home. The sound of two beings, most likely Piano and Drum, taking off. Then, a voice, one that was unmistakable even in his condition: "Would you care to tell me what the purpose of that was?" Tambourine's voice was flat, blank.

A long pause.

"He'll never drop his guard out in the open again, now will he?" Cymbal answered at length. His tone was odd, almost defensive.

"A lot of good that's going to do you if you kill him."

It was funny, Piccolo noticed, that Tambourine could say something like that and sound as though he didn't care one way or the other.

A snort. "I know you better than that. It doesn't matter to you whether he lives or dies – sometimes I have to wonder whether you actually have anything in you to care with."

Then, disturbingly, Tambourine chuckled. "I'm not here to care, Cymbal. I'm here to observe…and I know that this can't help but end badly."

This time, the silence was very different…contemplative. "Yes…I know exactly what I'm doing. You're fond of metaphors, aren't you? All right. Think of this little brother of ours as a…I don't know, a lump of iron. Before it's hard enough to form a sword, it must be fired. Otherwise, the first time he comes up against something stronger than he is, he'll break."

Pause.

"All swords have two edges, Cymbal." Tambourine's voice was strangely quieted, reflective. "I think that this one might yet cut your hand.

Cymbal actually growled. "Serves me right for trying to have a rational conversation with you." The sound of displaced air, and another ominous silence.

Then, inexplicably, the feeling of a hand on his back. He flinched involuntarily, but slitted an eye open to catch his brother's reaction. Tambourine's expression was utterly unreadable. "How many hands are you going to cut, I wonder?" Then, the hand withdrew, and he was alone again.

Before he blacked out completely, Piccolo had time to notice that, even in his strangest hallucinations, Tambourine never quite made sense.

*        *        *

Piccolo could not fully suppress a shudder. He wondered, not for the first time, just how much of that conversation had really happened, and how much of it had been a product of his overexerted senses.

How many hands, indeed. What nonsense. 

Then, painfully, before he could push it aside, he remembered a very different pair of hands. A different voice. The memory ached more than he could describe, and in ways he had no way of recognizing – he cursed beneath his breath.  Piccolo made a mental note to kill Son Goku soon…as soon as demonly possible, in fact.

For the life of him, he still couldn't figure out why he'd let the man go.

He shook that thought away as well. Quickly. He didn't want to see what the end of it was. Yet, he still had to wonder…why. Why had that monkey-tailed idiot saved his life, knowing full well that if their positions had been reversed, he would have been dead? Piccolo decided that it was good that he didn't understand – it meant that he was still sane.

But now, ten moons later, the questions were still weighing on him. Sourly, he made up his mind to forget about it – all of it. He didn't care anymore. He just wanted Son dead. . .so that he could set fire to every last, confusing memory of him.

Especially those blasted eyes of his.

He growled briefly at his own folly – this was getting him nowhere fast. "I wonder what he's up to," he muttered, mostly to distract himself. Turning his senses toward where he knew his rival to be, he reached out…cautiously. His mind brushed against Son's chi. It was…different, somehow. Stronger, yes…

But there was something else. That chi wasn't just pulsing with life…it was living. It was – it was brimming over with some emotion that Piccolo couldn't identify. It felt like energy, a pure wave of energy, like the excitement before a battle, but utterly without the fear or the anger. He didn't understand.

The demon's hands curled silently into fists as he probed farther. Son's wife's chi…unusually low, but not dangerously so…and a third.

Oh, gods.

No.

He focused more closely, almost (but not quite) willing to abandon all stealth in order to confirm what that third chi was. It had newness to it, a freshness, like a desert flower recently opened. And it was powerful. Piccolo could tell that even then.

Son Goku had a child.

For the first time in his life, Daimao Piccolo thought that he would faint from shock alone. Only a quick digging of claws into sandstone kept him from pitching off the bluff.

                Even several minutes later, he was powerless to do anything but sit atop that rock and stare aimlessly into the star spattered sky. Son Goku had a child. A son. Then, when the shock wore off, he had to forcibly suppress his first wild impulse, which was to fly directly to wherever Son was and destroy his spawn before it could grow old enough to become dangerous. He knew from the behavior of the desert creatures that parents become ten times as determined to fight when their offspring is threatened – and he couldn't deal with Son under the best of circumstances.

                Besides, the child had done nothing to him. Not yet, anyway. He had no doubt that such a time would soon be coming, but humans took so long to grow out of the stupid, pampered stage and into the sill-stupid-but-not-so-dependent stage that he would, he judged, have ample time to decide just how much of a threat Son's child would be.

                Which lead to his second wild impulse: to train as if his very life depended on it. This one he gave into wholeheartedly.

*        *        *

                The fortress was quiet that night, Cymbal noted absently.

                He was sprawled on his back on one of the old stronghold's many turrets, his breath creating staccato puffs of fog in the frosty air, enjoying the utter lack of noise. It wasn't often in a family like his that he had time to appreciate the wonder of hearing nothing at all.

                Then again, even the novelty of such tranquility tended to wear off after a while.

                It had taken some getting used to, this silence. The first few weeks after the tournament, he'd jumped at the sound of every slammed door or creaking board, half expecting his youngest brother to come storming in and demand anything from an explanation to fresh blood.

He had not come.

                At first, Cymbal had been relieved…until he noticed that he kept starting out the window as if to fly to the desert for a sparring match. He kept hesitating before conducting another meeting – and the hesitation would last until he reminded himself that all of them were present, that Piccolo was not going to show up.

                He was dead.

                Not that Cymbal was sorry that such a thing had happened. He was glad of it, in fact. Piccolo had been a source of constant irritation to him: a reminder of Daimao, of what could have been. And the brat had had the audacity to grow stronger than he was. Growling, Cymbal told himself that he really would have to see about getting his youngest brother's chair removed from the circle around the table. It was an eyesore, no longer necessary. He should have taken it out when the thought first crossed his mind, not after.

                Sigh.

                To make matters even stranger, Tambourine had also been veritably dead to the world for the past several months. His most annoying of siblings had locked himself in a tower for some reason or other, ostensibly to study. If Cymbal hadn't known better, he would have thought that Tambourine was moping. The eldest demon ground his teeth. If I could only be so lucky. Knowing Tambourine, he's simply engineering more ways to make my life miserable.

                He shook his head suddenly – the night air no longer agreed with him for some reason – and he flew through the nearest window. Which just happened to lead to the meeting room. Stranger still, it was not empty. Piano was standing there, his broad back to Cymbal.

                "What are you doing here?" Cymbal asked coolly.

                A ponderous shrug. "I dunno. Just wandering around."

                The eldest demon rolled his eyes. "Haven't you anything better to do?"

                "No."

                There really wasn't an answer to that, Cymbal supposed, so he let it go. Then, a question popped into his mind, a strange, stupid, nonsensical question…and he could have kicked himself for asking it. "Does it seem strange to you that he's gone?"

                Piano turned to look at his elder with an expression of genuine confusion. "Who?"

                Although he didn't know why, something inside him shrank from that question. It was too…something. "Never mind," he snapped, turning to go.

                Piano's voice stopped him. "Ey, Cymbal…you want me to get rid of that extra chair tonight?"

                Cymbal paused for a long moment. Of course he wanted it gone. The sooner the better. He'd just been thinking that, hadn't he?

 Finally, he glared over his shoulder and said, "Do it tomorrow."

                Even as he strode out the door to points unknown, Cymbal began making bets with himself over whether or not Piano would be able to remember for that long.

*        *        *

                The crinkling sound of another page turning. The ghost of a smile upon thin, green lips. "Who would have thought that he would learn to miss you, oni-chan? But he does, after his own fashion." A low chuckle. "Which is why he's going to absolutely hate you when you come back – more so than before? I don't know. It's likely."

                Tambourine continued to flip through his book while the thoughts of those around him played over his awareness like oil on a puddle, each distinct color representing another mind, another life…

                Another soul.

The things I could do, if I could only keep track of them all…